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#miya osamu angst
noosayog · 5 months
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002 get him back!
✧ wc: 4k
✧ warnings/content: miya osamu x fem!reader, sfw, fake dating au, angst to fluff,
✧ GUTS masterlist, regular masterlist
divider from @/cafekitsune
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It all started when Miya Atsumu said that you would never be able to find anyone who could put up with you. And you would have taken that with a grain of salt, if Miya Atsumu wasn't your ex who also happened to be a thorough asshole.
“Well you dated me didn’t you?!” 
“And we broke up, duh.” he says flippantly. 
You clam up at that. You know he’s just saying things. He doesn’t mean it and he’s a complete moron. But it’s been almost a year since the break-up and not a single man has even offered to buy you a drink. Are you going to have to resort to making a Hinge profile? 
“I don’t know why ya let him get to ya. He’s just a moron,” Osamu says. 
“You have to say that, he’s your brother,” you grumble. 
“True. But he is an idiot.” 
You plop your face heavily into the elbow resting on the counter and blow raspberries in one big exhale. 
“Don’t get yer spit all over where my customers eat.” 
You grunt, turning over to watch Osamu work behind the counter. 
“Do you think I’m unlovable?” you ask.
“Huh?” 
“There must be a reason no one’s asked me out on a date in the past 8 months, right?” 
Osamu sighs, dropping off a plate of food in front of you. “I’m not gonna answer that.” Then he turns with his back facing you to fiddle with something on the other side of the kitchen. 
“Why not?” 
He exhales through his nose, quiet, but you hear it. 
He doesn’t get the chance to answer because the door swings open to reveal Osamu’s twin. You jolt up, fixing your posture, self-conscious about letting Atsumu think his words are getting to you. 
And rightfully so because Atsumu acts like a shark that smells blood. His lips curl up into what he thinks is a smirk, but resembles much more of a snarl. 
“What’s up with ya,” he asks oh-so-innocently. 
You have no good response and feel your face heating up in embarrassment when Osamu swoops in. 
“Are ya gonna sit down or just block my door? ‘Cause I got people that actually pay to eat here.” 
Atsumu starts yelling something at Osamu but simmers down into the seat next to you and mumbles something to himself, no doubt some choice words for his brother. It gives you momentary reprieve from Atsumu’s provocation which is the last thing you need right now with your self-esteem in the dumps. 
The break is temporary though, because like a true creature with short-term memory and a propensity for being a prick, Atsumu circles back to the topic when he’s done eating. 
“So, found a guy to take you out?” 
“What makes you think I’d answer that question,” you bite back. Weak, but it’s all you have. 
“Hah,” he scoffs. “I knew it. Ya can’t find anyone.” 
You feel the irritation boiling like a witch’s cauldron inside of you, brewing a mix of resentment, mortification, and the tiniest streak of competitiveness. Atsumu not shutting up for the rest of the night is the final ingredient that makes your red hot concoction boil over. It goes a bit like this: 
“Tell me if ya want me to set ya up with someone from the team. Might be the only chance ya get at this rate,” he teases. 
“No thanks,” you hiss. “I’ll have you know that I’m dating Osamu, widely known as the better Miya.” You point smugly at Osamu whose back is currently to you both. 
“What!” Atsumu yells. “Osamu? And you?” 
With Osamu’s back to you, you can’t see his face, but all your fingers and toes are crossed that he’ll play along so that you don’t burn up in a gas of complete humiliation. 
When Osamu turns around, his eyes go to you first. They search yours for something – what, you don’t know. He apparently finds it because he blinks away and tells his brother to mind his own business, neither denying nor validating your claim. 
It might as well be confirmation though, because Atsumu squawks in indignation, sputtering his disbelief. Osamu continues to bicker with his brother, keeping him occupied enough to not realize that he was slowly being backed out of the restaurant. 
When Osamu slams the door on Atsumu and twists the lock in a dramaticized show of finality, Atsumu finally gives up, yelling a muffled “I’ll be back.” through the windows. You could laugh at the duo if Osamu didn’t turn around and fix you with a look, similar to that of a responsible older brother scolding a child. 
“Now yer turn. What was that about?”
“Osamu! You heard the way he was talking to me. I just can’t stand it!” 
“Have ya thought this through? How’s this supposed to end, huh? We break up and Atsumu goes back to making fun of ya?”
You open your mouth to beg, because it’s always worked with Osamu. He always gives in. But he’s not done, apparently. 
“‘Least ya could’ve done is ask me out, not use me to get through yer petty grudge with ‘Tsumu.” 
That shuts you up. When you look at Osamu, he’s not looking at you. His eyes are downcast, distracting himself by wiping up the counter. It’s so brief that you convince yourself that you imagined the hurt in his voice. 
“‘Samu…” 
“Forget it. I’ll do it, but ya better have it thought out because I’m not helping ya anymore than this.” 
It should be a win and any other time, you would wrap him up in a bear hug and shower him with thanks, but the defeated way Osamu concedes makes you solemnly finish your meal. It feels unfitting to say thank you. 
Your first stint as Osamu’s girlfriend comes in the form of a friend’s dinner party. Since the night you forced Osamu to be your boyfriend, you have been back at Onigiri Miya to hang out, but have painfully tiptoed around the topic. The thought has occurred to you that you and Osamu should agree upon a backstory, but you haven’t had the courage to breach the topic after the way Osamu reacted. 
He had just nodded when you asked him to attend this dinner party with you. And with that, he had dutifully picked you up at your apartment, perfectly on time. You had expected a stone-faced Osamu all night, but he had surprised you with a sweet smile, one that you’re used to being on the receiving end of. But it somehow feels different tonight. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s supposed to be smiling at you as your lover tonight. It was easy, the way he had held out his arm for you, no awkwardness in sight. 
At dinner, Osamu makes no move to let go of your hand, going as far as to intertwine your fingers under the table. When any one asks how the two of you began dating, he squeezes to tell you he’ll handle this. You’re grateful and you feel undeservingly spoiled as you watch him. He looks around the room, drifts his gaze back to you where his lips flicker upwards for the tiniest second, then looks back at the crowd to flash a mysterious, close-lipped smile. You can barely hear the dinner table go wild with jeers and Atsumu squawking as you gawk at Osamu’s act.
And it goes on. 
As you eat, he keeps your fingers clasped between his, laid on his lap. Atsumu gives you two the stink-eye, questioning why Osamu was eating with his left hand. You’re pretty sure your eyes are bulging out of your head at this point, because Osamu flushes. Osamu is blushing as he reluctantly lets go of your hand, making a show out of placing your hand back on your own lap and mumbling a heavily-accented apology at no one in particular. 
When dinner finally ends, the party migrates to the living room. Osamu doesn’t need to ask, perfectly picking your favorite after-dinner drink of choice as he chooses a beer for himself. He has once again claimed your hand in his. His grip is tight and when you try to slip your hand out to get some space, he holds tighter. 
You lean up to whisper in his ear, “Osamu, my hands are sweaty.” 
He leans down to hear you better, but stands back up when he registers your comment. He ignores you, only squeezing twice, as if telling you to behave for him. Your head spins; you’ve never dated like this before. 
Being with Atsumu was like living in a comically unrealistic sit-com, like you were constantly finding yourself in situations and having conversations that belong in a Tom and Jerry episode. He argued with you about everything, had an ego, and a temper. A particularly memorable moment was when he was still courting you, trying to convince you to date him by saying, “I’m six foot two.” 
“Dude, nice try,” you had said. 
But somehow, right now, with Osamu standing by your side and towering over you, you think that if this younger twin used that line on you right now, you’d fold in half for him. As if you wouldn’t with all the sweet nothings he’s lavished on you in this one night. 
He only lets you get away when you embarrassingly whisper to him that you need a bathroom break. 
“I’ll walk with ya.” 
“No!” you exclaim. You lower your voice when he stares at you. “It’s okay, ‘Samu. I’ll be right back, okay?” 
He backs off and you finally get away from his orbit. 
Finally alone, you barely pull yourself together. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, slapping your cheeks lightly to pry the strange daze from your eyes. You can’t get carried away here. Osamu is doing you a favor, one he isn’t fond of. You can’t get used to Osamu treating you like this. It’s borrowed time. 
You splash water onto your face, waiting until the chill seeps into your cheeks that have been painfully hot since Osamu picked you up tonight. 
As you exit the bathroom, Atsumu is there waiting for you in the hallway. 
“I’m onto ya,” he starts. 
You scoff, immediately putting your facade back on. It’s easy with Atsumu. “Oh please, Atsumu. You’re just jealous.” 
It doesn't phase Atsumu the way you hope. “Such a weak comeback. Sounds like something you’d say to disguise the fact that yer playin’ my brother.” Your brother is the one playing me.
“Whatever, Atsumu,” you say, walking away, taking Osamu’s advice to not let Atsumu get to you. 
“I bet ya forced my brother to pretend to be yer boyfriend. I know my brother and I know you. Just admit it.” He smirks. “It’s okay that no one wants to date ya. Nothin’ to be ashamed of.” 
The fact that even Atsumu, even all of his stupidity, sees right through you makes you feel hot. You’re grateful that you’ve already turned away from him because you could not take much more damage tonight. Nothing would end you in a worse way than Atsumu seeing that he could make you cry.  
Or maybe it’s the fact that Atsumu doesn’t, for one second, believe that someone like his brother could fall for someone like you. Maybe no one does. Maybe everyone here just thinks that you’re making this up and they’re playing along to help you save face. 
It takes everything in you to keep your steps and breathing even as you take the walk back to Osamu to compose yourself. 
It’s useless apparently because Osamu seems right through you. He immediately offers to take you to the balcony, explaining to everyone that you need some fresh air to cut through the alcohol you’ve had. 
His silent understanding makes it worse because it makes it clear that you’re an open book. The act you put on is completely pointless because no one believes you anyway. 
Osamu guides you to the balcony and shuts the door behind him, leaving the two of you alone. 
He joins you at the railing, draping his jacket over you. You know he knows that you want to avoid looking into his eyes, just as much as he knows you want to avoid having this conversation altogether. He sighs. 
“Why do ya let him get to you like that?” 
You look back at him, eyes widening at the tone he rarely takes with you. His eyes are fixed forward, arms still dutifully wrapped around you, ever the dedicated boyfriend. But as his gaze flickers to you momentarily, you catch the weight of his question in his eyes. 
“Who?” you mumble. 
But Osamu’s not in the mood. He stays silent, letting the question hang in the air. 
“I don’t know… I just…” 
“Are ya still in love with my brother?” 
“No,” you answer honestly. 
Osamu raises his brows. 
“No, but I’ve known him for so long now.” You feel the need to explain. “He just gets under my skin. You of all people should understand – he’s your brother! You guys fight all day long.” 
“He’s my brother. We shared a womb. We were born to fight.” Osamu sighs. “You, though... Why can’t ya just let it go?” 
“I don’t know! I just…” you trail off. 
He continues to stare at you, not even knowing the effect he has on you. His earnest gaze pulls the truth out from under your skin. 
“I wanna get him back,” you admit. 
Osamu’s eyes go dark at that statement. His expression shutters.
“Not like that!” you quickly amend. “Not like I want to get back with him, I mean like, his face just pisses me off!” 
“Huh?” 
“I just wanna punch him in the face but I don’t think anything would give me more satisfaction than proving him wrong you know. And honestly, Osamu, you-” 
“Ya think that I’m the perfect person to piss him off for ya. ‘Cause I’m his brother and there’s no one else who would get under his skin more than if I replaced him.” 
You hear the disappointment heavy in his intonation. 
“Osamu…” 
“Am I wrong?” 
He’s not wrong, but you feel an urge to tell him how he made you tingle at dinner. It was in the way he catered to your whims, covered for you, and held your hand in secret. It was in the way he, as your not-boyfriend, made you feel loved and desired much more so than any other boyfriend you’ve ever had before. 
But when you look at his side profile, face now turned away from you and hidden by the shadows of the night, it doesn’t feel right to say any of that. Even in your mind, it sounds like an excuse. Because the bottom line is that he’s right. Your original intentions had been to use Osamu. And the fact that you might have developed a slight crush on him in the process doesn’t make you feel any less shitty and certainly doesn’t make Osamu feel any less used. 
His question goes unanswered. 
– 
The rest of the week goes by uneventfully. Actually, it goes by too uneventfully because Osamu doesn’t call or text once. Not that you’ve made an effort, but after how that last conversation with Osamu ended, you can’t find the courage to face Osamu. 
It doesn’t make you miss him any less. 
You can’t recall if you used to miss Osamu like this, think about him and wish he’d reach out even if it’s only been a couple of days since you’ve last met. You only know that right now, you wish he’d make the first move because you can’t muster up the nerve to see him, even if it’s all you wanted. It also makes you realize that Osamu has been spoiling you long before that night and long before he agreed to be your fake boyfriend. The reason you never had to miss him is because he is always the one who makes the effort to call, text, bring you lunch, pick you up from work, drive you around. 
The realization only made you feel worse about yourself.
And after days of mulling over realization after realization, each making you guiltier and guiltier, you made your decision. 
That’s how you end up running to Osamu’s apartment, late on a Thursday evening. Without pausing to compose yourself, afraid you’ll lose your momentum, you knock. 
The door swings open to reveal a very tired-looking, very handsome Osamu. He has his cap off, but his hair is unruly, as if his fingers have just recently run through it. His eyes are slightly bloodshot and his t-shirt is wrinkled. The urge to rub your thumb over his eyelids and smooth your other hand over this shirt is a sudden one you shove down because Osamu’s opening his mouth. 
“Hey, what’cha doing here so late?” 
There’s a momentary disappointment that strikes your gut. He asks you so normally, as if he isn’t plagued with thoughts of avoiding you. As if the couple of days that have gone by without any interaction between the two of you isn’t even a thought that occupies headspace.
“Uh,” you stutter. 
“Actually,” he sighs and glances behind him. “Now’s not a good time. Can ya-” 
“I don’t care about Atsumu,” you cut him off. It sounds like he’s preparing a rejection. Or he just doesn’t want to talk. Neither of which are favorable outcomes, so you barrel through to say what you need to say. 
“I don’t care about what he thinks. Not anymore and definitely not that night. I was actually thinking about you the entire time and Atsumu, well, he’s just-”
“Just wait a minute, okay-” 
“He just gets under my nerves because of the shit he says and I know he’s just saying stuff to rile me up and I’m a hothead, okay? He gets me because we’re like the same person sometimes, but I’m not doing this to get back at him anymore. It’s actually your fault because-”
“I knew it!” a voice yells from behind Osamu. 
You crane your neck to see around Osamu and curse Osamu’s big frame for taking up the entire doorway and blocking your view of the apartment because there is the older twin, grinning widely and walking up to where you’re both standing.
You instantly feel the panic rise in your system. 
“Atsumu,” Osamu begins in a warning tone. 
Ignoring his brother, Atsumu continues on. “I knew it. I knew the two of ya couldn’t be dating just like that.” 
Your nervous system goes into overdrive. Even you know how this looks. 
You barged into Osamu’s place randomly at night and picked the time when Atsumu coincidentally is here as well.
Your wide eyes meet Osamu, willing him to believe that you didn’t come to make a scene for Atsumu’s viewing. You didn’t come to confess that you might have a crush on him with this exact timing so that Atsumu would fall for the act. 
When Osamu refuses to meet your eyes, it brings your attention back to Atsumu, who continues to gloat about his victory. 
Your face burns in mortification as you take slow steps away from the twins, making room for your getaway. As Atsumu gets closer and Osamu continues to avoid your gaze, your courage wanes and the last bit of pride you’re holding onto propels you to turn away instead of retorting as you always do. 
“Aww, really let my words get to ya, didn’t ya? I knew all along-” 
Before you can start running, Osamu grabs your arm and pulls you into the apartment, the other arm shoving Atsumu out. 
“Hey, ‘Samu!” 
“Shut the fuck up, ‘Tsumu. Now that my girlfriend’s here to spend the night, get out.” Osamu shuts the door in his face. 
Atsumu’s protests fall on deaf ears, the sound of Osamu referring to you as his girlfriend echoing in your mind. He had taken your side, chosen to take the course of action that would embarrass you to least despite not having confirmed what your intentions were. The thought fills you with hope. 
He pulls you further into the apartment, sitting you on the barstool. After situating you on the chair, he makes to step out of your personal space, but you lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him close. Your eyes start to sting in frustration that Osamu could somehow believe that this was all just another incident you had orchestrated to get back at his brother. This has all gotten so hopelessly messy. 
“Osamu,” you sniffle into his neck. “I didn’t come over here and say all that because I knew Atsumu was listening. I just-” missed you. 
He rubs soothing circles into your back, gently enough to make you want to cry more because you don’t deserve this but want it so badly. 
“You just…?” he prompts. 
The words won’t come out and your tears soak into his shirt. You want to tell him so badly that you’re not crying to garner his sympathy; you’re crying because you’re so angry with yourself. 
Osamu patiently strokes your back, letting you cry before quietly telling you, “Oh, baby. How long do ya think we’ve known each other? I know yer not the type to set up this whole complicated scenario just to show up my stupid brother. I believe ya.” 
His other arm is now holding your head to his neck, fingers running lightly across your scalp. “So can ya finish what you were about to say for me?” 
His words and his actions do what they always do to you. They fill you with so much hope that there’s no room to mistaken his intentions. They fill you with the courage to tell him. 
“Missed you,” you whisper. 
Finally, both of his arms wrap around your back to push you tight into his chest. He squeezes, gentle enough to keep you safe but firm enough to tell you he wants you there. It pulls the confession out of you. 
“And I like you so much, Osamu.” 
He chuckles lightly into your ear. You can feel the vibrations echo in his chest. When you squeeze back, he trails his arms down to your legs to guide them around his waist. He carries you with ease to the couch and sits you down to cry in his lap. 
You don’t know how long the two of you sit like that for, but when you finally calm down, you keep your arms wrapped around him and quietly ask, “why did you do all this for someone like me?” 
He stops stroking your hair. 
“What, ya don’t like it?” 
You pull away to protest, already too comfortable with him spoiling you again, only to find the corner of his lips quirked up in a smirk. 
He’s teasing, you realize.
You smack his face weakly and wind your arms back around him. 
You snuggle back into his neck but he’s the one who pulls you back this time. 
“Hey, seriously though,” he says. “Is this okay?” 
You nod shyly. 
“I need to hear it, sweetheart.” 
“I want it.” 
“Alright. C’mere then.” 
You oblige. 
“Can I tell ya a secret?” he murmurs into your neck. 
You nod. 
“There isn’t a man out there who’d do all that for someone he doesn’t love, ya know that?” 
It makes you flustered, but much of what Osamu does does that to you. His tenderness makes you want to try harder to meet him in the middle. 
“Can I do something?” you ask, taking a leap. Your face is incredibly hot and your heart is beating embarrassingly loudly against his. “Is it okay if I kiss you?” 
It’s easy when he responds, “You can do anything ya want to me.” 
You intend for it to be an innocent peck, your form of an apology. But he holds the back of your neck, the other arm wrapped almost all the way around your torso and doesn’t let go until you’re panting against his open mouth. 
He’s nonchalant when he shrugs. 
“You can do anything ya want but I’ll be doing the same from now on.”
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akimind · 17 days
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i'm lovesick, and i'm a fool.
a/n: i just think that miya osamu
content: angst, fluff
word count: 2.1k+
[ osamu x reader ]
–––––
Osamu’s love language is acts of service.
“He’s like an old man,” Atsumu told you once, way in the beginning, when you and Osamu were still young and naïve and innocently infatuated. “If you get mad at him, he’ll try and offer you food later as an apology.”
“Does he ever actually…apologize?”
Atsumu laughed at you. “Nope. He says sorry in complete silence. That’s just how Samu is.”
It’s not as if you aren’t in love with Osamu now, because you are. Wholeheartedly, you are in love with him. You know that, and you know Osamu knows that. But sometimes, you can’t help yourself and just wonder how — how have you managed to stay in love with him despite the cons of it? How do you manage to love him indelibly, to love him in his whole entirety, when reality interrupts with the fact that there will never not be days like today?
Because today, Osamu is not speaking to you. You aren’t speaking to him either, and haven’t been since two days ago, so neither one of you are alone in refusing to act your age. Right now, you’re tied in the race to be the most petty, act the most prideful, show the most indifference to each other, and pretend like you’re not as unbothered as you both appear to be.
Frankly, you hate any day like this. You hate not speaking to Osamu, and you hate being mad at him, and you hate the chilling silence that ensues when he’s mad at you. You hate it. You hate this. You hate the silence, and you want to hate him, but god knows you can’t; you never could. You could try to say it all you want, say “I hate Osamu,” but never would you mean the words. Because Osamu is Osamu, and you love him for who he is. It’s hard to love him sometimes when you realize you can’t love him for who you wish he could be, but that’s the charm of the man himself. What he could be isn’t what you have right here with you now; what you have right here with you now is a man still in love with you despite your own shortcomings, a man who loves you even when he acts like he doesn’t because he’s upset.
You often wonder who between you and Atsumu knows your boyfriend the best. On days like today, though, you mentally forfeit the winning point, simply clenching your jaw at the loss and the fact that when Osamu walks in and lays a plate of sliced fruit next to you on the couch (you’ve claimed the living room as your territory during this cold war), he still does so without a single word.
You hate this. You absolutely hate this.
I wish this would stop.
But you’re dating Miya Osamu, and you wouldn’t be a couple if you didn’t rub off on each other’s personalities. And if there’s one thing about the Miya family that affects everyone else around them, it’s their utter instinct for competition.
So when Osamu stands there for a second longer than you both know he needs to, not saying anything but also not hiding his lingering gaze on you, you can’t help but fight back at him with the same strategy — no words, no emotions, no hint of surrender or a dent in your shield. And you think, as your heart falls and cracks inside, that when his socks shuffle against the carpet and you see him walk away in your peripheral vision because you refused to let him see your face, that for once you may have won this time.
Then you wonder if victory can even be celebrated if the cost of it feels like it’s killing you.
Please talk to me, you plead him silently in your head. You slump your shoulders that were held up stiffly in your determination to stand against him and hang your head dejectedly now, no longer stubbornly, as you let out a sigh that makes your chest ache with longing.
Please, Samu…I miss you.
You close your eyes when you feel them start to water, and you sniffle as a tear escapes down to your lips.
I miss you.
You’re so focused on holding back your crying that you don’t even notice when Osamu returns. It’s not until you feel a gentle touch on your hands in your lap and pick up the familiar warmth of his presence right under your nose that you slowly lift your head and open your eyes to find him kneeling down and looking at you.
And the way Osamu is looking at you makes your efforts all in vain, because your tears come streaming down in waves, and you dig your nails through your clothes as he rubs gentle circles along your skin. His eyes look tired, dreary, and grayer with lack of sleep. His lips are a bit dry, and the creases in his forehead and his frown lines are deeper. The realization that you haven’t seen him smile for almost half a week twists your heart in a sharp chokehold.
“…Hey.” His voice is quiet, and you barely pick up on it outside the sound of your sniffling. “Hey, baby,” he says again. When you still don’t respond, he swallows hard. “I, um…forgot to put this on the plate with your melon.” Hesitantly, as if he doesn’t want to let go of your hands, he reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a tiny white triangle of folded paper. “Here…this is for you.”
He turns your fists over and carefully unfurls your clenched fingers, then sets the paper in the palm of your hand. You look down at it and he runs his thumb across your lips, wiping away your tears. When you glance briefly back at him, he smiles sadly like it hurts him to look at you, and you think it hurts you to look at him too. You hate seeing him like this. You hate the thought that you’re the reason his expression is like that.
You sniffle again, trying to clear your sinuses because you want to talk — you want to talk to him. But your throat still holds on to its lump, dry and heavy, so all you do for now is unfold his piece of paper and start to read to yourself.
As his letter goes on, Osamu’s handwriting starts to get blurry and you realize it’s because you’re crying again. He’s never given you anything like this, after all. To your knowledge, Osamu has never been one for writing or articulation or saying what he means without one word of sarcasm or teasing or banter. But right here, by his own hand, he’s written it for you himself.
When you finish his letter, you look up with your lip trembling more than it already was.
“I’m sorry it’s not the best, baby,” he says with a half-hearted laugh, and you smile through your clouded vision. “But I hope you know I mean it. All of what I wrote down, I mean every word of it. I love you…I’m sorry.”
You shake your head at him, finally finding your voice. “I love you. And I’m sorry, too,” you say. “Thank you for this. But you didn’t have to—”
“I did. And I wanted to.” Osamu scoots closer until he can practically lay in your lap. “I know I’m not good at…words or presents or dates or timing, but….” You watch as he fumbles your hands in his, taking note of how awkward he seems but how intently he’s trying to make sense in what he wants to say. He goes on, “But I’m pretty used to showing how I feel through my actions. And before, I used to think that was enough. But it doesn’t feel like just actions are enough anymore. So I want to get better at other stuff, too. So I can show you what I mean…what I feel. In more ways than just one.” 
Osamu finally gives in to the blush on his cheeks and glances away. You stare at him with nothing less than relief and simple endearment.
Because this is why you love him. Despite days like today, despite feeling like you want to hate him sometimes, despite the difficulties in your relationship and faults in communication and grudges held longer than you both know they should be, this is why you love him. Because despite every frigid beat that comes with frozen, angry silence, Osamu counters it with a push through the ice to remind you of warmth until both your hearts can thaw.
“What made you write a letter?” you ask him, squeezing his hand.
“Well, you like that love language stuff,” he answers. “And I’m pretty shit at most of those except the service one, I guess, so…bear with me.” Flustered, he looks away again when the smile on your face grows, and his eyes land on the plate beside you, fruit still lying untouched. He takes the plate and sets it on your lap. “Here, I sliced these for you.” 
Amused, you take a cubed melon when he offers it up. “I know. Thank you, Samu.”
His eyes brighten and the corners of his lips pull up when you eat the melon. He nods like he’s assuring himself he did a good job, then stands and says, “I’m going out to get you flowers, and then we can—”
But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you’re tugging him down and stuffing a melon into his mouth. Osamu holds it between his teeth for a moment, shocked, then chews slowly, face still flushed in pink. You stifle a giggle at the rare sight of him so caught off guard.
“We can go out for flowers together later,” you tell him. “I appreciate it. But right now, can you just…stay here?” You pull on his hand, still wrapped around yours, and he finds his place to sit next to you, leaning in like a subconscious response. “I just…I missed you,” you say quietly, your heart stitching its pieces back together just by being near him, knowing you don’t have to deny yourself of wanting him anymore.
Osamu’s eyes go unblinking but narrow like he’s trying to focus on your face and take all of you in. Then he sighs and presses you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around your waist.
“I missed you, too,” he whispers harshly into your hair, and you burrow yourself further into the comforting scent and softness of his clothes. Osamu starts slowly stroking your back, and you breathe him in like he’s flowers himself.
“For what it’s worth,” you say, “your actions are enough, you know. That’s why I was crying after you gave me the fruit.”
Osamu laughs, his chest rumbling under your ear. “Fruit was enough to make you cry?” he says.
“It was sentimental.”
“It was fruit, baby.”
“But you sliced it for me. That’s love.”
“If that’s love, it feels like I was only doing the bare minimum,” he admits, “which is why I was going to put the letter there, too.” 
You mumble, “I’m framing that, by the way.”
“Please don’t.”
“Then can I hear it out loud?”
“Wha–no!”
“‘Hi, my love. It’s me, your lov—’”
“Stop it!” Osamu cuts you off with a grip on your cheeks, scrunching your lips together and bringing you against his own in a messy, frenzied kiss.
When he pulls away, you pout at him. “That’s not fair, Samu—”
“You don’t play fair, anyway.”
He kisses you once more before you can snap back. His hand falls from your face and lands on your neck, cradling you softly against him as he deepens the kiss and pulls a quiet sigh out of you. Your heart has found its pulse again by the time he lets you catch your breath, and you can only stare with lovelorn anticipation as he half-smiles, half-grimaces down at you in surrender.
“Alright, baby,” says Osamu slowly. “I’ll say it.”
And to both your elation and surprise, he unfeignedly recites the first few lines of the written words still held in your hand.
Hi, my love. It’s me, your lovesick fool.
I’m too much of the latter to say it out loud now, but I’m even more of the former that I’ll do so if you ask me to. I miss you, after all. On days like today, when we’re at our worst, remember there’s a fool here who will never not miss you.
767 notes · View notes
emmyrosee · 1 month
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angst, you say?
Like, I am sorry to inform you, but when you and Osamu break up, he can no longer see or make or think about your favorite foods.
Your favorite Onigiri? Not on the menu anymore.
It’s a bizarre recipe too. One he made for you by accident, one you insisted on trying while he was testing new flavor combinations. It was a pain to make, hard to replicate, but for you, he’d do anything, absolutely anything to make you smile.
Now that you’re gone, he saves himself to consistent heartache in making it, taking it off the menu in hopes to combat the sight of you, pleading him to make it, jutting your lip out and clasping your fingers together while he looks you up and down in amusement. Now that you’re gone, he saves himself the trouble of tears stinging his eyes of the memories swirling in his head of you, sitting on the counter as he makes it at home, sneaking bites of rice from him when he’s turned around, only to act like you never did it.
It was on the menu for years. Only one person ordered it consistently. You.
So it’s completely normal why he bites his thumb nail as this damn seven year old, seemingly fresh out of a dance recital comes in, hands and chin hooked on the counter as her mother orders food, asking about her favorite onigiri no longer being served.
“Sorry, Miss, we haven’t had that on the menu in months-“
“But you’ve gotta make it!” She pouts. “I always get it after my dance recitals! It’s my favorite…”
“Yumei, don’t be rude!” Her mother scolds.
Osamu takes a deep breath in and rolls his shoulders, smiling softly at the young girl.
“Maybe I can whip one up. Just for you.” He leans slightly over the register, “but don’t tell anyone, okay?”
She gasps excitedly and bounces on the balls of her feet, squeaking out a “thanks, mister!” as her mother pays.
It kills him as he puts the order into the system for the cooks to make. It kills him as the cooks look at him like he’s got five heads, “we uh… we don’t know how to make this, Miya.”
“That’s alright,” he chokes, swallowing thickly. “Just watch the register.
“I’ll take care of it.”
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sashimiyas · 1 year
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The Burden of Being
Summary: There was an Osamu who loved you once. Who loved Onigiri Miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of Hyogo Ward. A fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we don’t need the memories. Now they’re gone and memories are all you have. So as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.
Pairings: miya osamu x reader (romantic); miya atsumu x reader (familial); akaashi keiji x reader (platonic)
Content: angst; fluff; inaccurate portrayal of how amnesia works; there is a hospital scene; fem reader; reader eats meat; reader has depressive symptoms that are, for the most part, amateurly addressed; reader attends therapy; alcohol as a coping method; undiagnosed alcoholism; unhealthy coping mechanisms; cigarette smoker Akaashi; cigarette smoker Osamu; amnesiac Osamu; pro volleyball player Osamu; the characters are all in their mid to late twenties bc this fic covers the time span of 2+ years; long passages written within parentheses are memories; there is a mentionable size difference between Osamu and reader where reader can wear his clothes and it be too big for them
Word count: 22k+
A/n: the premise for this fic was born after binging The Bear; she's gone through 4 drafts, 2 of which were completely scrapped and rewritten, and strayed much further from the initial plot than I imagined, but she's here! Thank you The 1975 for writing About You which I binged just as hard and would rec listening to it while you read! Sets the vibe, you know? Anyways, I've talked too much (obviously) but if you read, know that I love you!
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The day was Tuesday, the most unforgettably forgettable Tuesday to exist.
Your downstairs neighbor was doing laundry. Or upstairs. Someone was doing laundry that day because you remember the scent of down. It lifted into your bedroom, pressed into your sheets, and made it harder for you to wake up despite your phone’s incessant vibration.
A shounen ending song, the season finale. A matcha roll. A nurse who spoke with her fingers and head tilts. A walker with tennis balls at the bottom, an annoyed cab driver, and a tourist who smelled too strong of American deodorant.
They were all there. You remember.
The hospital was the same as ever. It had ample seating, not too busy, which you recall eased the burden on your heart (only slightly) if it weren’t for the reason you were in the hospital to begin with.
An elderly woman sat at the end in one of the chairs pushed against the wall, sucking on a candy that smelled like guava when you passed. Her walker was parked right next to the seat and someone, probably her daughter because she was younger but they looked alike –they shared the same nose– sat beside her on her phone.
There was a man in an obscenely large overcoat sitting in one of the middle aisle seats. You remember because you couldn’t help but be quietly jealous of his wear considering how cold it was in the lobby. And finally, a teenager who was crying on her phone, holding her stomach as she did. Her tears gave you courage, allowed you to slip them quietly down your cheeks and soaked them up with your sleeves when you got your moment alone, away from the rest of the family. 
You weren’t there when Osamu got hurt. He was by himself in the restaurant, opening it up and getting it ready before everyone else arrived just like how he always insisted.
You weren’t there. But you do remember.
Ma held you in her arms the moment you turned the hallways. She was on her way to the cafeteria, grabbing something for Atsumu to eat. Her head was downturned, a doleful cadence in her steps, and it was obvious that she’d spent ample time shedding tears, but there was a quiet peacefulness to her. Acceptance.
Her phone call had been quick like a debrief. She mentioned an accident. A fire, a gas leak, and despite your gasp, quickly told you not to worry because the doctors said Osamu would be fine. She said to come when you could, because she was there and Atsumu was on his way and he was going to be okay.
Then when you arrived, she immediately started crying. She had pulled you into a hug, devoured your body into hers as she pressed her head into your chest to weep.
She cried before she even got to say hello. And you didn’t know then, but there was a hierarchy for the pain.
Atsumu bore Osamu’s, Mama Miya, her sons’. And with you on the outside, with you being the last arrival, you held all of theirs.
And gods, do you remember the pain.
Ma had warned you that Atsumu was attached to his brother’s bedside. He was hunched over in a chair pushed back so he could burrow his head into the crooks of his elbows. The steady rise of his back meant he was asleep, probably cried himself to it. It had been a long journey from Osaka to Hyogo, and just the news of his brother’s incident, the weeping he must have done in public and bedside, you didn’t even question his exhaustion.
With your eyes on Osamu’s still figure, you moved to rub your hand soothingly along the length of Atsumu’s back. Comfort him was your thought process. Comfort your brother because Osamu would have wanted you to.
Was it bad to say that, inside, burrowed deep in your selfishness, you felt relief? There was a certain calmness that Osamu had been lacking lately, like a Tuesday morning where he finally, begrudgingly, gave himself an extra day off.
It wasn’t until you felt liquid dip down your neck that you realized you were crying.
Dark hair sweetly tussled to the side, one hand held in Atsumu’s and the other loosely laid over his chest. The scene was a rewind to the past, a replica of a childhood stored in the photo albums you’ve perused more than once in the Miya family home, when sharing beds and staying up until dawn led them to sleeping in until noon. When was the last time you’d seen him so… calm?
If only there weren’t any bandages on his head. If only it didn’t take these kinds of circumstances to finally close his eyes, to allow himself an unlabored breath.
You pulled up a chair and situated yourself amongst them. Atsumu at Osamu’s right, and you at Atsumu’s. Rolling a hand over Osamu’s thigh, you tucked the blankets in, pressed it into the crevices, his soft body heavy under your ministrations. Neither of them noticed you. Osamu only shuffled slightly, tilted his knee to the side and then clenched Atsumu harder. Atsumu responded immediately and scooted in. You stayed beside them, observed from the side.
There was no bitterness to your actions. What they have is something different and sincerely, for them to even love you so much that their bond bent, that they made themselves flexible to fit you in, it had always been enough.
Atsumu was who you called when you couldn’t talk sense into Osamu. And Osamu was who you turned to when Atsumu’s pride refused to allow him to fully run to his brother.
Ma came later. She brought a matcha swiss roll for the both of you to share and Atsumu a complete bento. It roused both of her boys up. Atsumu woke up first.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, the one still joined with Osamu’s and though he woke with his nose in the air, his freehand started reaching for you the moment he recognized you were there.
Your tears brought on his. His yours. Yours Ma’s. You held each other close and you whispered, because Atsumu could not bring himself to speak, words of consolation.
“He looks okay,” you muttered, eyes closed because you couldn’t chance a glance to look at him, to really, really look at him. “He’s going to be fine. He’s so stubborn. He’s going to be okay.”
Whether the words were salt or sugar on wounds, it was hard to tell because all that emptied from anyone’s eyes were tears.
No one expected to be here. Who did? Even when you watched Osamu sign the insurance policy and signed your name next to his just in case something happened. Something could never happen to you or Atsumu or Ma or Osamu. These were precautions to ease the heart, not the premise of a tragedy.
But even then, it would be dishonest for you to admit that Osamu’s accident was the most devastating part. You’re only being truthful because true pain began when Osamu woke up.
Atsumu noticed first. Even with his back to his brother, it was instinct that forced him to turn around. His groggy eyes were barely open. You could only see a slit of gray, drowsy and clouded like an overcast morning as his hand patted the edges of his bed as if in search of something. Of Atsumu.
The dutiful brother forewent everything. You, his ma, his bento, and immediately bent down to reach for his brother with both hands. He was at his side immediately, a cup of water brought to Osamu’s parched lips without a word before you could even recognize that Osamu was awake and against all disbelief, that he looked okay.
You took the napkin that was neatly folded atop of Atsumu’s bento, the one that had somehow been passed onto you and quickly made your way to Osamu’s side. To Atsumu’s side. And when Atsumu’s hand pulled back and Osamu resigned himself to a weary groan, eyes shut to take a physical break from all the hurt you were sure he was feeling, you handed Atsumu the napkin. He wiped the corner of his brother’s mouth with a gentleness you had never seen him bear.
An eerie silence persisted in the room as everyone held their breath. Osamu did so because of the aches and everyone else as a life vest because one wrong exhale felt like this reality could slip away.
It did. Frighteningly quick. Relief dissolved from your chest like cotton candy in water and all was left was this cloying and overbearing feeling of inconsolable despondence and disbelief because how? How did you end up here?
Osamu flinched when you pressed your hand against his thigh, a quick jerk that you surmised had to do with the fact that he had his eyes closed. You twisted your palm and stroked up, a move that you had done many, many times before, a premise to sex, a plea for comfort, and instead of him falling prey to your touch, he jerked out of your reach. There wasn’t even enough time for you to react because Atsumu had gripped your hand away between clammy fingers.
You looked between the two boys with a heart going brittle.
“What’s wrong, Samu?”
Said man took one quick glance at you before settling his gaze on his brother and a foreign expression passed him. Insecurity. He pressed himself deeper into his pillows and it forced Atsumu forward and you back as Osamu passed a glance to his mother.
He looked like a boy. And between exchanging glances at his mother and brother, Osamu couldn’t seem to find it in himself to return his gaze back to you.
Atsumu gripped his brother’s shoulder, “Samu, Samu. It’s okay. I’m here. We’re here.”
Osamu responded silently with a glazed stare that made Atsumu sputter. “Samu? Ya feel okay? Can ya tell me how ya feeling right now?”
The question seemed far too much to handle because all that was received was silence. Atsumu was hardly holding himself together with the tears that spilled from his eyes onto blotted, pink cheeks but you couldn’t bring yourself to move forward. You wanted to help carry this burden, hold Osamu like you’d done many times before, but the world felt skewed. Instead of being at his bedside, you felt like you were standing outside a window, watching the scene from a distance.
“Do ya… do ya know who I am?”
Ma broke first. You remember reaching backwards and gripping a wet hand full of used tissues, the fibers sticking to your skin.
“Samu. Samu.” Atsumu repeated his name over and over again like prayer, an incantation meant for miracles. “Samu. Say my name.”
“Tsumu.” The small croak was accompanied by the mildest glare, a small fire of insult always and specifically reserved for his brother and Atsumu choked.
“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s me. Ya remember our birthday?”
“October.”
“What day?”
His face pinched momentarily.
“What day, Samu?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Atsumu tried to deflect, “just try to think about it. What day is our birthday, Samu?”
“Atsumu…” Ma finally gained the strength to speak, a tiny chide that she was too exhausted to actually give any weight.
“Fifth,” Osamu pushed himself to sound out, like the word was a foreign tongue.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Atsumu brushed his brother’s hair with his fingers and the sight was disconcerting because despite how close they were, how they were one part of a whole, they had never been so careful. A childhood of roughhousing and testing limits proved invincibility. 
Bruises and beatings and cuts that they wrought on eachother and yet there Atsumu was, tending to his brother as if he’d been his caretaker all his life.
“Ya recognize anyone else in the room?”
“Course I recognize Ma, ya idiot.” He coughed in between, stutters forming one worded sentences, but the attitude brought on the brightest smile on Atsumu’s face.
“Yeah, and who else?”
You remember moving to lift your hand, the one pressed against your lips to keep them from trembling, the one that wasn’t holding Ma’s, to provide a shy wave but thank the gods it stayed. Because when Osamu finally urged himself to look at you, instead of the ardor and the sweet groggy expression right before early morning kisses, he winced in pain. You muffled the sound of shock, but no one noticed with Atsumu’s screeching chair as he rushed to hover over Osamu’s anguished figure.
He writhed for an achingly long moment, though it must have been just seconds. You would have ran off if Ma didn’t force her grip on you tighter but once Osamu could melt back into his hospital bed, Atsumu turned his head.
His expression was tight and so desperately trying to be controlled despite himself. But you weren’t an idiot because beyond the glassy edge of hurt and worry and fear, if you dove deeper beneath the well of tears that pooled in his eyes, was blame.
Atsumu turned his back to you and pressed his brother’s head into his chest as he rubbed large strikes across his back. “It’s okay, Samu. Sorry I pushed ya. Ya did well. Ya did good. Ya gonna be okay.”
And before Ma could stop you, you ran out the door with the excuse that you were going to find a doctor. You turned down the hallways, heedless of direction, where you were able to find what you thought was a secluded cove. The torment was gushing, a pain that you’d never felt or could even begin to understand. No matter how you expelled the misery, in tears or heaves or wracked out sobs, the hurt never abated. It was limitless.
Because for some ridiculous reason, this felt like all your fault.
You were only able to spend minutes crouched in the privacy of your corner until a nurse found you. It must have been a usual sight because she hovered over you, a quiet calm in her voice, as she led you away with a bottle of juice in one hand and into a room where no one else was. She said nothing, only passed napkins your way and didn’t blame you when you couldn’t find it in yourself to express gratitude. Afterward, she pointed down a long hallway and told you that when you were ready, that’s where the waiting room was.
Ma came by maybe an hour later. The pain at that point had swelled into your marrow, aching at every movement you made, but the bubbling river of tears had turned shallow. Now they were silent streams. You had spent the last half hour in solidarity with the teen who cried to her mom over the phone, catching glances every time a sniffle turned wet, and seated in the spot with a lingering guava and menthol scent.
Ma sat where the grandmother had, you beside her. Without glancing up, she placed the matcha roll in your hands, half eaten but notably uneven because you had the larger half.
Her touch lingered. It stayed. When it prompted more crying, the reality that you were a pitiable sight, that this wasn’t just shared between you and the girl with her arm around her stomach and the wordless nurse, the swollen bones in your body bursted.
Ma’s cold hands easily maneuvered you into her bosom. She held like you’d seen her hold Osamu in pictures when he was sick, like how she held Aran when he cried after coming back home after being away for so long.
“We’ll get through this.”
It sounded like an empty sentiment but if anyone were able to make the impossibles come true, it was Ma and Ma alone. You barely believed her, but maybe. Most likely not, but maybe, she was right.
So you nodded into her chest but she only clicked her tongue behind her teeth.
“Together,” she told you sternly, “as a family. I don’t want to hear none of that.” Ma held you tighter when she felt you pull away. “Ya’ve been my daughter for a long time now. Even if the two of ya never got married.”
You’d been trying to be so strong. For Osamu because it was obvious. He was your partner for life, and though the vows were never spoken, you had lived them. For all the good, the bad, the happy, and the sick.
But Atsumu, his pain was tenfold and you had to do something, even if it was to tread the thorny footpath to be by his side, even if it was just your hands cupped open so you could help carry his misery.
Then Ma held you like she was strong enough to piece you together again and you trusted her. Your wails were muffled into her cardigan and she rocked you back and forth despite the arms of the uncomfortable chairs in the way.
“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t–” your breath ceased, words lingering in the air because living it is already unbearable enough.
“He does.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Ya think a love like the two of ya had is that easy to forget?”
It wasn’t. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to. But the way Osamu had winced in pain at the sight of you, and Atsumu’s imperceptible glare, maybe it was best to be forgotten.
Ma took your silence as agreement because the circle of her arms loosened. She pulled back so that she could wipe your tears with a bent index finger.
It was jarring seeing the puffy rise below her eyes. She had always been beautiful in your opinion. A simple charm for life and the zest derived from raising two wildly vivacious boys kept her young. In a single day, she aged a decade and you wondered how you compared.
“The doctor is on their way. Come on,” she tapped you the same way she did whenever Atsumu started an unnecessary argument, “let’s go see what they have to say.”
Atsumu’s expression flashed in your mind, hesitation clenched her cardigan tighter, “but Atsumu…”
“Don’t be mad at Atsumu,” your throat had lurched when she looked away from you, head tilted to the side as if you had just slapped her across the face. “He’s going through a lot. He doesn’t know what to do.”
And you remember how your grip relaxed, how your arms had fallen into your lap, diminutive and so, very exhausted. Never did it cross your mind to be angry at the way any of them ached. Not Ma, not Atsumu, and especially not Osamu. If there was anyone you hated, it was yourself for even being there.
Ma said you were family. But Atsumu and Osamu, of course, they would always be her boys.
Osamu was asleep when you reentered the room and Atsumu held your hand as if nothing had ever happened. He stood up immediately when the doctor stopped by, eyes forward. Something had changed that day. Atsumu was a different man.
He’d have neverending stories of when he was captain at Inarizaki, and he liked to pass time by retelling another instance where he had to wrangle control of Bokuto, or Sakusa, or Hinata. Atsumu’s passion and sense of righteousness were great qualities for a leader, but his clumsy delivery always made him the butt of Osamu’s (among others) jokes.
That day had changed him. His footfall was sure despite his blemished expression as he listened faithfully to the doctor, only ascertaining everything you had already deduced.
It all made sense, logically, scientifically, situationally.
The fire was still being investigated but from the report, it had loosened the foundation of Onigiri Miya and it caused a beam from the ceiling to strike him flat against the head. He’d been knocked unconscious before the flames could even consume the restaurant and if it hadn’t been for the regulars and the community that had memorized their favorite restauranteur’s habits, no one would have even known he was inside.
As you all waited for Osamu to come to again, you’d rationalized the incident repeatedly in your mind. Reality though, was never as kind.
Because even in the tepid fluorescent light, you couldn't convince yourself. This could not be real.
It’s not. You knew this, but Osamu spoke with such vindication, honesty in every breath that even he had you fooled.
“Ya traded out Kageyama when we were six points down in the second set.” Osamu recited to his brother at his bedside, in the same spot, in the same clothes, in the same battered expression. “And I remember cheering ya on from the bench when ya set the winning point to Aran against Russia.”
The silence that followed was cold. A shiver started at the dip of your shoulder blades, and wrung you out like a towel squeezed dry.
The doctors had said something like this would happen. Memories could return a little misplaced, as if you had just moved everything two inches to the left because it exactly was as Osamu said.
In the 2020 Olympics, Japan faced Russia in the first round. They won the first set, but struggled hard in the second. To prevent risking their lead, Kageyama was subbed out for Atsumu. The tides had turned and they won with Aran scoring the last point.
Yes, Osamu was there. But rather than on the bench, he was outside the arena. You were manning the register and he’d stepped outside the final moments of the match, standing there with his arms crossed like a dad, cap in one hand, and head tilted at the enormous screen that streamed the ongoing match inside.
Atsumu was the one who made the first sound. It was strangled and faded when his brother gave him a peculiar look. Then he glanced at his mother, urging answers out with his eyes, staring at everything before landing at you. His face contorted in pain, but Atsumu saved him. He grabbed his brother’s cheeks, hair glued to his skin, and he pressed his forehead against his brothers, and nodded. 
“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.”
That was the extent of what you could take and you ran out of the room, droplets of your tears mingling with the tile’s speckled pattern, and when the door clicked again, you didn't have to look up to know who it was.
“I’m sorry.”
Through your blurry vision, the world graying, darkness descending right before your eyes, it was like you were speaking to Osamu himself.
“He looks happy for the first time and I’m so sorry.” The Atsumu-Osamu amalgamation held your hands desperately.
Their individualism had always been easy to parse, especially with you being devotedly in love with one and having developed a brotherly affection for the other, but you allowed yourself this. If your heart must break, let Osamu herald this pain. No one else.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He pulled you in by the shoulders and hugged you. He sniveled wet breaths into your neck just as you darkened the cloth on his back. “It’s the first time I feel whole.”
The sting reappeared between your nose and you found it harder to breathe so you clutched him tighter in a feeble attempt to expel all the excess tension that had ballooned in your chest.
“I know.”
Though the fact did little to ease you, you'd never been able to compare. What is Osamu’s had always been Atsumu’s and vice versa, too. Joint custody in all things: pride, success, pain.
Memory.
“And I don’t want to break that yet. Not for him.” Not for me he said silently. “And I love ya and I know ya love him. Ya love him so much and he loves ya too but–”
But I love him more. I love him in a way you could never.
“I know.”
Osamu would pinch your lips shut if he were really here. He’d never stand for your way of thinking because comparing yourself to his brother was a thought he never entertained.
That’s like apples to oranges or whatever that saying is. I chose ya. I choose ya for the rest of my life and I just happen to be stuck with that guy for life.
You took Atsumu’s face in your hands. Wet cheeks stuck to your fingers as you collected tears along your lash line until the world blurred just enough that blonde turned dark brown and golden rays faded to gray.
“- but I don’t want to take this away from him yet. Ya heard the doctor. He said we could try some exposure therapy so that his memory can unwonk itself out again, but ya saw that didn’t ya?”
Tears burned down your chin when you gave a somber nod, “I did.”
“When he was talking about being in the Olympics, I… I just–” he bit his lip, the memory painful, “ –and he got all those details correct, I just couldn’t tell him no.”
“I know.”
You couldn’t either.
“We’ll start the therapy when everything settles down. Maybe he’ll start remembering things on his own but it’s been a lot for him to deal with. The injuries, his memory, the shop–”
You shook your head and the man before you paused. He looked surprised with his mouth open for breath, but the foremost expression did not hide how he felt yesterday.
Your thumb started at the plump of his face and swiped up to the ridges of his cheekbones. A clean slate.
“It’s okay. Osamu will be okay.”
Your love was Osamu’s choice. Atsumu’s will always be shared.
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After that day, you kept your presence minimal. Only occasionally stopping by, slowly relinquishing the things that the old Osamu, the one that knew you, valued. Each time, he’d hold the item like it was foreign. You watched from the corner of the room, like a diminutive decoration, maybe even a broom, and spectated as Atsumu helped him pull item after item.
The black hoodie, stained at the cuffs, and chewed strings at the ends, the one he had first shared with you.
(The night descended softly, like the flutter of silk sheets, and before you knew it, you’d been in Osamu’s front seat talking nonsense and sharing an assortment of leftovers he’d brought from Onigiri Miya. You’d only been talking for a couple of weeks, slowly getting to know each other outside of customer and cook, but it’s been months of patronage. When Osamu texted you after his shift and found you still awake despite your early start the next morning, he invited you out for a drive.
You’d heard him before he arrived, the worn out truck of his announcing his presence. He had the audacity to apologize for the poor state his vehicle was in, as if it wasn’t endearing, as if he didn’t make you feel like a princess when he held his hand across the console for leverage.
And here you are now, at a hilltop overlooking a beautiful city you’d  moved to in a drowsy silence. His presence is calming, a knitted blanket that softens the bite of the night air. It doesn’t stop you from shivering though.
Osamu notices immediately, head snapping to you when you do.
“Ya cold?” he asks, but regardless of your answer, he’s taking action. The man braces a hand around your bare thigh since you’d only come out in sleep shorts and shirt (though you still made sure to check yourself in the mirror before heading out) and just the warmth beneath his touch makes you ache. You lean closer, just a slight movement over the console for any residual heat he has to offer, the seats of his vehicle a sharp contrast.
“Still working on fixing her,” Osamu explains, “she’s a little off in some spots. Her heater don’t work and she leaks some fluid every hundred kilometers but she’s still a beaut.”
Your smile makes Osamu pause. His body is turned as he tries to reach for something in the back, but just the sight of your expression makes him stop and fully face you so he can take it in.
You think it’s cute how he talks about his car, how despite all her flaws, he can see her value. The world has been hard on you, but he gives you hope. From the moment you met eyes on him at your office and when you walked into his shop months later, greeting you with a fond welcome because he remembered you, he makes you think that he can see your true value too.
And with the way he leans in, his eyes glancing between yours and your lips, his hand unknowingly dragging up and down for the feel of more skin, you think he does.
The kiss is chaste, so innocent like the first drop of sunlight in the winter. It warms you from the inside out with a crisp feeling that makes you feel renewed.
Barely a second, but Osamu has you wishing for more. You’ve noticed he has a tendency to do that, to have you eager and hungry for all that he has to offer. How from just one bite of his catered food to your office, you couldn’t help but visit his shop as well.
Though your lips have parted, your faces have not. Osamu’s lashes are long from this point of view, and his skin looks lovely in the moonlight. You’re so close that you can see the small veins, blue and greens below his eyes. The colors are so distracting, his breath so warm across your cheeks, you can’t help but stare, memorize everything before the chance to do so again is taken from you.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
His husky words create a vortex of desire, consuming you wholly. You can’t help but squirm in your seat.
“Like what?” You’re doing your best to keep it cool, but you can hear the fray in your voice, reedy and needy and wanting. It’s scary to even think of the power he has over you.
“Like,” his pause forces you to glance at him and you see it too, a mirrored expression of yearning. It’s so intense the way your barriers break. It’s scary. You want to pull away, escape the emotions that are hardly within your control but he tilts your chin with an index finger and thumb. The motion is so gentle, the slightest touch with the heaviest of meanings, and he continues to stare. Maybe even admire. “Yeah, like that. Ya gonna make me go insane.”
“Me too,” you whine. It’s unfair, so unfair what he can do just with his eyes.
His expression hardens. The corners of his eyes crinkles as he glares his sight down on you, “don’t. If I kiss ya again, I don’t know if I can control myself. Ya don’t know how bad I want ya.”
“I’m right here.”
Your reply induces a vexed response. He has to breathe heavily through his nose as he fully moves his fingers to cup your cheeks. You watch as his chest rises, the breadth of it expanding as the tendons in his neck protrude at the action. Then he looks down on you from a head that’s tilted back and you see it, the subdued hunger that you’re sure he’s trying to persuade back inside. It’s frighteningly beautiful. The attraction beckons you forward despite his grip on your face keeping you still in your spot.
“Why?” You have to ask. What is all this discipline for when clearly, it’s reciprocated.
“Because,” Osamu grits. His hand travels to the back of your head and you can feel the strength of his grip, the promise of more beneath his fingertips. “If I’m gonna wreck ya, I’m gonna wreck ya right. So quit being the devil’s little thing, and let me take ya out on a real date so I can have ya properly.”
You pout but his thumb moves to push the plump of your lips back in, “no, ya hear me? Ya keep those pretty lips in. Be good and I’ll promise I’ll treat ya even better. Ya okay with that?”
His dominance, the assuredness in his words but the ragged pitch in his voice, as if he’s hardly holding himself together, as if he wants this just as bad, or maybe even more than you do has you finally agreeing despite the fact that you’d give it all. Forget the shame or the ladylike propriety of saving yourself for when you’re sure. Lust is a persuasive speaker, but Osamu, he is a promise you want to ensure you’ll  have.
“Good,” Osamu is pleased with your ascent.
His attention returns to his back seat and he pulls out a black hoodie for you to put on. When you pop your head through the collar, you don’t expect the confident man to suddenly be so bewildered, mouth agape and wrist hanging dumbly from the 12 o’clock position of his steering wheel.
“What?” you ask though you know the answer. It’s a giddy feeling to know there is a power balance between the two of you.
“Ya, uhm, ya,” Osamu coughs into his hand, turning his head away before looking back at you. “That shit’s old. All stained up and ragged but. Ya make it look good.”
You look down, sleeves well past your hands where you notice blots littering the cuffs. You can’t help but bring the strings up to eye level. There are teeth marks indenting the aglet and you give Osamu a dubious stare.
He shuffles, a nervous chuckle, “like to chew on them sometimes. Keeps my mouth busy.”
Then without a second thought, you bring it to your mouth to chew it on your own. If he won’t kiss you, an indirect kiss has to suffice. His agonized groan is worth it.
Osamu takes you out on an official date the very next day.)
Osamu spared one second for the article of clothing and tossed it to his night stand. You pretended that he didn’t just break your heart.
The next item was Vabo-chan, but not the same one Osamu had brought into your shared apartment. That one faced its demise after a neighbor’s dog ran inside when you accidentally left the door open and used it as a chew toy.
(“What are ya doing on the floor like that?” you hear the door to your bedroom creak but petulantly refuse to acknowledge him. His steps thud, hollow over the cheap wood of your home.
“Hey,” he nudges you with his foot, “ya asleep? Ya gonna hurt ya back if ya stay like that.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Are ya crying?”
“No!” Denying but not hiding, you curl into yourself even further.
Osamu bothers this time to actually hold you with his hands, gentler, more patient. He softens his tone too, “hey, hey. What are we doing?”
He waits for you to react, doesn’t continue pressing further and refuses to leave you alone.
“I’m so fucking stupid,” you lift your head up, fresh tears as you admit your failure. You expect Osamu to comfort you, abate the sting of your own proclamation. He stares at you for a moment before he starts laughing in your face.
“You hate me!”
“Hey, now that’s going too far. I don’t hate ya.”
“But you think I’m stupid.”
“Just occasionally. Like when ya make impulse decisions.”
Hearing him makes you scream into your palms. Osamu laughs and urges you into his lap.
“What’d ya do?”
He’s so mean to know you so well, all the good and the bad.
“Tell me. So we can cry together.”
You press your face into his shirt, using it as a napkin to wipe away your tears, ignoring his mild grunt of disgust when you do. “Remember when Vabo-chan got eaten? Well I bought you a new one to replace him because you were sad.”
“Did ya?” His voice sounds so surprised, it makes breaking the bad news feel even worse. “That’s mighty nice of ya. Doesn’t make ya stupid.”
“Okay, but—“ You scramble off him, knee digging into his thigh that he makes a noise of pain, to get a box tucked underneath the bed. Your hand runs across the frayed cardboard where it had ripped open from your excitement. Hesitation stops you but Osamu places his palm on top of yours. Careful and encouraging and though you know he’s going to laugh at you, you finally open it up but stop yourself by placing a hand on top of the item.
“I was so excited! Because they don’t sell him anymore, just the vintage ones that are super expensive.”
“I know.” He’d been talking about it with Atsumu and his Ma, conversations you’d overheard on the phone.
“But I saw it and it was super affordable so I bought it without thinking, but,” you look up at him and he smiles. It makes you hide your face in the box but he’ll eventually admit to you later on how cute you had looked then. How distraught you were on his behalf and that then, in that moment, he’d truly felt loved. “Don’t laugh!”
“I won’t.”
Your constant hesitation brings on Osamu’s impatience and he tries to pry your fingers away, “okay. Seriously. Don’t laugh or I’ll cry.”
“I told ya, I won’t.”
The plush comes out on your own accord and before he has any time to process the sight, you begin overexplaining. “It’s a counterfeit! They gave him a nose and his name is Bavo-kun. I’m so stupid!”
Osamu’s too quiet, expression unreadable as he looks at the stuffed toy. Your heart is teetering on the edge of a cliff, so close to falling off and on the verge of tears once again. Then he bellows out a solid bellow from the gut. Before you can crumble into embarrassment, Osamu pulls you back against him, squishing stupid Bavo-kun between you two and holding you tightly against his chest.
“I love him,” his voice turns wistful. “Bavo-kun.”
“I hate him. He’s so ugly.”
“That ain’t right to say about ya kid.”
“What?”
“Look at him.” His eyes fall to your chests, forcing you to take in the hideous sight of your failings. “He’s got ya nose.”
“That is not funny, Miya Osamu.”
“Oh no, Bavo-kun. She used my full name. What are we gonna do? Ma’s mad.”
You slap his chest. Bavo-kun is collateral damage, “don’t call me that!”
Osamu’s humor is all sorts of fucked up. His laughter is excessive, shaking the both of you that he loses his balance and you guys fall to the floor. A hand of his comes to cup your cheek, acting as a buffer before you thud onto the ground and with your heights at the same level, tears drying out, you can finally see his expression clearly.
He reminds you of gemstones at moonlight, the sparkle of something beautiful. Light cannot replicate it, only refract it. And though it’s close-lipped, his smile pulls you back from the edge, melts you to the ground and anchors you back with him.
“I love this life,” Osamu confesses, “This family. I love ya and our little mishap.”)
The way Osamu’s eyes had lit, you couldn’t help but clasp your mouth to hide the smile that blossomed beneath. It was devastating how despite it all, his joy elicited yours.
“Vabo-chan!” Osamu looked to his brother in an eager excitement. “Remember how we begged Ma to buy us this when we were little?”
“Yeah. Then we had a sleepover every night with the four of us. Tucked them in with their own pillow too”
Osamu lifted up the plush’s hands, fondness tight in his expression. His eyes roamed, though they were elsewhere, remembering the memories he never lost.
“Wait a second,” Osamu’s expression hardened. His hands traced over the lines on the Bavo-kun’s face, flipped him over to read the tag, and when it didn't provide the information he wanted, he turned the toy over again to face it directly. “This ain’t Vabo-chan. The hell is this fake shit?”’
Atsumu was quick to return to damage control the way he had been these past couple of days. He plucked the toy and tossed it to a chair on the side and told Osamu not to worry, that Vabo-chan was back in Osaka in Atsumu’s home because Osamu was kind enough to lend him his when Atsumu left the one he owned on an airplane.
New memories. Fake memories.
Lies.
You were out before anyone could stop you. Not that either of the boys would have since in the midst of this whole facade, all you were was a burdensome truth.
You laid in bed accompanied with misery. The emotion made for a poor cuddle partner but it kept you company as you shivered and wailed into pillows that hardly smelled like the Osamu who knew you anymore.
Ma called. The image of her worried eyes made you answer, but when she’d update you about Osamu, how she’d first tell you he was getting better and then, as if an afterthought, urged you to visit him, you didn’t have the heart to tell her that you didn’t want to hear it.
So you started ignoring her calls. She was persistent, as expected of a woman who raised a set of rowdy boys all on her own. She knocked on your door between two minute intervals, called and texted in the gaps between and you made excuses like you were busy working over time to catch up on the job you’d left behind.
All untrue because you’d emailed your supervisor that you’d be on an indefinite leave of absence with no explanation. There was no part of you ready to meld back into the real world again. Your world had ended, your existence ceased and now it was your duty to find your place again.
Ma’s final message was an update that Osamu was getting discharged from the hospital. She mentioned that the family would be moving to Osaka at Atsumu’s insistence. She wanted you to come by before they left.
You didn’t.
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With the money you’d gotten from selling Osamu’s food truck, a phone with a dying battery lost beneath your bed, you traveled in the opposite direction to Okinawa. 
It was supposed to be healing. You were supposed to recreate a new identity here, find yourself in the beaches, among the company of strangers, smoothened into fine stone and drawn back to shore after getting caught in the riptide.
But here you are, with misery steeped so deep within your bones that it’s turned you bitter.
You leave your budget lodging only because your stomach tells you to and the measly mini fridge of your studio had nothing but flat soda. There’s no reason to look in the mirror, a quick scrub across your face is enough to remove the crust from your eyes and dried drool from the corner of your lips.
The convenience store is just around the corner from your temporary home. You’ve been trying to maintain your elusive nature, hoping you can leave the island as folklore, by limiting your patronage and entering the establishment at various times.
It’s the first time you smell fresh air, and admittedly, it does feel good against your skin. Much more palatable than your room which was already scented by mold when you entered. There’s birds singing and even the scent of smog excites your stale senses.
The world is so effortlessly beautiful.
And that’s what makes it so cruel.
You push your way into the convenience store, the aggressive movement rattling the bell above.
By your last visit, you’d memorized the aisles so you stroll on through with a single basket in hand. The thought process is careless as you pick out which shelf stable meals you’ll have for the week. It’s not until you reach the cold beverage section that this mundane visit turns into something interesting.
You squat to level yourself with the bottom shelf, debating whether or not you had the energy to carry a full twelve pack the half kilometer back. Just the thought of it hits you with a sudden feeling of fatigue that you cannot help but groan and press your forehead against the fridge door.
You’d spent the past two weeks alone so just the quiet call of your name has you jumping up defensively.
Akaashi looks down at you unimpressed.
“What are you doing here?” You look around, fearful that Atsumu or another one of Osamu’s volleyball confidants might be around. “Are you following me?”
Akaashi is an acquaintance at best, an Onigiri Miya fanatic at most. You hardly had a chance to have a conversation with the man when every time you saw him, he spent most of it with a face stuffed full of onigiri.
Your reaction flattens his expression even further.
“No, I did not take a three hour flight all the way to Okinawa only to watch you buy alcohol in your,” Akaashi pauses, “sleepwear.”
He has a point so you settle in the defeat by glaring at him.
“I am on a company retreat,” he finally explains. “You are far from home.”
“Retreat,” quick to use his verbiage, “yeah, I’m on a retreat, too.”
He eyes you then glances to the fridge door. You glance along with him and notice that the oils of your skin transferred onto the glass panel and do your best to hide your embarrassment with anger instead.
“What,” you challenge, feeling awfully prickly today and poor Akaashi is the one you get to take it out on. Who else? Certainly not Ma, or Atsumu, or Osamu or the nice landlord who handed you keys without question. Of course, you’re particularly nasty with yourself as of late, but if you can share the beating with someone like Akaashi whose deadpan nature is persevering, then so be it. Now that Osamu’s erased you from his life, it’s not like your social circles will ever collide again.
“You look…” Akaashi doesn’t spare you any grace. His eyes roam over your figure, disgust especially contorting his features when he witnesses the sight of your shoddy pants that have seen better days. In fairness, so have you. “Maudlin.”
Despite not knowing the definition of the word, you gather context from just the tone of his voice and it immediately makes you frown.
Defensive, you’re quick to retort. Because who is he, baggy eyed Akaashi, hangnail ridden Akaashi, squinty and blind Akaashi, no owning hairbrush Akaashi, to speak of your current condition?
“And you look like your retreat isn’t retreating.”
You get up, discreetly rubbing your self portrait in sebum with a pants leg, and impulsively decide that you deserve the 12 pack thanks to this new inconvenience. The pack slams against the glass door when the suspension forces it back too quickly. Akaashi moves to help but you cast a glare before he can.
“I do not need help,” you supply.
His reply is nonplussed, “you do.”
“I don’t,” and now the corner decides to catch on the gasket. Akaashi ignores your small grunts and your quiet insistence, pulling the door wide open.
You thank him begrudgingly only because it’s the socially acceptable thing to do but the man doesn’t let you stray much further.
“What if I bought another pack?” That catches your attention. More liquor, less lucidity, less opportunity to remember you’re sad. It seems to be a curse these days, the power of memory, and for once, you think it’s quite unrelenting. “And I paid for your items? Will you let me camp out wherever you’re staying?”
“There’s only one bed.”
“The floor is fine.”
“It smells like mold.”
“Let’s buy a candle before we leave.”
There’s a desperation that you recognize, a solidarity between two persons barely hanging on and the least bit put together. It shouldn’t be so exciting to find someone as miserable as you but isn’t that what they say? Misery loves company.
“Holy fuck,” you grin at him, sardonic, “I don’t remember liking you so much, Akaashi.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
It’s a stupid response, a very Akaashi response, so you giggle manically and kick a pack with the toe of your shoe.
“Grab the 24 pack. We’ve got some retreating to do.”
Akaashi is running away from his responsibilities and so are you. He locks himself in your studio without a mention of its disarray and happily sleeps on the flat futon provided by your temporary landlord with a single fitted sheet and your neck pillow. The amenities offered are quite militant, but considering the price point, you cannot complain and neither does Akaashi.
Neither of you mention what sorts of horrors plague your sleep, a respect for each other’s privacy, because despite enjoying his company, life did not bring you two together out of kindness.
There’s a reason why the underneath of his eyes have swelled to a charcoal gray the same way you cannot help but begin your mornings with a beer. The two of you watch reruns of old childhood shows and every so often, Akaashi wordlessly gets up to go outside for a smoke. You thank the heavens there’s no balcony so you wouldn’t have to face the familiar sight of a back lazily bent over a railing and the slow wisp of smoke. He comes back inside with the hint of tobacco on him and you think he’s noticed how it makes you choke because the first thing he does is wash his hands before sitting next to you again.
He chooses to abide by the code of silence until the fifth day. It’s an evening where the bed has been stripped bare, the room emptier than it already is.Your dirty clothes had been piling up but it had been a struggle to clean them when laundry felt like a hug, the firm press of a collar and a lost nape. The two of you lie on the floor and bide time while you wait for the linens and whatever paltry laundry either of you have dry.  
Akaashi dons a white undershirt and sleep shorts, you in a shirt that doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t belong to anyone actually, because its owner has abandoned it too.
He holds a half eaten Okinawa style onigiri in his hand and the sight is so familiar you don’t pay him any mind. Your thoughts are gluey from the alcohol so it takes an extra line for the jokes to settle. Laughter is muffled by your forearms where you’ve placed your chin, laying on your belly and big toe tracing a gap between tiles on the floor.
Even the sound of Osamu’s name takes longer to process.
But you still remember. You devotedly will.
“These onigiris taste different from Myaa-sam’s,” Akaashi says beside you.
You lay a cheek on your arm and look up at the cross legged man. He finally got his glasses and other belongings from his previous room yesterday. A smile is already plastered on your face because the liquor makes Akaashi funnier than usual.
The joke never comes.
“Did you ever want to talk about it?”
His question prompts self reflection. Talk about what? What was there to say when the two of you have been so busy running. Immediately, you scramble to get up onto the smooth surface of the stripped mattress to put some distance between you two.
“That’s why you’re here, right?”
Beneath glasses, Akaashi’s eyes have a pointed edge to them.
“What do you know?” It’s suddenly so cold now with the space between you and there’s nothing to cover you up. You can only pull your knees to your chest.
“Nothing.” Akaashi turns to look at the TV. He watches the scene play out until it cuts to a commercial. “Atsumu doesn’t say anything. He’s been uncharacteristically tight lipped.”
Akaashi says uncharacteristically but you’re not surprised at all. This sounds exactly like the Atsumu you know now. It fouls your mood and has you reaching for your emotional support sake from the nightstand.
“He tells everyone to entertain Osamu lest he get a traumatic episode.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No,” Akaashi watches your face deflate so he tacks on that Bokuto has.
Tension coils the muscles along your bones. It makes you feel frigid so you gulp down the rice wine in hopes that it warms you up from the inside out. Akaashi only watches. He never mentions your drinking habits. You don’t say anything about his smoking tendencies. These were the boundaries you were supposed to respect, but the man keeps on pushing.
“I heard you sold the food truck.”
“How else could I afford all this luxury?” Your hands stretch out to broadcast the shoebox the two of you call home.
He’s used to your defensive sarcasm by now, only taking a singular bite from his onigiri. “So the branch in Tokyo?”
You laugh. “Not happening.”
Then you finish the whole bottle with an aggressive gulp. You flatten yourself against the bare mattress. You ignore him, pretend you’re alone, pretend you’re okay, and you accept the dizzying fall into slumber.
When you wake, the laundry is brought in. It smells exactly like down and a headache. The digital clock on the nightstand tells you it’s midnight so you drink a bottle of water and work on fitting the sheets to the bed. For your efforts, you reward yourself with another can of beer. Then another. It only takes two for you to fall asleep again.
The both of you don’t broach the topic. He reels you back in with a sense of normalcy, the routine of bumming it in front of the TV and the unhealthy eating habits. Even when you blurt out that onigiris are now banned from the house, he only provides a knowing blink.
Slowly, the space between you two skitters away. He coaxes you in like a stray with indifference and eventually, he’s sat cross legged in front of the TV while you lay next to him on your belly.
The duration of your lease is running out as the month dwindles away into repetition. There’s only a couple of days left but you’ve run out of alcohol and food. It’s a weekend night with prime time television over reruns and you’ve gotten particularly attached to this drama that you started halfway through so Akaashi and you head out one evening to prepare for the last couple days of indulgence.
You should have known Akaashi had something planned when he veered to the left with the excuse of wanting to try out a different store.
Once you heard the quiet roar of waves crashing, you had to pause. A rush of trepidation overcame you. Akaashi was already halfway through the crosswalk when he turned around and noticed you weren’t there. He urged you with his eyes, sharp still below the frames of his glasses. People walk around him and you cannot help but notice their peeved expressions. The sound of cars whiz past and the waves do nothing but recede and crash and it’s all so much to take in.
“No,” you shake your head.
You want to run but where do you go? Forward? Away? Where else because there is no going back. 
The crosswalk sign starts blinking and there is renewed severity in Akaashi’s expression. He beckons you with an outstretched hand.
It reminds you of Atsumu, the way he had reached for you the first day at the hospital.
It reminds you of Osamu, the days he’d pull you out of bed when you slept in.
“Come with me,” Akaashi says.
That is all you need to go. The dramatics are uninhibited as you make your way to him, blind with your head bent as one wrist wipes away incessant tears and the other is extended to catch his hand. He takes it. It’s a foreign union with his spindly fingers that are long enough to twine around your wrist like a restrictive vine but you relinquish yourself to it.
Because, this whole time, all you’ve wanted is this: promised, unselfish companionship.
Akaashi leaves you on a bench and returns with meat pies bought from a nearby food truck. The smell of it saturates the area in an appetizing scent of fried deliciousness that has your stomach gurgling. You’ve not had a single healthy meal since you arrived in Okinawa but the alcohol you’ve imbibed religiously for the past few weeks welcomes the offering.
“Have you wondered yet what is going on with me?” A bus whips past you two with an uncomfortable gust of warm wind. You want to pretend that you didn’t hear Akaashi over the sound of the engine, but his silence is imploring.
“Always,” you say.
Akaashi entertains you with a small huff, “you could ask.”
“But then that would breach our secret NDA. Which you have breached by the way. You owe me another 24 pack.”
“Considering I no longer have a job, we might have to put that on hold.”
You reply only with a wide eyed surprise.
“I put in my resignation yesterday.” Akaashi admits. His hands glide up his thigh to clear the grease from his fingertips. “Do you want to ask questions now?”
There’s a lot of questions running through your mind. First of all, why? Why quit? What was the reason? Why did it take you in your pajamas buying alcohol before noon on a foreign island for him to do so?
“Yes, but I won’t.”
“You’re aberrant.”
“I’m assuming that means ridiculous.”
“Close.”
“Share whatever you want to share. I won’t…” you almost hand the crust of your meat pie to Akaashi out of habit. You press it into the napkin instead, crushing it with the pressure of your fingers. “I don’t want to force anything out of you if you’re not ready.”
Akaashi hums. It’s a sound similar to when the understanding of a concept finally dawns on someone. He kicks his long legs out. The Oxfords provide a bouncy noise and it’s only now that you see how aberrant Akaashi is. Near the ocean shore, he wears business casual dress with slacks and though unpressed, he still dons a button down with elbow pads. Freaking elbow pads. You must look ridiculous next to him in your novelty shirt and pajama shorts. It’s been difficult wearing anything that doesn’t have elastic lately and jeans leave for no room to breathe.
He pulls out his cigarettes from his breast pocket and when he remembers, he turns with a silent tilt of his head, asking permission to smoke. You only nod but turn your head away quickly. The gradual exposure to the smell is one thing, but the sight of him smoking might be another step you’re still not ready to take. 
The cigarette crackles twice in two long inhales and he makes a point to blow in your opposite direction.
“I’m told that literary composition is not my forte.” You remain quiet, respecting the beginning of Akaashi’s soliloquy. “People tell me that I’m not meant to be an author. The world, actually. My short stories weren’t selling so I tried my hand at writing fanfiction for Meteo Attack, the manga I edit and hardly anyone read it. I even got hostile responses for my characterization.”
He needs another two inhales from the admittance. You don’t blame him.
“My boss and I had been working on a training plan the last two quarters so I could move to the literary department and the night before I met you, we were announced our placements for the next quarter. Mine didn’t change, still editor, still in manga. And when I asked, my boss said he’d be an idiot if he let me leave. I was too good at my job to change positions now. I went on a manic binge, slept through my alarms for the scheduled office activities, saw you, and figured you’d be the best excuse I could have to avoid my boss and coworkers for the rest of the trip.”
The sound of the lighter flicks once more. You listen to the quick initial inhale and the lengthy one that follows.
“My intention was never to quit. It was just like you said, retreat. I wanted to abscond myself of responsibilities for a moment but then I ate the onigiri I bought and I remembered. I remembered lots of late nights in Hyogo with you and Myaa-sam and Bokuto. And it made me think of you.”
“If it’s pity you’re offering, I don’t need it, Akaashi.”
“It’s not. I’m offering another contract. A business one.”
You turn to him and find that the smoker had finished his cigarette already. He gathered saliva in his mouth and discretely spit it on the floor before turning back to you.
“Let’s open Onigiri Miya up again.”
The idea sickens you because just the name of the restaurant brings back an onslaught of memories you’ve been trying to avoid. Osamu in his tight arm sleeves and black apron. His musk after a long night. His weary smile that would worry you only for a second until you realized it was satisfaction that compelled it more than anything. The sweet and salty scent of sticky rice and the starchy feeling on your hands whenever you would swirl your fingers in the buckets of dried grains that Kita would present to you. Long days, long nights, and Osamu, Osamu, Osamu.
“There’s no way. I have no clue how to even begin starting a business.”
“You say that but do you even know if your job will be there when you get back home?”
That was also another pertinent issue you were still planning to avoid.
“There is an Osamu out there right now who doesn’t even know that Onigiri Miya exists. The world is telling you you’re forgotten and there are people out there willing to accept it. But did you? Did you forget?”
His intensity brings on a delicate quality to your voice, “of course not.”
Osamu could forget you, but you? Forget him? The erasure of his existence was something so foreign of a thought that even just the mention of it strained your heart raw. 
“I didn’t either. Do you want anyone else to?”
Your response is incomprehensible as you blow snot into your grease laden napkin but the point comes across. For all the weeks you and Akaashi have spent together in the apartment room, he touches you a second time ever, hand atop yours once more.
“Then let’s open Onigiri Miya back up.”
It’s minutes later until you can gather yourself up again and even longer for you to seriously entertain the idea. The night is quiet and you’re thankful there are no passersby to witness this embarrassing exchange.
You think of everyone that Osamu had brought into your life when you walked into his. All the customers and friends and neighbors that offered you joy and small gifts worth living for. Atsumu was okay with throwing it all away, abandoning it just like his high school motto had endorsed.
But they were the ones who found Osamu. They were the ones who saved him, who forced the firefighters to break down Onigiri Miya’s door when the fire began to consume. If not for the community he fostered, he would not have had the second chance he has today.
There’s an Osamu out there that does not love you, that you may never learn to love without being hurt, but there was an Osamu that was beloved by all. If you had to do it for anyone, you’d do it for him.
“Fine.” Akaashi does not move, eerily still as if to not startle you to backtrack. “We can give this a try.”
You settle in with your choice and finally, with a bit of courage, you ask “I know what I am getting out of this, but what are you?”
“A flexible schedule so I can write my novel,” the man beside you answers frankly. Then in a softer voice, he adds, “and maybe I can finally open that branch in Tokyo.”
You cannot help but crack an amused snort. Akaashi joins you with his singular chuckle.
“That seems ambitious.”
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It is so grossly, overwhelmingly, exceedingly ambitious to run a restaurant and more so, to even consider a second location. Promises are easy to make on tear-stricken nights amongst the salty air of Okinawa, but back in Hyogo, the air is severely stifling.
Even with more than half a decade of partnership with Osamu, it is a steep learning curve managing all its operations. Your ex boyfriend did not make it seem easy. No, not with the long hours he’d pull or the days when he’d lash his frustrations on you. Some days, even seasons, happened to be more difficult than others but to have first hand experience all on your own is novel.
Akaashi moves in the day you guys arrive. The two week unofficial dry run makes the decision easy. He fills in the space that has been left behind, screens all the voicemails that you’d avoided when you were gone, and confirms that you are officially jobless by looking through your emails too.
What is better than one jobless, mid-twenty travesty who is one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown? Two jobless, mid-twenty travesties who are one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown. It’s a support system, hardly structural but functional enough.
It includes a lot of spontaneous frenzies, you and Akaashi both. He teaches you to be quite efficient with your distress. A prolonged yell helps relieve the pressure and it compels the other to join. You teach him the benefits of isolation. Sometimes, it’s simply best to take some space, to cast away the burdens for a night and relearn how to breathe.
It takes a year and a half to open the restaurant with the help of Onigiri Miya’s neighbors. Their support does not come without payment though. They ask questions you’re unprepared for and no response is ever safe. If you say you are fine, you’re scrutinized with a watchful eye, just waiting for proof of a lie. If you admit that you’re struggling, there’s pity. Some are more vocal about it than others, a patronization in their tone that never used to be there before.
The price may be steep, but it’s worth it because Hyogo ward was Osamu’s community. They carry the pieces of Osamu that you know, the ones that made the alleycats fat.
(Osamu frequently gets yelled at by the Shizuku, the florist, three doors down. She blames him for the rising cat population. Osamu laughs it off. He always did and frequently, there is a cheeky quip that follows. He says something about catnip.
Something like, “ya sure ya ain’t the one growing catnip in there?”
It taunts the woman even further, but malice never burns their interactions.
A grudge on Osamu, though easy to promise, is impossible to uphold. Not when he delivers a bouquet of onigiri right to her door the next day. Not when he accidentally tips a pot over while obnoxiously perusing through the abundance of greenery, hoping to find catnip within the collection. Not when he looks at her sheepishly, swiping his hands on his apron as if dusting away any evidence and says, “now how did that happen?”)
Shizuku’s a savior, by the way. If left to your own devices, Akaashi and you would work yourselves to the point of exhaustion but Shizuku comes in during lunch and always provides tea in plastic cups. Eventually those cups turn into a beautiful ceramic set when Kita drops off your first order of rice, a visit in disguise.
His barley eyes that were always warm to you darken at the sight of Akaashi. Their greeting is stiff which you thought just had to do with their taciturn personalities but it wasn’t until Kita pulled you into the alleyway, Akaashi left to finish painting the front, did you realize it was out of protectiveness.
“I was glad to hear from ya.” Kita leans against the waist high wall that separates two lines of shopping streets. “But I didn’t know how to feel when I found out ya were calling me about business.”
“I know,” you say, eyes cast down low. Kita has a way of making you feel guilty with so little words. He’s disappointed, you know despite his level tone, because you never called. What was there to discuss? You figured if Osamu could forget you, if Atsumu can cast you away, then there was nothing to expect out of his friends either.
“I won’t say anything because I know ya already feel bad but Gran and I were worried about ya. It’s good to know that you’re okay.”
You shrug. Okay is hardly what you’d describe yourself when you’re barely hanging on just like the threadbare sheets from the studio in Okinawa.
Kita crosses one muddy boot over the other, “and what ya got going on here, it feels like the right thing.”
It’s hard to make of what you feel, decipher the feelings that manifest inside because the days have not gotten any softer. The pain is ambiguous and persisting. Whenever you feel like you’ve made progress, another strain emerges like a new variant of the same virus. You’re doing this for Osamu. But Osamu…
“Have you talked to him lately?”
Kita’s lips line into a solemn expression. He stares you right in the eye and you hold yourself strong because you know he’s testing whether or not you can handle his answer.
“Not recently. Atsumu’s kept their distance from here. If I do see them, it’s when I stop by Osaka.”
“And…”
“And he’s good. He plans on going pro,” Kita shakes his head, “or Atsumu says, going back to pro. He tells him he took a break.”
You nod slowly. So that’s what you were. A break.
“But it ain’t him.”
The farmer’s voice is barely above a whisper and for some reason, it is gut wrenching. You have to lean against the wall with him in case you topple over. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, the admittance that the Osamu you had was someone real. And maybe that’s why you’ll never be okay because you’re chasing after validation that has already been erased while he chases other things, of dreams unfulfilled.
“This,” Kita points to the restaurant in renovation, “this is him, but…”
He never finishes his sentence. The irony of it makes you laugh.
“Well I’ve got another delivery to drop but don’t be a stranger now. I’m serious. I ain’t letting ya. And visit Gran once in a while, will ya? She needs someone to talk to because I think she’s about had it with me.”
Kita hugs you goodbye and by the end of his visit, you think Akaashi’s gained his approval. When he leaves, he gifts the two of you the tea set. They are black with white and brown intricacies. Two of them have geometric blocking designs and the other two have one lone stalk of rice, bent gracefully by the wind.
Akaashi and you sign up for onigiri making courses where you eat them for every meal. So much so that even Akaashi of all people gets tired of it. The craft does not come easy to either of you despite your business partner’s penchant for it and Osamu’s intermittent lessons over the years. When you did help him out on the days he was short-staffed, Osamu would have you ring up customers up front, smoothly mentioning how your pretty face would help them rack up tips when you knew it was just to keep you out of the kitchen.
(He flusters you with a wink and an encouraging tap on the ass, laughing when you look back. He flings his glove into the trash can and makes his way to the handwashing station, thinking it was worth it just to see your cute pout. You know he’d wasted boxes of gloves since you’d been together just for one quick touch. Your eyes would be enraptured by the graceful jerks of his chest and the curl of his lips and later, at close, when the two of you were finally alone, he teases you about it. He asks you if you were hungry, what with the way you devoured him with your eyes. You bite his arm just to prove how hungry you were.)
“Quit drinking the mirin. That is foul and we need it.” He hides little revulsion in both tone and expression but your time with Akaashi has you immune to his harsh delivery.
You take another swig out of spite even if you didn’t plan on having another sip. It is, in fact, foul.
“This is the only thing that has alcohol in this apartment.”
Akaashi snatches the bottle with starchy hands. The residue imprints the shape of his palm onto the neck of the bottle, furthering his irritation. “Then drink something that does not have alcohol.”
“No,” you slump with your chin on the table, leveling your gaze with the practice oblongs you’ve just made. “I am sad.”
They’re lumpy and if they’re not lumpy, they are mushy. If they are not mushy, then the filling is peeking out. All in all, completely imperfect and not suited for a restaurant succeeding Onigiri Miya. Just the image of his disappointment discourages you because these were not up to his standards and certainly not to yours.
“We just need more practice,” Akaashi tries to console. “Maybe we could buy molds.”
“He didn’t use molds.”
“Unfortunate. We’re not Myaa-sam.”
“Neither is he.”
Akaashi doesn’t respond. You don’t say anything more either. If anyone is tired of your deploring, it is him and he already has to handle you enough. But it’s true, isn’t it? No one is Osamu anymore, not even the one out there who is probably doing practice sets in a gym, who wears a uniform that’s less than five years old, who has no recollection of you.
“Everyone’s going to be disappointed because it tastes nothing like the ones he used to make. They’re going to hate us for even disgracing his name.”
Akaashi’s had enough. He drops his practice roll, the heavy weight of the thud clattering the utensils on the table. You’re about to reprimand him but the man talks over you.
“Do you think that’s why people will come? Because of Osamu?”
The answer seems obvious that you can only gesticulate.
“Are you inane?”
That hasn’t been a word of the day so you haven’t learned that one yet but you can take a guess what the right answer is. “No?”
“People want to come and support you. Everyone knows Osamu’s gone off elsewhere doing whatever he is doing now. You’re the one honoring his memory. You’re the one keeping him alive. You are the reason they’d walk through our door now so get your act up.”
You glower like a child, unsure how exactly you feel. That sort of pressure seems daunting but comforting at the same time. You want to do him right. Is it really better than not even honoring him at all?
“You’re mean,” you settle on saying.
Akaashi clicks his tongue behind his teeth, “do you want to scream about it?”
You smile, “yeah.”
His mood lightens, “me too.”
“Okay, but it’s late already so we should probably scream in some pillows.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
The journey continues like that. Ups and downs. Ebbs and flows. Akaashi handles operations and finances. Your first job at the local government helps you complete the clerical stuff like having the proper documentation and paperworks. Your most recent job in IT helps you develop the website while Akaashi words out the marketing. You set up all the socials, design the uniforms, and the last step is to decide on the name.
The night before the opening, you have a dinner for everyone that helped as a thank you and soft launch. You and Akaashi slide in and out of service with Shizuku, Kita, Gran, and some of Akaashi’s friends like Konoha and Kuroo and Kenma as guests. It’s a small gathering of every single member of the community that never forgot about Osamu sitting around a massive table you’ve made by pushing the smaller ones together.
“Lovely what ya did with the rice, here,” Gran says beside you, a seat she had claimed.
You tilt your head to the side, “that’s all Akaashi.”
“Fine cooking, dear.”
“I followed a good recipe and had a little luck.”
“Ya better hope not,” Kita laughs and it’s comforting to hear the quiet trickle of his humor knowing fully well that Akaashi’s been accepted into the family. “Or else ya gonna have some unhappy customers.”
“Will ya tell us now what the name of the place is? Hard to advertise if I don’t know what it’s called,” Shizuku demands.
Her impatience started when she walked right through the door, but you wanted to wait for the right time when everyone was already gathered together and broken bread, heart happy and stomach satisfied. It’s how Osamu would have wanted it. It’s how you do too.
“Fine,” you say, dragging the word out with little bite in your tone.
You pull out the uniforms you’ll be wearing tomorrow. It looks not much different from what Osamu used to wear, plain black shirts with lettering on the upper left portion of the chest. Everyone lifts up from their seats to witness it.
o.mo.ide
Miya Osamu, Onigiri Miya, memories that you’ll always keep close to your heart.
There’s tears that escape, from you no different. There’s more that follows when you show them the corner right by the entrance dedicated to Onigiri Miya. You want everyone to know whose walls these actually belong to, whose essence and soul brought his dreams and yours to life, that without him, this would have never been possible.
Kita helps you kick everyone out knowing that you and Akaashi have a long day ahead. People promise to visit tomorrow just to show their support as they bid you goodbye. Gran slips an envelope of cash between your hands and quickly loops her arms around Kita’s so you can’t make a scene.
Akaashi is quick to have a foot out the alley back door after cleanup. He nods his head out, “are you ready?”
“Yes.” You run your hands through the crisp fabric once more as you shuffle your bag over your shoulder.
And the two of you leave. The black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door waves as the door slams shut. There’s a black cap above it with the original character snaps against the wall from the wind pressure. They sway in the dark, until finally they lose momentum and settle in the dark.
They stay. They always will.
The support is so overwhelmingly kind. People show up in droves that Kita has to come in later in the day with an emergency delivery because your forecasts had been so off. Compliments come one after the other, of the design of the store, the food, and even yours and Akaashi’s service. Cheery employees were no longer in, it seemed. Everyone loved the stress-ridden ones instead. More relatable, they’d explain.
The novelty slowly wears off, but you maintain a generous rotation of regulars. Of course, Shizuku always arrives. She retains her habit of having afternoon tea with you and Akaashi. She’d bring along Hayashi, the man who owned the ice cream shop behind your store. He’s a grizzly man with a barrel chest with a right bicep so plump from years of scooping ice cream. The two are the neighborhood’s newest gossip. Flowers and ice cream. Looks like they do go together.
And you think that you have finally have this life handled. You and Akaashi settle on this pleasant routine of wake, work, and rest and the mundanity has you fooled. Still, after all this time, it takes so little to disrupt your small ecosystem of peace.
You hear someone compare o.mo.ide as a mockery of what it used to be and it sends you into a spiral. You listen with a crazed expression, hands busy scrubbing tables but ears listening like a hawk.
Osmau never needed consolation like this. He had been a master of quick glances. He was always multitasking, mind on the next task as he was still in the process of finishing the first. And his eyes never missed anything, not when you’d try and sneak into his office unnoticed to surprise him for break or how he’d always know when someone was taking their first bite. He’d watch from the corner of his eyes and he’d wait for that precious moment. It didn’t take much to make Osamu proud. Just a single hum. He’d beam from ear to ear, and as if shy from his sudden display of emotion, he’d tuck his chin into his head and pull the brim of his cap down.
But then again, this was his forte and not yours.
You start sleeping in and waking up late. You lose the habit and Akaashi has to pick up after you. In order to make it up to him, you offer to close the restaurant on your own. His response is a simple scan to check that you’re okay, but he has little energy to say a word, probably expended it screaming in the walk-in freezer when he couldn’t get you out of bed. So he goes.
You don’t even wait a full five minutes after he left to lock the doors and ignore any knocks from customers who know your regular hours.
In the silent kitchen, you situate yourself atop the recently wiped down stainless prep table, a bottle of sake in one hand and Kita’s teacup in another. A shot glass is much too small for your preferences.
“Cheers,” you raise your glass in the air. This might be your sixth one, so just the image of your hand and solo teacup is enough to make you giggle. “This one is to…”
Your gaze is glassy and there’s no one here, but the alcohol reminds you that you’re not lonely. An image of Osamu appears before you like an apparition and the sight brings on a void of yearning. You throw back the shot and quickly pour yourself another.
“To you.” This time you clink the tea cup against the bottle, already hollow in just one sitting. When the burn dies down and settles in the pit of your stomach, you begin to kick your feet.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Haven’t spoken to you in a while. Think about you every day though.”
It’s weird because you thought that with this place being saturated by Osamu’s very essence, you’d find his face everywhere you look. He’s more of an idea now, lately. A feeling you carry, memories that you play before you go to sleep. It’s difficult to accept because it feels like you’re losing him. The old Osamu, the one you knew, the one you loved. The other one in Osaka, Kita’s accidentally slipped that he likes to read as a pastime and that they’d recently visited Panama. Osamu never bought books unless they were cookbooks and that was more for aesthetic than anything. And the one you knew had never been to Panama, more so even mentioned it at all.
What you have left is the remains of his legacy and the bare bones of a former flame. You crack open another bottle. Here’s another shot to that.
“Life sucks by the way. I don’t blame you for it. I just wanted you to know. This wasn’t my dream. Yeah, I can hear you. You know, you know. But I haven’t told you in a while so you’re going to hear me say it again. I just wanted a cushy, IT job. I’d be your sugar mommy and force you on vacations, pay you for any lost wages. Any reason to have you all to myself. That’s what was supposed to happen.”
Another shot to missed opportunities. That one has you feeling woozy that you have to lay on your side but your drunken mind fails to realize how cold the stainless steel would be against your cheeks. It makes you squeal and then you can’t help but giggle, laughing at your own stupidity. That’s what’s nice about inebriation. Instead of being so serious about yourself, you can just laugh.
“And in the middle of it all, I knew that one day, I’d get absorbed into it. That’s just what you do. You say Atsumu is charismatic, but I don’t think you ever realized the power you had in just being. People get caught up in it and that includes me. And I imagined myself working hard so I could leave early from work just so I could help you in the kitchen. And then working part time until eventually, we woke up together and ran it together and did it all. Together. As a family. Ma would help when she has the time but you know her. She’s got clubs and activities and neighborhood responsibilities. And Atsumu would try and hang out but not do any work so we’d just ignore him until he ended up whining his way into the kitchen. I didn’t imagine…”
You look around the backroom. It’s nothing like how Onigiri Miya used to look. There are some items you’ve inherited like the pots and pans with their grease-stricken bellies and the three step ladder with The Little Giant (Akaashi actually wanted to throw this one away but ladders are surprisingly expensive) labeled on the top step. Everything is paltry pickings compared to the care Osamu had when working with his suppliers. It was hard enough with Kita’s endorsement to find something within your budget so you’re left with limp greens and off brand soy. And no Osamu.
Time for another shot. Should you make a game of it? Every time you thought you felt sorry for yourself, should you?
“No,” you giggle as you get up, answering your own question, “then I’d get really drunk and you’d get mad at me for that. Anyways,” you shoot it, neck craning back so swift it makes you dizzy. Your body bends wilted just like the spring onions you were talking about and you have to close your eyes, groaning and giggling, unable to discern discomfort from pleasure.
“Mmmm, what was I saying? I don’t know.” Suddenly, you’re crying. There’s a mess on the prep table that  you have no idea how to clean. Over a year now and you’re still not over Osamu and you’re missing the rest of the Miyas especially too.
“This is so hard and fuck, I feel so alone.” It’s heartbreaking to hear how much you pity yourself when there have been so many people in your life that have supported you. Like Akaashi who has dealt with your disaster tendencies and Shizuku and the neighbors and everyone that has made this possible.
But they can’t fill what you’ve secretly been trying to reclaim. Of a family that had loved you, had accepted you with open arms. The ones who held you when you needed them most but… Fuck. You just weren’t enough. You lacked the strength to hold their pain, so much so just by being, by existing, you burdened them.
And maybe this had been a ploy to simply gain approval and find some self-worth again, to show them that the love you have has value. It had been distracting enough while you and Akaashi prepared for the grand opening but only for so long until you fell into this sort of misery again. How long would the next pocket of happiness last? Could you find a stable source of bliss ever again?
Sometimes, as difficult as it is to think, you wish you never…
No, you shake your head adamantly. For all this anguish, for all the ache you’ve accidentally caused the Miyas, you want to selfishly keep all the memories, even if Osamu has to forget, even if you know how it ends. You don’t want to change a thing.
You grab the extra aprons in the back except for the black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door and slump into the office chair in the back nook. It was a simple office with just a desk and a file folder cabinet. You cover yourself with the aprons, your impromptu blankets as you wait for the inebriation to tide over. The open sake bottle stays on the prep table with the finished one and your used tea cup and you make a mental note to hide your drinking from Akaashi who’s been passively limiting your intake lately.
You fall into a light sleep when a meowing out the alley door rouses you. The office chair snaps as you ungracefully rise. There’s remnants of your misery in the form of crusts at the corner of your eyes that you blearily wipe away.
He stares up at you with a single meow as a greeting when you open the door. The cat sits on his paws like a well mannered customer waiting to be let in. A gray puffball like a ball of lint straight from the dryer, his gold eyes blink up at you and maybe it’s the hour or your halfway sober state or just life in general because you think it’s a sign.
Many of the cats had left when Osamu did too, venturing into more fruitful alleyways that can get them the fixings that they. You’re quick to pick him up but you do it a little aggressively that his limber body bends to evade your hands. Instead, he enters o.mo.ide and you’re able to lure him in with a few slices of fish.
Akaashi is not amused when you get home, especially considering the late hour and cat in your hands.
“No,” Akaashi greets, eyes hardened, aimed at the feline creature who has taken to resting his chin into the crook of your elbow.
“But, Akaashi, look at him!” You turn your body to the side so he can witness his complete cuteness.
The man is not impressed, only closing his book, an index finger marking the pages he left off, and crossing his arms. “No. You can hardly take care of yourself.”
“But they’re low maintenance,” you mention the fact you had quickly googled before unlocking the front door, “and he was crying outside our door because he was so hungry.”
Your roommate weighs the cat with his eyes and before he can complete his calculations, you add, “if I wasn’t there, he would have starved. He needed me.”
Akaashi finds something in your expression and you think it’s this new energy, this purpose outside of yourself or Osamu and after a drawn out glare, he finally sighs. It’s a world weary sigh, the kinds only parents of rowdy and impossible children should only make and you take note that you’ll make it up to him somehow.
“Okay, fine,” he extends his hand for your new friend to sniff, “what’s his name?”
You smile, “Mumu.”
An homage to your boys, your favorite twins, and Akaashi cannot help but sigh again.
But Mumu quickly becomes your new best friend, much to his benefit. Even though Mumu never quite opens up to him, he has to worry about you less and you spend more of your time laboring efficiently at work so you can go home and play with silly things like lasers and a little rattle ball he likes to roll around. There’s energy to do your share of household chores now, and despite the slow trickle of business lately, you’re unbothered.
At the end of the day, the success of the business does not define you or your love for Osamu.
The stability lasts only for a few months because you arrive home unannounced, closing the shop early when the pelting monsoon keeps people locked in their homes.
You opted to take responsibility for the day, allowing Akaashi a break. His trust in you has slowly renewed considering it’d been a while since you dipped into the restaurant’s liquor stash. You knew he’d understand the shortened hours considering the weather but he hadn’t been prepared because when he got home, he was watching a livestream MSBY volleyball match. There was this understanding that had been established when he moved in because the both of you knew that you’d be powerless to the demise.
When you see Osamu on TV, that split second the camera had panned to him, you felt gravity warp. Your heart constricted and condensed while it felt like that floor beneath you had slipped away and you were just as helpless as any other leaf victim to the storm.
Akaashi tries to turn off the TV, but you manically topple over him, not wanting to miss what little camera time he might have.
“I don’t think this is good for you,” Akaashi’s eyes doesn’t leave you as you continue to watch the game. You agree, but you can’t strip your eyes away from the stream. You can’t believe what you’re seeing and you have to continuously wipe away your tears just to be sure, to ascertain that what you’re viewing is really true. It’s him. It’s him and this is the closest you’ve seen him, the closest he’s been to this home in basically two years and he looks so different.
“He grew out his hair,” you observe.
All you can do right now is play spot the difference. What parts of him do you still know? What is gone forever? Osamu’s hair is near shoulder length and you think he might have gained Atsumu’s salon habit because it’s curlier and fluffier than you knew. The color in his eyes have lost their luster, making them appear darker like a smoky quartz and he’s bigger. He’d always had a stronger upper body but you can tell he’s far more defined than you’d last seen him. He looks. Good.
You feel so small knowing how well he’s moved on without you. There’s always this small spark of hope that can’t help yourself from holding onto but seeing him on the screen, living a dream that he had once left behind, you figure it must be your turn to be abandoned for something else.
“He looks good,” you nod, trying to be strong. Because that’s all you’ve wanted. You’ve wanted him to be ok, to live out the life he desired, whatever that may be and regardless of how it involved you. “He looks good. I’m so–”
“You don’t–”
“–proud of him.”
The admittance makes you burst, diving head first onto the floor and crying into the rug. Mumu comes to rest between your legs, wary of Akaashi as he does his best to console you which alternates between a hand down your back and simply hovering over your figure.
But then you hear the announcer and how the music stops, and immediately your head lifts up because you know what the sound of those footsteps mean.
Miya Atsumu is on court, serving the ball with just as much assured confidence as you had left him. He passes to his brother where they easily make a point and you watch the two boys celebrate. The camera eats it up, their facial expressions, the way they hold each other in a solidified joy, and you see it. You see the true reason he’s left this all behind. This was the life he was meant to share.
And you were never meant to be a part of it.
It was delusional of you to think that their bond had enough space for you to fit in.
Of course, as much as you tell yourself Osamu’s happiness is the most important thing to witness, it still sends you on a spiral that neither Akaashi or Mumu can bring you out of. Business slows down when you can’t provide proper service and Akaashi struggles to pick up the labor you can’t complete. Days pass in a haze where you burn things by accident and your mindlessness has you putting in two servings of soy instead. 
You wallow in your sheets, so worn that the Osamu’s essence has filtered through the gaps and all that’s saturated it is your misery. Mumu leisurely snoozes beside you, happy to keep you company.
Akaashi tries to persuade you out of bed with ice cream.
You shuffle to the side of the bed pressed against the wall and tuck yourself into the crevice, “no thank you.”
He ignores you and opens the door and you whine, noisy and petulant. “This one is from Shizuku and Hayashi. They’ve missed you.”
You instantly sit up, interested because Hayashi’s ice cream had been a favorite of Osamu’s. Whenever he’d have a bad day and their schedules lined up, the two men with their solid stature would gossip in the alleyway, the brick wall separating them. One would be devouring an onigiri while the other relished the fox shaped ice cream he’d always be given as payment.
You’d peek your head out the alley door whenever you could never find Osamu in the kitchen or in his office. The alley was the only other place he’d be and Hayashi would prompt you to come out, sit and gossip with them. He’d leave so he could serve you an ice cream of your own, but you suspect he’d take longer on purpose so that you two could spend some time alone.
(“Have you heard about Shizuku and Hayashi?” Osamu asks once the confectioner steps back into his building. Your response comes for the back of your throat, a soft hum while busy licking the dessert your boyfriend offered. He laughs when he sees you nibble off the candy eye of the animal, leaving him a little lopsided but far more endearing. “Damn, I said ya could give it a try, not eat all of it.”
“I was hungry and you weren’t inside.”
“Ya could have made yaself some food. I’ve taught you enough to be self-sufficient.”
You shake your head immediately, “doesn’t taste the same. Stop changing the subject. What’s going on with Hayashi and Shizuku?”
Despite all the time you’ve spent with him, all the different faces and expressions you’ve been gifted to witness, his smile still disarms you. It’s the right combination of conniving and whimsy that has your heart traipsing the edge of a cliff.
“I was talking to the Grandma that’s got the okonomiyaki shop right there, ya know?” He points with his ice cream whose lifespan is slowly disappearing, “and she told me how she went into Hayashi’s shop and he had a full bouquet of flowers.”
“Oh, that’s nice. I wonder who got it for him.”
Osamu snorts, “Shizuku obviously. Who else would have?”
“Osamu,” you give him a discriminatory look, “are you starting rumors.”
“No, hear me out. Shizuku came by yesterday and was asking me for some cooking tips.”
“You?”
“Yeah, we have a truce right now. The onigiri won her over.” You giggle, snatching another bite from Osamu’s hand. He’s too busy telling his story to even admonish you. “And she was telling me she planned on making grilled mackerel and guess what Hayashi had for dinner last night apparently.”
You hum forcibly, drawing it out and giggle when Osamu gets irritated with you. “Mackerel?” He nods and the image of those two makes you laugh.
Hayashi’s just like the ice cream he serves, a man who longs for the richer things in life. He has women swooning out of his restaurant with his velvet words and Shizuku is a woman who knows what she wants, spritely and tough. She’d be perfect to keep him in line. 
“Now that I think about it, they’re surprisingly good for each other.”
Osamu agrees, “Grandma says Hayashi needs to lock it in and get married.”
“Shizuku’s a catch! He’d be wrong not to.”
Your statement dulls the mood because Osamu turns quiet. He hands you his ice cream for you to finish, Hayashi forgotten, and his hands clasp together, right pad of his thumb running over the back of his left. His side profile is soft, round cheeks over a strong jaw.
“Ya know that I–”
“We don’t have to get married for me to know that you love me,” you say quickly. You don’t want him to finish the thought because he gets caught up in the guilt a lot. You’re not certain what it exactly is aside from the fact that he doesn’t want your future to be tied down to one as unstable as his, as if marriage would be the only thing that could permanently hold the two of you together. As far as you know, he’s all you want for the rest of your life and Osamu makes you feel like he thinks the same.
Your admittance relieves the weight on his back. He straightens up, a thankful expression on his gaze when he rolls an arm out to wrap around you. You fit right into the crook of his body, pleasantly warm with your ice cream.
“I love ya, I really do.” You nod. “One day, when I get my shit together, I promise I’ll make ya mine for real.”
He says it like you’re not his already. He says it like this relationship is less than the ones acknowledged by law or the gods or whoever presides over the validity of unity.
He says it like he really does love you.)
Thinking about it makes you cry despite Hayashi’s ice cream. He artfully crafted the gift in a pint that he must have bought from the store because you’ve never seen him sell take-home products. A frog decorates the surface complete with blush, large, round eyes, and the brightest of smiles. Usually the confectionery is an immediate remedy but it looks like your sorrows have fallen so deep that its effects are hardly uplifting. Akaashi hands you a letter made of cardstock in a saturated red and shaped like a heart.
“What’s this?”
“Open it,” is all he replies.
You do as he says and find a poorly drawn replication of what you assume is you, serving a triangular item to a smaller stick figure human.
“That’s from Asako. She missed you when you left early today.”
Asako is the little girl who orders a plain onigiri with extra sesame seeds. Exxxxtrraaaa she likes to say and you entertain her, seeing who can lengthen the word the longest. It’s an effortless game that comes with a high reward of giggles. She comes in on Fridays when her grandparents pick her up from school. They didn’t know of Onigiri Miya then so you never thought much of them, but clearly, she had thought of you.
“I understand that we opened up o.mo.ide in order to commemorate Myaa-sam and everything he’d done for this community, but have you ever stopped and thought that in the process, you’ve integrated into it yourself?”
You hadn’t. You’d been so deeply absorbed by your own troubles that you had never bothered to even look outside of yourself or Osamu.
“We’re operating at a loss right now, but there are people like Asako that rely on us to stay open. And so help me, I need you too. We promised to do this together and I refuse to let you abandon me.”
“Oh… oh, Akaashi, I’m so–” you’re forced speechless by your own guilt.
“Don’t apologize. Just.” Akaashi searches through his vocabulary, “just get better. Have you ever thought about therapy?”
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Akaashi introduces you to his therapist but after two sessions, you find that the way he gels his hair back and the nasal hums he provides every time you confide in him is unsettling. The journey through therapy is not so much a journey but more like an illegal obstacle course formed with bottomless pits and thorny vines and a portable bed.
It’s physically draining and mentally exhausting that you need a nap most days. Akaashi hardly yells at you anymore when you fall asleep in the office chair while on break as long as he knows you have an appointment scheduled at the end of the week.
You go through three more therapists. This fourth one, she’s on thin ice, but you’re five months in and she’s managed to get you to stay. She encourages you to reach out to the people you love on your own and to make time for them every week.
Now you spend time teaching Mumu new tricks. He’s mastered the command ‘sit’ and is also very good at laying down. You’ve yet to teach him much else though. Monday mornings are for mahjong with Granny. Sweet as she is, that woman is a good liar and to this day, you still haven’t won a game. According to Kita, no one has yet to beat her. You’ve extended tea dates with Shizuku into dinners after you and Akaashi close. Most of the time Hayashi is there and despite Akaashi’s indifference to their relationship, every night you gossip about the way his hands would linger around her waist or how he’d whisper something in her ear while they washed dishes. When Asako visits, you untie your apron and give her grandparents a break. Only when she is done with her meal, you walk her into the back where you tell her to mind her step and you and lift her over the wall so she can knock on Hayashi’s back door for an ice cream.
People gradually enter your lives, ones that you didn’t have courage to see. With a warning text sent like an afterthought, it’s a welcome surprise to find Bokuto seated on top of your kitchen table, towering height even more pronounced, while Akaashi showcased his skill in a new apron.
“Oh?” you say and at the sight of Akaashi’s expression, all you do is smile and wish them a good time. If there is a time that Akaashi shouldn’t be burdened by you, it would be now. You are in the process of healing after all.
Suna and Aran eventually visit, dragged along by Kita. His small build compared to the two athletes make an awkward remeet amusing.
Suna scruffles your head and cups the fat of your cheeks as a greeting, “hey, Bug. Nothing kills you, huh?”
You’re grateful when Aran saves you, pulling you into a deep hug that soothes your soul. He lifts you up once just to hold you closer, and when he’s done, they all apologize for not visiting you sooner. It was shame, they admitted. Because for Osamu, they were willing to do anything to make him feel better, even if it was to perpetuate lies.
You’re at a space now where you understand because for Osamu, you know you would and will do anything for him too. No one talks about him though. No one dares mention any Miya first, and finally, you’re not compelled to bring them up either.
Of course, it’s just as tumultuous of a ride, even more so now that you’re more aware of your issues. Some days, the social vigor of running a restaurant is so draining that all you can do is keep your head down in the back. Count inventory and roll orders whenever Akaashi places them in. Sometimes it’s even harder than that, where you end up at the convenience store with one bottle of sake. Usually the guilt hits you half a bottle in and you end up pouring the rest over the nearest drain. This time, halfway isn’t nearly enough to ease the pain.
With the amount of volleyball players that have re-entered your life, an old interview of Osamu’s is in your recommended videos to watch. You can’t not click it when the thumbnail is a closeup top angle of his face, long hair pulled into a messy bun.
He stands the same with hands on his hips and in a wide stance but even the way he speaks sounds different. Same voice, different person. Different words.
The comments prove that he has a lot of fans from all over the world. They shout words of affection, recount the best games they’ve witnessed him in and no one mentions a single word about Onigiri Miya.
You’re at a point in your life now that any sort of Osamu brings on a general longing. You miss him so much you’re willing to take whatever you can have.
The realization makes you feel like you’ve lost him again because this place, the venue where you labor yourself until your back is broken despite your lack of knowledge had been a huge part of him. Now it is all lost to his pro volleyball glamor.
Onigiri Miya Osamu will eventually fade from existence. Once more, you begin grieving.
Despite your coping methods, it takes a long time to build yourself out of your rut. The gloom lasts for days and life has a predilection for stacking up your misery.
“Miya–”
Akaashi doesn’t have to finish his sentence. The impact already hits your stomach at the surname. It doesn’t matter which Miya it is. A Miya has stepped foot into this building, the first time since the fire. Suspense boils in your gut and its noxious fumes cut the breath from your lungs.
You’ve thought about this moment in great lengths, anxiously in bed or idle thoughts as you wait for the train. Preparation has never been your strong suit though. The fact is clear with the condition of your restaurant that struggles to even get by.
Blonde hair glistens against the backdrop of an afternoon sun and distracts you from the bells that ring when he opens the door. He glances around the walls with his mouth agape, focusing mostly on the origin story next to the host stand. It’s just a few old newspaper clippings of articles and one image of Osamu’s face. It was one of your few stipulations. He must always be there to greet the customers.
When Atsumu’s gaze finally finds yours, you can’t help but grip the towel tighter in your hands. Misplaced anger simmers right behind your tightly pursed lips. His face is so similar. It’s the closest anyone could get to a clone, and the distinct features you’ve been searching for, the ones that belong to the Osamu you once knew, are not there.
It’s a lot. It’s been a bad couple of weeks.
But Atsumu doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that you’ve worked yourself raw and instead of building calluses, all you've done is made yourself tender.
He passes the backline and you find yourself taking a step back towards the display case as he crosses your first line of defense. He acts like nothing’s changed, that he’s still got free reign of the place and maybe it hasn’t. When he pulls you in, when he mutters ‘I love ya’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over again, you fall apart in his arms.
You fist his shirt at the chest and sob in a way you haven’t allowed yourself since the hospital, since you’d seen any of the Miyas last. You cry into his chest, condense the past years you’ve had to make do with just your hands or sleeves or pillows. There’s rage and pity, but most of all, there is relief. Because as much as Akaashi has sat beside you while you mourned, and how everyone had gathered to remind you of your worth, they could never fill the space that any Miya left behind. None of them understood what it was like to lose Osamu. Not Myaa-sam, or Chef, or Oji-Samu. Youhad borne that misery alone.
You can’t fault Osamu for not choosing you. And Mama Miya has tried reaching out despite your lack of response.
But Atsumu, he could have stayed. You thought there was kinship there, a shared love for his brother. You thought you could have shared the sorrow too. Instead, he’d whisked away his family to Osaka to escape any reminder of the previous life he lived. He took everything and he left you behind.
Atsumu follows you to the ground when you literally fall apart in his arms. He hugs you tighter and he ignores the stack of napkins shelved right next to you, knowing that his shirt is more than enough.
Atsumu is eventually able to get you to a park near the restaurant once you calmed down. You both lay next to each other on the grass and the sun’s power is too strong for your swollen eyes. You have to balance your water bottle over them as shade. Atsumu offers the sunglasses he likes to keep clipped to the collar of his shirt. You accept it cautiously, wary of taking too much.
“I’m sorry.”
His apology is overwhelming and the corners of your eyes overflow, unprepared.
“Don’t,” you sputter out when you have the breath, a sting clinging to the bridge of your nose, “don’t. I can’t take it. Say something else.”
“I–” the way he blunders means he must have prepared a speech and now you’ve thrown a wrench in his plans. “I… uh. It’s good to see ya.”
“Oh, gods. Why are you even here?”
“I wanted to see ya,” he answers lamely.
There’s still anger in your chest and for the past couple of years, you’d been aiming that ire at Akaashi unjustly. Atsumu’s expression from the day at the hospital still keeps you up sometimes and it’s taken months of therapy for you to realize that his emotions were also misplaced. You’d dealt with pieces of the guilt and there’s still a lot that you need to address, but you understand now, that the burden of being was never yours alone to bear.
“Now? When you’ve had all this time?”
“I know. I–” he stops himself from another apology. You’re grateful he’s grown the maturity to keep his mouth shut when asked. “I just wanted to prepare ya.”
“For what?”
“Samu went no contact on me.”
You rise to your elbows in shock, worry prickling prickling your heart, “and Ma?”
“Not Ma,” he shakes his head quickly. “He calls her sometimes, not enough, but more than me.”
“Why?”
Atsumu breathes deeply, worn and weary. He brings his arms back and rests his head on them, eyes up at the sky watching a kite flown by two children, probably siblings. “Why fucking not, ya know?”
“No, Atsumu, I wouldn’t know when you basically went no contact on me.”
Atsumu pinches his bottom lip between his front teeth. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you can see the way they lighten from the pressure. He sighs again.
“I deserve this, I know. But Osamu didn’t. I fucked up but I had no clue what I was doing. Ya gotta understand. Ya were there and ya saw him and how beaten down he was and maybe I did put blame on everyone but myself. I hated Onigiri Miya for even getting him caught up in that sort of mess, and when his dreams lined up with mine, I figured it would be okay. We could leave it all behind. I tried to play God with my own brother’s life and he let me. Everyone did.”
“He listened to you?”
Atsumu shakes his head, “crazy, right? He was lost and unsure, but I was confident, ya know? I just felt so certain I was doing the right thing and I think that’s the only reason why he let himself be led all this way.”
“So what changed?”
“Are ya kidding?” Atsumu looks at you, and when he realizes you don’t have a clue, he turns to face you. “The answer is you.”
It’s a fucked up thing for Atsumu to say. The words erupt an ache in your chest. You curl into yourself, bring your knees up so that you flinch away from the pain but Atsumu grabs hold of both of your hands. He grips tightly in an attempt to siphon the pain.
“A love like yours ain’t something easy to forget.”
You remember the hospital, “that’s what Ma said.”
“It’s exactly what she told him when he left. I don’t know how he found out, but I saw that he looked up Onigiri Miya the day before he left and he’s been gone since. For about two weeks now, I think.”
“No,” you shake your head, closing your eyes to soften the blow of his words but even in the darkness, a stinging, buzzing pain wracks through your body. It’s everywhere all at once but Atsumu holds you through it.
“I love ya. I promise, I do. There wasn’t a day I didn’t regret what I did, but believe me when I tell ya. I do. I love ya,” He takes your hands that have been bunched up into fists and presses them onto the soft skin below his eyes where it’s sticky and wet. “And I’m so sorry I had to put ya through this and made ya go through this all alone, so if ya moved on, if ya got someone else, I understand and I’ll figure something out.”
You try to pull yourself from his grip but Atsumu holds onto you, head bent in repentance and the sincerity of it all spouts more tears.
“I’ll handle Osamu if that’s the case. I know Akaashi’s a really good guy so–”
You take your conjoined hands and jab him across the forehead. Atsumu sputters in shock, letting you go in the process while he tries to soothe the pain.
“Does it look like I’ve moved on, idiot?” You knock soft fists into his chest like a child. “Would I be crying in what I consider my own brother’s arms in a park if I moved on?”
“I just wanted–”
“And Akaashi? Fucking Akaashi? He’s a good guy,” you mock, irritated, “of course he is. Shut up. You know I’m in love with your brother.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Stop hitting me. I said I was sorry already.”
You make sure to put some extra force in that final punch, “you’re going to say it for the rest of your life.”
Atsumu nods gratefully, “of course.”
“And,” the words hurt coming out, “and don’t run off on me again.”
What makes the tears slip this time is forgiveness. Atsumu holds your hand against his chest where you can feel his heart. You’ve missed him, longed for him just as much as you have Osamu and slowly, you feel yourself start to heal.
“He might not need a brother right now, but I do.”
Atsumu kisses you on the cheek and pulls you close. He holds you in his arms with the same exact care he had for Osamu in the hospital, with the same protectiveness of an elder brother.
Finally, you feel understood. 
Atsumu spends his off season in Hyogo where you find out Ma has moved back. Akaashi doesn’t take kindly to a change in routines, but he begins helping out where he can along with Ma. 
When Ma first sees you, all she can do is hold you at arm’s length, picking her vernacular apart with words that she wanted to say. You just shake your head and let yourself be swallowed by her cardigan comfort. She encourages you to come to family dinner and you have to ask if Akaashi is invited too. She pats his cheek and says of course like the question was unnecessary to begin with.
The world shifts almost exactly the way you imagined it. Life has a funny way of doing that. Atsumu helps around the restaurant and Ma stops by with some of her friends after an activity. She meets Asako who she adores and is adored just as equally. Ma takes ice cream duty from you while Atsumu, because it’s his off season, likes to overstay his welcome at your apartment. Akaashi kicks him out and the athlete tries to use Mumu as an excuse. Mumu, unfortunately, likes Atsumu even less than Akaashi.
Sometimes Atsumu will try to broach the topic of contacting Osamu, something that both you and Ma are against. Osamu has been through enough, you both reason. And he’s probably had his fill of someone telling him what to do.
The restaurant fills and though you know that yours or Akaashi’s food cannot compare, the laughter spills out the doors from friends and family and neighbors that continuously visit. They manage when you accidentally don’t order enough fish, opting for broth and rice and when you run out of beverages, someone offers to run to the convenience store to buy drinks.
It’s not a perfect venue, but it embodies Osamu’s very being, a place that has become a home.
One day, Akaashi is out of town and Atsumu helps you while he’s gone. He’s not as focused as your usual business partner, whose eyes continuously drift out onto the streets and he even leaves early when you haven’t finished clearing up for the day.
“Alright, I gotta go but I’ll lock the door,” Atsumu runs off quickly. “Ya can handle this, right?”
You look at the stack of dishes and the ready to go items that haven’t been put away yet. It’s not much, but it would certainly be easier if he stayed. Unfortunately, his question is apparently rhetorical because the man does not wait for an answer. He reiterates his farewell and with a jingle, the door is shut.
“Okay,” you say, blinking at his figure that eventually passes a corner and disappears. You scan your surroundings, running a mental image of what would be the most efficient process. Wipe down the tables, you decide. Some haven’t been bussed yet so you head over with a fresh rag and empty tray.
Atsumu likes to turn up the music the moment the o.mo.ide closes as a way to decompress. You hum along. It’s a mindless process now that you’ve done it so many times. Clear the tables. Sanitize the tables. Sanitize the chair. Bend down eye level with the table and make sure you haven’t missed any crumbs. You’re not even thinking, just lost in the routine and it’s why the sound of the bell startles you.
It’s so like Atsumu to forget to lock the door. You compose yourself with a slow inhale and prepare for an irate customer who might argue at your innocent error, but the breath expels from your mouth.
You stand there stupidly, hands holding your chest like you’re about to dive backwards into water. It’s that feeling, where two characters catch eyes on a crowded street. Despite everything that has happened and all that separates you, he holds you captive. Your feet are planted to the ground and everything, heart, mind, body, and breath is under his power.
“O – Oh…”
Even saying his name feels foreign because as much as you’ve thought of him, you can’t remember when was the last time you did. It feels foreign on your tongue and you can’t blurt anything out but the first letter, and you witness his demeanor change.
“Osamu,” you say only because you think it’ll make him smile. It does and because of it, you want to fall down on your knees.
Everything, everything that you had observed different about him, his hair that looks like he’s cut but is still longer than you remember, the cut of his jaw that’s sharper, his brows that he’d boast about being strong look trimmed, and even his choice of clothes is different, opting for a sleeveless tee over his favored oversized shirts, all of that is negligent because seeing him once more, you recognize he is still your Osamu.
“Hi,” he greets and your heart flutters. Was this really how it felt when you were falling in love because everything he does brings upon a desire that you doubt could ever be quelled. “Are ya closed?”
“Yes,” you answer honestly and the wilt of his face makes you overcompensate, “but– but it’s fine! You’re come in… I mean, oh…”
This is so fucking embarrassing. “You’re always welcome. Come in and have a seat wherever you want.”
He points at a bar seat with a head tilt. You nod and make sure to lock the door behind him. The bus tub, the rag, you forego it all and pass the swinging door that separates the register and eating area. Your hands perspire at the stress of perfection. It’s a foreign thing for him to be seated while you serve him and maybe it’s you overthinking, but it feels like he’s watching your every move.
Osamu quickly diverts his gaze when you turn around. His not so subtle glancing of the venue, head craned back as he looks at the decorations on the walls and the lighting fixtures you and Akaashi picked, amuses you but you try not to show it too hard. Osamu seems shyer than you’re used to. That’s okay. You’re nervous too.
“Did you come hungry?”
“I did.”
Ease washes over you. Thank the gods, that has stayed the same.
You apologize for the lack of options and Osamu tries to downplay the inconvenience. “It’s okay. I didn’t… Well I did, but I didn’t really come here to eat.”
“No?”
Osamu plays with a stray grain of rice between his fingers. He rolls the sticky piece into a ball, back and forth as he thinks of what he wants to say.
“No, I… To be honest, I didn’t think I was going to go inside.”
“Oh.”
“But I…” then he stops his rolling and he looks at you, like really looks at you. And whatever it is, you feel it too. “But I just had to.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah, well, it took me all up until closing to work up the courage.”
“That’s okay,” you tell him. You pull up the stool near the rear register and situate yourself across from him. The boundary that separates you two is familiar, 76 centimeters of space that you know by heart and it makes conversation flow smoother. “I’m happy you came at all. How was your day?”
“Shit.”
The answer takes you by surprise, him too by the way he stops chewing, lips puckering close together as he ruminates whether or not meant to say those words. But he owns them, and continues on.
“My smoothie spilled all over my cup holder.”
“Oh no. Did you ask for another one?”
“Pretty sure they tried to sabotage me by giving me a cracked cup.”
You break in the most unexpected way. A smile splits your lips and a giggle strikes through your chest. Everything feels so similar, so weightless. It feels like a dam has been broken with just a couple of words.
“It ain’t funny.”
You agree, “I know. It’s the worst.”
“Then why are ya laughing?”
“I don’t even know. It’s not funny at all.”
“It’s not. I had to stuff a bunch of napkins in there.”
“No, it’s going to get sticky!”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Cry.”
Osamu sputters, rice flying from his mouth. He’s embarrassed for only a millisecond, fearful of your reaction, but all it does is make you bend over, sincerely losing control of your body. Osamu joins you, laughing at who knows what, but you’re grateful. For as much pain misery brings, it takes so little for you to be happy.
“Fuck,” he says once he’s able to catch a breath. He says quietly with wonder and it has your giggles soften to match his energy. “I’ve imagined every way this meeting could go.”
Your heart constricts like it’s being pinched from the bottom. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”
“No,” Osamu shakes his head genuinely. You almost apologize. “I thought I’d mess it all up but,” he looks at you and it’s the gaze you had been searching when he had first woken up all those years ago. A quiet ardor, soft around the edges but saturated in passion, “but I didn’t expect it to be so easy.”
“Stop,” you have to hide your lips.
Osamu doesn’t understand, back straightening, “what?”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Saying those things.”
His lips pucker themselves out, “why can’t I?”
“Because,” you blink furiously, willing the tears away because you want to remember this with clarity, “you’re making me too happy.”
He grins too, but it’s still shy as he bends his head down, nodding slightly as he does, “how do ya think I feel?”
There’s a calmness that settles now that your mania has subsided. Your eyes appraise, trying to find more topics to talk about so he can stay just a little longer.
“Are those cigarettes?” you observe the square box in his breast pocket.
He nods as he pulls them out, holding them in his hands as if they were novel.
“Are you smoking a lot?”
He looks at you curiously, “did I used to?”
The past tense makes you stumble, but you do your best to answer him honestly. “Sometimes. Only the bad days. That’s how we knew you were having a bad day because we’d smell them on you.”
He’d lean his chest against the railings like his body was too heavy, curved his body like a treble clef as he smoked. And often you’d find him in the alleyway, a cigarette in one hand and food for the cats in another.
“It’s crazy how I do shit without knowing the real meaning.”
You shrug, “habits are harder to break than memory.”
Osamu nods. A beat passes before he continues the conversation on his own.
“I’ve had this same pack since I left the hospital.” He opens it and reveals only a few sticks missing, “play with it for the most part but I’ll smoke one when I get overwhelmed. I dreamt of you once and my heart wouldn’t stop beating. I had to go outside and calm myself. Nearly gave Tsumu a heart attack when he noticed my bed was empty.”
“He’s a worrywort.”
The sound Osamu makes is not kind. There’s still animosity for his brother, “even more so now.”
“He means well.”
“Sure he does.”
“I’m sorry.”
Your apology takes him by surprise. Osamu shuts the pack and places it back in his pocket. “For what?”
“For, I don’t know.” A lot of things. For burdening him with faded memories, for not being who he needed, for not being enough, “for being in your dream.”
“What are ya saying? It was a good dream. It felt… nice.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods earnestly while looking at you. “I can’t explain it because I really don’t know the specifics, but it felt good. Made me wish I dreamed about ya more.”
The sunset is almost complete, dark orange hues streak the tile floor. Osamu’s been done eating for minutes now. With his plate clean and the conversation running its course, it feels like a good place for this to end. But you don’t think you can part with him just yet. A culmination of yearning and grieving and mourning and aching has led to this and you’ll be damned if it’s over now.
You hop off the stool and Osamu sighs. He matches your movements, slowly getting up, too. He looks ready to leave but you won’t let him go without trying. Not this time.
“Would you like to see the back?”
“Really?” his giddiness prompts yours.
“Yeah, of course.” You lead him to the back and grab your apron. Then you point at the black one on the last hook closest to the back alley door . “Take that apron.”
He hooks his finger around the neck, “this one?”
You nod. “Yeah, that one’s yours.”
He takes it in his hand, shy and foreign in his fingers. It’s different, clumsier, but it’s familiar enough to let your heart burn.
He pulls the fabric over his head and adjusts it along his shoulder. The apron is knotted up by habit, his hands reaching there after the three usual tugs and when he looks up, your stomach swirls at the sight of his beam.
He’s everything you’ve missed in more ways than one, but finally, thank gods, finally. He’s right where he belongs.
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teamatsumu · 4 months
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was i meant to love you? (part one)
pairing: miya osamu x reader
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summary: the kanji on your arm says Miya Atsumu’s name. but every fiber of your being is in love with his twin brother.
word count: 2796
warnings: soulmate au, fem!reader, miya atsumu x reader, angst, fluff, swearing
series masterlist
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As a young child, your parents always told you that the universe created soulmates to form and nurture the bonds of love. No human on this planet would be left alone, because everyone had someone created for them. To love and care for them, to fill the gaps in their hearts and provide people with the bliss of knowing that they meant the whole world to someone.
There was nothing sad or difficult about it, the universe had ensured it.
At an infant’s first birthday, neat kanji letters would appear on their forearm, clear as day, specifying the first and last names of their soulmates. There was no ambiguity. The universe ensured that you would find your soulmate no matter what. An individual would grow up knowing who they were meant to be with, and they would die at a ripe old age with that person after spending their whole lives with them.
You were no exception to the rule. When the clock struck midnight, your tiny, one year old arm was marked with the letters that would be there until you died. A simple name.
Miya Atsumu.
Your mother was ever the hopeless romantic. She had met your father in her late teens, considering he lived all the way across the globe and getting there wasn’t easy. So she wanted for you what she had never had. A childhood romance. A kinship between children that would one day transform into a comfortable, familiar love. She wanted you to grow up with the person you were meant to be with, to stand by his side through everything, no matter how trivial. The thought of maturing with your other half had her sighing and batting her eyelashes dreamily, so the minute your kanji appeared, the hunt for Miya Atsumu was on.
Imagine her overjoyed reaction when she found out he was in the same country. Nothing could stop her from uprooting your lives in Tokyo to move all the way to Hyogo, and your father, the man who could never deny her anything, had agreed to go along of course. Anything for his wife. And anything to secure love for his child.
And so you met the Miya Twins. Same age as you, scarily identical and hard to differentiate in your tiny, underdeveloped mind. You had moved in only a few blocks away, and once your mother had spoken to their parents, it seemed you were woven into their lives permanently.
Miya Atsumu, your soulmate, was okay. He was a baby, you were a baby. You have no concept of love, or fate, or other halves. All you cared about was that he was active and loved to play. But he didn’t like sharing his toys which often made you cry. In moments like these, his twin, Miya Osamu, would share with you what was his, both of you playing together and occasionally scowling over at Atsumu. Eventually, Atsumu would get tired of being left out, and he would offer you his own toys just so all of you would play together.
Your mother thought it was very cute. The twins’ mother was endlessly relieved. At least one of her boys had found his soulmate. Because for the other, it seemed a hopeless case.
For you see, Miya Osamu’s arm was blank. There were no deep red kanji letters on his skin, telling him who his soulmate was. As far as the eye could tell, Miya Osamu had no one.
The boy had no concept of how doomed he was. But his parents did. And his mother had cried and sobbed herself to sickness thinking her boy was an anomaly. That somehow, the universe believed that maybe Osamu didn’t deserve love. It broke their hearts. So when Atsumu’s soulmate was brought to them, they felt slightly at ease. Just a bit. Just enough to lighten their load slightly. Because you got along so well with Osamu. You liked to play with him, you enjoyed sharing with him. Sometimes, you even ate off the same plate (something Atsumu would never tolerate. That was his food. He doesn’t share).
Their mother could rest easy knowing that even if Osamu didn’t have a soulmate, his twin brother’s soulmate would not cut him out. That Osamu could still rely on family, even if he didn’t have somebody of his own.
In hindsight, these early interactions between toddlers should have been an indication of the future. But your mothers never noticed something off. If only you had a brain developed enough to realize what was happening at such an early age.
And so you grew up with the twins, same daycares, same schools, same playgrounds. At no point were you separated. From the moment you could form coherent thoughts, they were with you, and you with them. Atsumu was your loud, boisterous soulmate. Always ready for a challenge, endlessly hungry for victory. In his middle school days he had decided he wanted to play volleyball for the rest of his life, and so that’s what he focused on. Atsumu was a simple person, his intentions and objectives were clear.
In middle school, you first wrapped your head around the fact that Atsumu was someone you had to like romantically. It was almost a foreign concept, but the young girl in you was curious, just as anyone your age would be while going through puberty. So you were excited when you and Atsumu started ‘dating’. It was what Fate had dictated, after all. You and him were meant to be together, weren’t you?
You had your first kiss with him after a volleyball game. You had been cheering from the sidelines, and Atsumu barrelled right into you after the final whistle. He was sweaty, and very sticky, and he laid an equally sticky smooch on your lips. You and him both buzzed with the adrenaline of the win, and the kiss felt nice.
You would hold hands at school, and Atsumu would walk you to class. You would always stay on the balcony during after-school practice, watching the twins play. To onlookers, it was endlessly cute. Young love, as they say.
You didn’t think too much about the fact that you did it more out of obligation than for love. You assumed this is what it was. The ‘soulmate bond’ or whatever. You didn’t need to consider it. You had always been told that your life and Atsumu’s were connected, so that was that.
And then there was Osamu. Quieter than Atsumu, but just as determined. He had a competitive streak just as mean as his brother, and at no point did he get left behind. Osamu loved volleyball, maybe not as much as his brother, but enough to invest a whole lot of his time into it. In every aspect, the twins balanced each other perfectly. Osamu knew exactly when to reign Atsumu in. He was more perceptive in that sense. He picked up on stuff that flew over Atsumu’s head sometimes. And that applied to you too.
He was your best friend.
When you would fall on the playground and skin your knees, Osamu would help you up. He would wipe the tears and snot off your face and shoulder you as you walked home. He would hold your hand while your mother would clean and patch you up. Osamu would share all his snacks with you, including candy. He didn’t mind. He always insisted that you ate so little that it hardly mattered.
In middle school, Osamu made sure to ask the volleyball team coach for permission to let you stay and watch practices. Onlookers weren’t really allowed for day-to-day training, but Osamu convinced him to make an exception. You studied together for every quiz, every test. When you would fall asleep while studying, it would always somehow be on Osamu’s bed, and he would tuck you in without fail every single time.
While Atsumu kept looking forward in life, Osamu made sure to glance back and hold your hand tight to make sure you didn’t get left behind.
He was here now too, standing outside the volleyball coach’s office with you. Your first year in Inarizaki High, and you clutched your application in your hand tightly, making Osamu tut and pull the paper from your hands lest you wrinkle it even more. He smoothed it out and gave you a quick once over, sighing a bit.
“Ya gotta cool it.” He spoke up, watching how you nervously fidgeted all over the place.
“Thanks, that helps a lot.” Sarcasm dripped from your words and you gave him a nasty look. He only rolled his eyes in return, reading over your application one more time.
“Yer gonna be fine. Once he knows you and Tsumu are soulmates, yer practically guaranteed the manager position.” He said, trying to soothe you a bit.
“How is that a guarantee?” You scoffed, staring at the closed office door.
“Because he’ll think ya can keep that scrub in line.”
You would’ve laughed if you weren’t so nervous. “He would be dead wrong. When has Atsumu ever listened to me?”
Osamu snorted. “‘M not sayin’ he would be right. But don’t ya dare correct him. I need ya on that team to keep me sane.”
You finally gave him a smile, feeling better slightly. It wasn’t really his words. Osamu’s whole presence just helped you feel better.
And he was also right. You easily got the managerial role for the Boys’ Volleyball Team. The twins whooped in celebration when you gave them the news, Atsumu laying a sloppy kiss on your cheek while Osamu just gave you an encouraging grin.
Something in you stirred when you realized that in the moment, you wanted Osamu to kiss your cheek too.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
It was easy enough to dismiss though, because Atsumu was pulling you into his lap on the couch, talking about how awesome it would be to have you actively helping the team instead of just being a spectator. Osamu’s stare wavered before dropping from you entirely. And you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes dim.
Nah, it couldn’t be, right? There was nothing to be sad about. You had just gotten the manager position. But when Atsumu tucked your head under his chin, it hit you. Osamu’s sadness was likely due to him not having a soulmate.
The topic of Osamu’s absent soulmate was something that was never brought up. Somehow, it was always ignored. He never mentioned it, and neither did you. You were unsure if he had ever talked about it with Atsumu, but you hesitated to ask. You didn’t want him feeling worse than he already probably did. And you were sure that your and Atsumu’s open displays of affection weren’t helping that fact either.
You stayed silent, though you did slowly detach Atsumu’s arms from around you and slid off his lap, instead sitting between the twins on the couch. He didn’t notice, too engrossed with whatever was happening on the TV before him. Your attention was entirely on Osamu though, trying to decipher his expression from the corner of your eye. He was still as a rock, not giving anything away.
You fought the urge to hug him.
Back in middle school, Osamu had first questioned the fact that he did not have a name on his arm. It was a silly childish tantrum, something about how come Tsumu had something that he didn’t? He had pestered his mother about it until she sat him down and explained. You don’t know what exactly they talked about, but you never heard him complain about it again.
Your overthinking mind immediately started mulling through your memories, thinking about all the times you and Atsumu had done something in front of Osamu. You felt guilt ripple through you when you realized that it all probably reminded him of his lack of soulmate. And he never said anything about it. You knew that must have been a struggle. Osamu told you everything. But maybe he felt that he couldn’t tell you about this.
The thought made your heart ache for him.
“Tsumu?”
Your boyfriend hummed in response, too focused on whatever video game he was currently obsessing over. His tongue was sticking out from the corner of his mouth, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. You rolled your eyes.
“Hey, c’mon. Turn that off. I gotta talk to you about something.”
“Gimme five minutes.”
You groaned and flopped down on his bed, knowing five minutes meant at least twenty, and resigning yourself to wait for that time. If you forcefully made him quit the game, he would be distracted throughout your conversation. You needed him to be fully attentive for this.
When you finally had him settled on the bed in front of you, game turned off and him frowning at how serious you were being, you got straight to the point.
“We need to tone shit down in front of Samu.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What does that mean?”
You explained to him how you felt that Osamu might be feeling left out when Atsumu draped himself all over you, making him hum and rub on his chin in thought.
“He never said anythin’.”
You nodded. “But he always gets kind of upset about it.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“That’s because you’re dumb as bricks.”
“Hey!”
The conversation abruptly ends there, with Atsumu pinning you down on the bed and holding you hostage until you apologised for calling him dumb. But the agreement is made, and from then on, you and Atsumu tone down your physical affection when you’re around Osamu.
No more kisses when they picked you for school in the mornings, or after practices when they walked you home. And no more unnecessarily long hugs. And of course, no more sitting on Atsumu’s lap while Osamu was there.
You hadn’t anticipated that this meant almost no intimacy at all, because Osamu was around you two all the time. You didn’t notice that you spent so much time with him until you had to be mindful of your actions. And as the weeks passed by, your and Atsumu’s physical relationship fizzled to almost nothing.
It should have been concerning. It should have. But it wasn’t. The lack of affection did almost nothing to you. If anything, the thing you were concerned about was why you weren’t concerned. Atsumu was your soulmate, yet you could go days and weeks without feeling any need or want to kiss him or hug him. You were still around each other all the time, but the instinctual habit of being in his arms was breaking, and you felt this gnawing fear that without it, your and Atsumu’s relationship was barely a relationship.
In trying to accommodate Osamu, you discovered your lack of feelings for your soulmate.
Your second year of high school was plagued with thoughts of your hesitation, why you tried and tried, but felt almost nothing for the blond twin except the sense of kinship that came with knowing him for so long. You stared at Atsumu as he rose up in the world of volleyball. Making Nationals, going to Youth Camp, and while you did feel proud of him, there was not an ounce of you that loved him romantically.
And it made you feel lost.
All your life, you had been told Atsumu was the one for you. Your other half. The one you would marry and have kids with and die with. You had been friends with him since you could barely walk. And he had been your boyfriend since you knew what a boyfriend was. You had kissed him and hugged him and cuddled with him so often that it was almost by default. Instinct. But now that your instinct was no longer there, you felt….. nothing.
Atsumu was your friend. One of your very best friends, but no part of him made your heart beat faster or your breaths come shallower. He was just….. Atsumu.
When you kissed him in the comfort of your room, alone, you felt nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. You had always felt nothing. But when it was part of your routine, you didn’t realise how fucked up these lack of feelings were.
Now you did.
Fear filled you when you realized how abnormal your feelings were. How could you be like this? The universe had decided Atsumu was the one for you. The fucking universe. Who were you to deny it? Who were you to question his place in your life? And how could you possibly make these feelings go away?
You were alone in this.
If only you had known back then that not loving Atsumu would soon be the very least of your concerns.
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ceijoh · 1 year
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you get jealous of a manager 
relationship: osamu x f!reader 
content/warnings: jealousy, angst, self-doubt, osamu is kinda toxic here ngl but he makes up for it, fluff 
summary: you get jealous of a manager 
notes: happy birthday, osamu! 
masterlist
atsumu & matsukawa’s part | daichi’s part | bokuto’s part | kuroo’s part
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Everyone always thought that Atsumu was the more emotionally constipated twin, but it was actually Osamu. 
You were friends for a while, still are, but every single day you feel like you’re tiptoeing that line that crosses into lovers instead. 
Ever since you woke up one day and realised that you were in love with Osamu, and have been for a while, you were hoping that one day he would do the same too. 
It was one of those days where the MSBY team were coming to Miya Onigiri, it’s been a tradition since Atsumu joined the team and Osamu opened up his shop. 
It usually consisted of the team in their post workout gear, tired off their feet and just wanting to fill their empty stomachs. 
Ordering an amount of onigiri that would feed an entire nation for one feeding
You would have never thought that you would be surrounded almost daily by gigantic athletic men, but here you are. 
There was something that changed though. An unfamiliar face followed the team. The new person, you assumed, was the new temporary manager for MSBY. 
She was spritely and nice, introducing herself to you 
Then she saw Osamu. 
Appearing from the kitchen, you could basically see the hearts form in her eyes. Watching as they made eye contact, watching as he gave her the smile that you hoped to be at the end of one day. 
Despondently, you watched as Osamu subtly (but not subtle enough for you) talk to the new manager. You watched as he continued smiling at her, handing her the onigiri. 
Your heart began to hurt as you watched her giggle at whatever he said, turning around, you faced the bench.  
Gulping, you forced out a smile as you saw Sakusa and Hinata making their way to you. 
“Is everything okay, (Y/N)-san?” Noticing your look, Sakusa asked as he wiped the table with his wipes. 
“Fine, just tired,” you replied, and then turning to Hinata, “how was practice?”
“(Y/L/N)-chan,” turning, you saw the MSBY captain and bowed immediately, causing him to chuckle. 
“Meian-san,” you smiled.
“What have I told you about calling me that?” Playfully bumping his shoulder into yours, causing you both to chuckle. “Makes me feel old.” 
“32 is not old,” you rolled your eyes as you stalked off. 
“So, you’re saying you’d date a 32 year old?” 
Laughing at his comment, “Of course! I mean, Fukuro-san is that age, and who could say no to him?” You teased lightly, laughing harder when you saw his eyes narrow. 
Your conversation with Meian took your mind off briefly from what you were upset about before but it was short lived as you heard Osamu chuckle. 
Turning your head to where they were, you watched as he laughed loudly and you wondered if he was going to topple over with how hard he was laughing at whatever she was saying. 
Gone was the easiness you just felt, and all you had was the pettiness and anger inside of you. 
--
It was like that for the next couple of weeks. Watching as the team come in, watch as she and Osamu flirt with each other, your hope diminishing everytime. 
It would have been fine, if it wasn’t what happened after they left. 
Because after they left, it was back to ‘normal’; Osamu playfully teasing you, flirting subtly with you. And after every time you felt yourself slowly fall for him again. 
You felt like he was playing tug of war with you and your feelings. 
And honestly? You were sick and tired of it. 
Sick and tired of hopelessly pining after someone, who was obviously interested in someone else. 
You were not some plaything for some man to discard when something shinier comes through the door. 
With this new motive in mind, you barely paid attention to Osamu’s flirting.
Keeping the conversations between the two of you in the restaurant professional and curt. 
If you were going to get over him and not have your heart feel like it’s been stomped on everytime he flirts with her, you need to keep your space. 
--
“What was that?” As soon as the team left, Osamu locked the door and shut the blinds before turning to you. 
“What was what?” You asked as you tidied up the counter. 
Rolling his eyes, Osamu walked over to you. “I think yer know what I’m talkin’ about.” 
Sighing, you placed down the towel and looked at him, “I honestly don’t know, Osamu. So please, enlighten me.” 
Losing his cool, Osamu sputtered out, “The fact that ye agreed to a date with the captain!” 
“It’s not a date, he invited me to a party which you were also invited to,” you explained, resuming your tidying. 
“It is a date!” 
Rolling your eyes, not bothering to look at him, “It’s not a date.” 
“He asked ye!” 
“And you also got invited to the party by the manager!” Fed up at the ongoing conversation, you licked your lips in annoyance and stared at Osamu. “By your definition you’re also going on a date, Osamu.” 
“That’s not a date.” 
“Oh my god,” you groaned out. “Are you fucking kidding me? Why is it a date for me, and not for you?” 
Before he could open up his mouth, you put up your hand to stop him, “No, you know what. Stop. I don’t want this conversation to continue. It’s not a date, ‘Samu,” you spoke defeatedly. “Even if it was, it shouldn’t be your problem.” 
Slamming the towel down, you walked away angrily to the office. 
“Why wouldn’t it be my problem?” 
Turning around, you pointed your finger at him, “You’re my friend, Osamu, that’s it. You’re not my parents, you’re not my boyfriend, you’re my friend and my boss.” 
Grabbing your arm before you could walk away again, “I thought we’re more than that.” 
Yanking your arm off, you scowled at Osamu, fire settling deep in your belly, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Are you serious right now?” Narrowing your eyes at Osamu, “We are not anything. We have never been anything.” 
“(Y/N),” Osamu started softly. Heart beating rapidly at your words. “Ye know that’s not true.” 
Rolling your eyes, you scoffed at the man. “Then you’re doing a shitty job of being in a thing with me by flirting with other women.” 
Realisation set in, he knew the playful conversation that he had with the delivery girls, the customers and the manager of the MSBY team was suddenly coming around to beat his ass. 
It wasn’t that he wanted to flirt with them, but he just needed that confirmation, and the extra attention that he got from you was certainly hot. 
But when you started doing the same thing with Meian in front of him, all he wanted to do was lock the shop and cry. 
He was never the softer twin, he was never the more emotional twin, that was all Atsumu. Osamu prided himself in being more logical, being rational when the situation called for it. 
But he still shared the same genes with Atsumu. 
So he carried on, making you jealous. He wasn’t stupid. 
He knew that you were jealous, your face, your demeanour changing. 
He just didn’t think far enough to maybe think you’d have enough of it and start focusing on someone else. 
“I was bein’ stupid, wasn’t I?” 
Well that was the biggest understatement of the century. 
“Yes, you were,” you agreed, no hesitation whatsoever. “I expected this from ‘Tsum.” 
The clock catching your eye, you closed your eyes as you thought of the words to end this conversation. This was all too much for one night. 
You knew that you and Osamu had to talk about this, but you weren’t ready just yet. 
“Listen, ‘Samu, why don’t you go home and I’ll finish closing up, alright?”
When he didn’t move, you began moving around him. 
“How can I make it up to ya?” 
Without missing a beat, “Maybe don’t fucking flirt with other women.” Barely paying attention to him, you began to move out of the office. 
“Done,” Osamu responded, his voice loud and clear. 
You rolled your eyes. Finally turning around, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced Osamu, “Oh really? Until when? Until she decides to come back tomorrow? Or maybe that new delivery girl? Or maybe there’s going to be someone new! Keep me on my toes,” you goaded nastily. 
This behaviour was beneath you but all you wanted was for your words to hurt him, just as much as his actions hurt you. 
“Give me a break, ‘Samu,” you scoffed. “You may have feelings for me but obviously it wasn’t strong enough for you not to flirt with other people.” 
“Look, if you’re not going to go home, maybe I will,” untying your apron, you began to put it on the hook. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 
“Why the fuck do ya think-,” Osamu started and then abruptly finished. Tugging your hand so you faced him, you scowled at his touch. “Why the fuck are ya sayin’ that my feelings aren’t strong enough for ya?” 
“The thought of intentionally flirting with someone else that isn’t you makes me physically sick,” you slowly spat out. “The thought of touching another man the way I want to touch you, Osamu, even if you’re not mine makes me want to die because I feel like I’m betraying you.” 
“But you?” Scoffing, looking straight at him. “You not only could do that willingly, but you made me watch. You make me watch as you give these women the attention that I’ve been craving from you, you give them attention in front of other people while I’m always left in the dark. You make them think they have a chance with you.” 
“You, Miya Osamu, make me feel like everyone else, like I’m just a nobody in your world,” you confessed. You don’t know if your point got across but that was all you were willing to say to the man in front of you. 
“How could you ever think that about yourself?”
"How could you ever make me feel like that about myself?” 
--
Osamu had no words. 
He wanted to explain to you that he never intended to hurt you. He didn’t mean for you to ever doubt that you were the one he wanted. 
“I’m sorry,” that’s what Osamu decided to start with. 
“You’re sorry,” you repeated. “That’s all?” 
“It was stupid,” Osamu confessed. “I was being stupid. I should have never done this.” 
You sighed, suddenly feeling tired. You were done with this, you just wanted to go home and sleep. Maybe take the next day off. 
Sensing your hesitance, Osamu moved slowly forward. Reaching out to you, he slowly clutched your hand with his. It was gentle. 
“(Y/N), words can’t describe ma feelings for ya,” cradling your hand with his, you watched as his thumb caressed your knuckles. 
“‘Samu,” you pleaded. You couldn’t do this. Even if this was what you’ve been dreaming of, you don’t know what you would do if Osamu took it all back.  
“Do you feel this?” 
At the feel of his steady heartbeat underneath the palm of your hand, you nodded once. 
“Please look at me,” at his request, you slowly looked up. Fighting the urge to look away, you took a deep breath and faced him. 
“Yer the only person that has ever made me feel at peace, the only one that has ever made me feel calm and safe. My god, all these years you are the first person that I think of in every situation that I’m in.” 
His confession, all out in the open, the words that you’ve been waiting for since you’ve discovered your feelings for Osamu.  
“And I know that I pushed you to your limits, to make you think that someone else could ever take your place. I’m sorry that I made you feel like that. I’m sorry that I ever made you think that yer just a normal person in my life, that someone else could ever take your place,” he tugged you closer to his body. Hearing the break in his voice, all you now wanted was to wrap your arms around him but you knew there was more to be said. 
Looking down at you, Osamu began to berate himself even more. He could see the doubt still in your eyes. The hurt and the pain that he caused. 
“You are the most important person in my life, you bring so much light in my world, and I know that I don’t deserve ya, not after pullin’ that shitty stunt, but I’m askin’ ya,” he sighed once, knowing that this was going to make him or break him. “Just please let me love you.” 
“Please give me that chance.” 
--
Should you though? 
Multiple feelings coursed through your veins. Your head was telling you that, no, you should not do this. This is a horrible idea. 
But the other part of you, the one who still believed in happy ever afters, and the love that can be found in books and songs. The part that no matter how hard you tried to push her down she kept coming back up was fighting for Osamu. 
He just can’t hurt you again. 
If he did, you don’t know what you’d do with yourself. 
“(Y/N)?” Hearing your silence was worse than when you were yelling at him. Because at least then you were speaking to him, you were still acknowledging him. 
He should have never listened to the stupid idea of making you jealous, he should have never even entertained it. 
If he just waited instead of diving head first into the stupidest idea he ever had. 
Gazing up at Osamu, you finally unclasped your hands, watching as his eyes widen and mouth part in shock and sadness. 
Before he could react anymore, you wrapped your arms around him. “Miya Osamu, I think you might just be stupider than your brother.” 
“You ever do that again and I’ll make sure you’re on cleaning duty for the rest of your life,” you warned but you knew deep down in your heart, Osamu would never do that to you again. You chuckled together, and the tension in the room eased. 
Burrowing your face into his chest, you felt the steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, you sighed out the pain and the longing.
“You can’t hurt me again, Osamu.” 
“I’m gonna treat you the way you deserve.”
--
“I hope ye know that yer goin’ to that stupid party with me,” Osamu nudged you playfully.
“But it’s not a date right?”  
You laughed loudly as you watched his face fall, then scrunch up. 
“Yer such a brat!”
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let me know what y’all think! 
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tteokdoroki · 2 years
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“osamu, what the hell is your problem?”
osamu miya isn’t one to act out like this, he’s never one to run head first into a fight with no armour. he’s not brash and unreasonable like ‘tsumu. he’s supposed to be the better twin at this compared to the blonde scrub he should have eaten in the womb.
but when it comes to you, he loses all sense of rationality— the slightest change in your emotions still has osamu acting a fool after all this time.
“i was defending yer honour!” he announces adamantly, slur heavier than usual as he flinches away from the bag of frozen peas you have pressed into his swelling cheek. osamu hates frozen veg, it ruins the quality and taste of his product, so he prefers to start afresh every time to make sure everyone gets the very best of what he has to offer but boy is he glad that he kept the bag in his kitchen’s freezers from when he first started out.
he still can’t believe he got punched in his own damn shop.
your face twists as you peel back the defrosting packet, analysing the tender area on the younger miya twin’s face. still handsome, even when bruised like a softly ripened peach. “osamu miya,” he hates how his full name sounds on your tongue, bitter and still slightly resentful— nothing like the ‘samu’s he’s used to. “i do not need defending! god…you don’t change. you never do!” frustration sits caked on your features like a layer of sweat after a gruelling day in the kitchens. “when will you realise that i can be my own person outside of you? i can take care of myself. i don’t need you to back me up, tell me to sit this one out like you do with ‘tsumu. i don’t need protecting.” you shift awkwardly on your knees, the tiled floor in onigiri miya’s kitchen cutting into your skin. “and besides…i like him.”
osamu pushes the peas from your grip, brows knotted together as he scowls at you like what you’ve said isn’t true. you could tell him those words a thousand times and he’d selfishly ignore them because you’re way too good to go unprotected in this world.
“yer still s’fuckin’ naive,”
the curse word slipping from the restaurant owners lips surprises you— it upsets you, the hurt sweltering in your chest. “‘samu that’s not fair…”
“i don’t care if it is! i see the way ya grimace when he touches ya, the way ya avoid his gaze. how he treats ya like a fuckin’ pet rather than a human being!” the miya twin roars back, and if he was loud enough you’re sure he’d rattle the pots out to dry on the dish-rack. “that’s not love. you know that.”
your face scrunches up, expression foul and osamu knows he shouldn’t have said that.
“and you do?” he can hear the tired tremble in your voice, you’ve both been here before, stuck in a loop of the same argument. osamu shouldn’t cast judgement on the people you date, not when he ruined the concept of love and happiness for you in the first place. he gave you up when you’d done nothing but cherish him for years after the team went their separate ways.
he was the one to let you go.
he was the one desperate to see you again, dropping hints to kita to invite the old inarizaki manager to the reunion at his precious store in osaka after atsumu’s big game.
he was the one who threw the first punch at your now fiancé because the way he held you wasn’t right.
it was too tight, too rough for someone who deserved the world like you. osamu could read the twitch of pain on your face probably before you even felt it…because he still loved you, he still knew everything about you and he didn’t even have the right to. he probably deserved to get his shit rocked before aran and suna dragged your fiancé outside the shop ( atsumu would have ripped the guy’s head off too for hurting his brother…but kita was there and you’d pleaded with him not to ).
so osamu miya stays silent, becomes a little more reserved unlike his bastard brother and zips his lips once more— throwing away the key while he avoids your desperate gaze. “nothin’.” he mumbles simply, looking away from your wounded puppy dog eyes.
“of course,” you say quietly, even though he can hear the crack of tears in your voice. “because you could never love anyone outside of this stupid shop.”
and as you let it slip you’re crying up, and back away from him on the kitchen floor of onigiri miya, osamu realises…there’s no starting over with you. it’s far too late for that.
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peachy-hk · 1 year
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Rewind.
Miya Osamu x Reader, angst.
Warnings: cheating, gn reader, timeskip spoilers, and cursing :)
(theres also foreshadowing of suna x reader but we're gonna leave that for another time)
Wordcount: 1.3k
Read part one here and next part here.
How are you supposed to feel when somebody leaves you? 
Sadness is given, anger is given, and regret...
Regret is circumstantial. 
Weeks after you left the life of Osamu Miya, he still sits in his apartment, rotting in regret. 
Why did I do it? Why didn’t I say no? Why didn’t I leave?
Would you still be here?
“Just this once”, he tells her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as they enter the hotel lobby. The hotel is in the middle of town, so he makes sure to cover his face as much as possible. The last thing he needs is to have someone recognize him getting into a hotel room with someone who very clearly isn’t his partner. 
“Just a room for the night please” he speaks quietly to the clerk, sliding his personal credit card across the counter to her. “What name would you like it under?” she asks back with a smile. 
He pauses for a moment, wondering if he should really go through with this. The part timer standing in front of him was not worth risking his years of marriage with you for, but he chooses to live in the moment and continue with it anyway.  “Atsumu Miya.”
-
He didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. The friendly banter during training was never supposed to turn into cheating on you. He never planned to take that girl into a hotel. He never meant for anything to happen with her. 
How can he possibly tell you all of that when you’re not even around anymore? Every physical trace of you is gone from the house you once lived in together. Your clothes, your flowers, your cooking, all of it, it’s all gone. You had come back when he was at work and taken everything. He was heartbroken that day, coming home to a house that had nothing to show of your presence. 
Defeated, he slumped into his bed . His eyes heavy, and dark circles prominent as he had lost countless nights of sleep without you next to him. He grabbed your pillow and hugged it tight to his chest, pretending that you were there, inhaling the last of your scent that still clung to it. 
He wondered if you had eaten, or where you were staying. He also thought about giving you a call to ask about having a chat to work things out, but you had already blocked his number. 
Instead, he choses to call someone he knows will be able to comfort him. 
He calls his brother, Atsumu. 
“You got some nerve taking this long to call.”
“So you know?”
“Of course I know. I’m your brother.”
the two sit in the call for a minute before Atsumu breaks the silence.
“Let’s meet tomorrow, coffee at our usual spot. Is 10 okay for you?” He asks.
“Yeah, see you at 10.”
-
Osamu can admit, he’s seen better days. His hair is unkept and his facial hair is overgrown. He can’t be bothered to deal with it all, it’s not important in his mind right now.
“Hey,” he says with a huff, sliding his body into the cushioned booth Atsumu was already sitting in, “you look good, did you order already?”
His twin gives him a nod, and lets out a sigh. He doesn’t know how to start this conversation; he doesn’t know how to confront his brother.
“ ‘Samu I don’t even know what to ask you, how could you do that? What happened?” he speaks, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t know what to tell you either ‘Tsumu. I didn’t want anything to happen with that part timer, I had no intentions of hurting y/n, you of all people would know that.” he says back. he’s talking as if you’re here. As if he’s finally getting the chance to explain himself to you, not Atsumu.
“It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t your intention, you still hurt them. Can you imagine what it was like to open my door to them with tears streaming down their face, barely able to form a sentence? Do you realize how painful it was for them for you to call her instead of comforting them that night? What were you thinking?” He argues, getting more frustrated with his brother.
Osamu sits their in awe of his brother. You have all been friends since high school, but he never knew that he had this kind of protective relationship with you. His mouth dries up, unsure of what to say.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t even think i was thinking that night. I panicked and called her to yell, to be angry. I didn’t want to take my anger out on y/n so I took it out on her instead, ok? Call me dumb and a fool for it but I thought it was the better thing to do in that moment.”
“Are you fucking stupid?”
Osamu’s eyes widen at the sudden change of tone. Sure, he and Atsumu have argued over the years, but he’s never gone this far. He has never used this tone with him before.
“You thought that calling the woman you cheated on them with was a better thing to do in the moment than to apologize, to explain, to do ANYTHING else?”
“Did you even apologize?”
He sits there. Reliving the night you walked out on him. Rethinking everything he said, and realizing that not once, did he say he was sorry.
He looks up at the other side of the booth. Atsumu’s hands are crossed, and he is clearly disappointed by his brothers reaction. It’s not like Atsumu didn’t know this. You had spent the night sobbing and reliving it over in his apartment. He had Suna go out and buy food for you and told you to stay for as long as you needed, even offering to move you in. He knew you were probably still at home with Suna crying in his arms, while he came out and dealt with his brother.
"You fucked up 'Samu." Atsumu sighs after letting this phrase out his mouth. It's been something that he has been thinking over for the past hour before this confrontation. Does he side with his brother or with one of his best and closest friends of his life? He knows that his brother is in the wrong, but blood is thicker than water, right?
"You think I don't know that?"
"I think you need to have someone else wake you up and tell you shit for real. At face value. You're here whining and complaining, doing absolutely nothing to actually fix the mistake you made. I know you can't fire the part-timer now because of conflict of interest and whatever power imbalance legalities there are behind that, but have you at least tried making boundaries with her? Have you made efforts to minimize your damage to Y/N? Have you tried doing anything but moping around and acting like with enough of it they'll feel some sort of pity for you and come back?"
Osamu feels like he just gotten slapped across the face by his brother. Maybe even more like a punch to the gut, or a stab in the back. He's left with his jaw dropped, and his head empty.
'I tried 'Tsumu! They blocked me on everything and I had- actually I still don't have any way of contacting them! I don't know if we're going to get divorced, or if they're going to come back and make me go to counselling . I don't know what to do."
"They're not coming back Osamu. You fucked up, hard. There is no coming back. There is no counciling. It's over. You threw it all away. You threw my trust away too. Why the fuck did you use my name on your hotel room?"
Atsumu huffs, realizing that there really isn't anything left to be said.
"I doubt there's really anything left, but I'll come over tomorrow to pick up anything Y/N may have forgotten to grab." He says before walking out the cafe and into his car.
Osamu watches this happen from the booth Atsumu was sitting in with him seconds before. He watches as another one of the most important people of his life walk out on him.
He is crushed to say the least.
-
part 3 coming soon ??!!?!?!
Per request a tag list has been opened! comment to be added to it :))
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ghostlygeto · 11 months
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six years passed | osamu miya
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pairing: osamu miya x reader
warning: angst, hurt/no comfort, me failing at doing the miya accent, osamu being lovesick heartbroken pathetic all at the same time, reader is in the wrong 100%, idk please be nice i worked really hard on this, potential for part 2 but who knows with me
wc: 4.6k
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sometimes, osamu would check your old social media profiles to see if you had been active. you never were.
it had been six years exactly since you ran away without saying goodbye to anyone. osamu had shown up to your house the next morning, the morning after their birthday, only for your parents to tell him that you weren’t there. they hadn’t heard from you. no one had. they didn’t seem to care much, though that didn’t surprise him. and it seemed like everyone else got over your disappearance quickly. after two weeks he noticed they’d stopped comments on your posts, ‘tsumu said he stopped texting you. after a month they stopped saying your name, and after two it felt like life had officially moved on without you. for everyone except osamu.
“are ya comin’ out with us today?” his twin asked, peaking his head in osamu’s room, “everyone’s ‘round. wanna go out fer drinks or somethin’.” atsumu knew that ‘samu would decline the offer. this day had been hard on all of them, they all missed you. but over the years the ache had lessened and they had stopped getting caught up in it. not osamu, though.
“can’t ya tell ‘m busy?” osamu groaned, moving his face out of his pillow. he forgot that everyone would be in tokyo tonight. it’d be the first time in awhile that they’d be able to make it to tokyo to celebrate the twins’ birthday. he’d feel guilty if he missed it, but did they really have to schedule it for today? certainly ‘tsumu had remembered what day it was. “don’ really think i’d be muchuva good time.”
“‘samu,” atsumu sighed, walking further into his brother’s room, “i know s’hard for ya, but don’ ya think it’s ‘bout time ya stop sulkin’ over it?” he sat at the edge of ‘samu’s bed, not wanting to invade his space too much. “i mean, i know they meant a lot t’ya ‘nd all, but s’been years. y/n wouldn’t want ya to still be so stuck.”
osamu wanted to scoff at his brother, but he knew ‘tsumu meant well. afterall, it was a little pathetic for him to be sulking in his room over someone at the age of twenty-four. it was easy for ‘tsumu to say all of those things. even though it felt unfair to hold over his brother’s head, you two had only been friends. osamu had been dating you. for a long time, at that. two and a half years together before you ran away, not counting the years of friendship before that. doing the math in his head quickly, it had been close to five years that you had known each other.
osamu hated the idea of you being gone for longer than he had known you.
“dunno. gimme a few hours, ‘nd i’ll get back to ya,” osamu tried to dismiss his brother, which thankfully worked. he enjoyed living with his brother, ‘tsumu was away a lot of the time anyway for volleyball games or whatever so he got to spend most of his time alone. but on the other hand it meant that on days like today, when all osamu wanted to do was rot in his bed, ‘tsumu made that harder. they always had each other’s best interest in mind, and sometimes that was infuriating. 
osamu laid in his bed for another hour before he decided that going out with his friends would be the best. he missed them, the five of them never had time to get together anymore. he was pretty sure the last time they had all been together would’ve been when kita introduced them to his girlfriend (also when they announced their pregnancy). the baby had definitely been born by now and osamu still hadn’t met him. that wasn’t entirely his fault though, whenever he’d go to the kita’s farm for more fresh rice (osamu refused to get anything else for onigiri miya, he trusted kita with his life and restaurant) mrs. kita would be out with their son, or osamu had been in too much of a rush to meet the little one. and don’t begin bring up suna’s girlfriend- osamu was pretty sure suna would never let him live down the fact that they hadn’t met yet.
osamu somehow just realize how horrible he had been to his friend’s and their families.
with a sigh, osamu found himself standing in front of the mirror hanging off the back of his bathroom door. he frowned at the sight of himself, hair a wreck wearing the same onigiri miya shirt from his previous day’s work. he hadn’t realized that he looked just as bad as he felt until just now (probably because this was the first time he had really gotten out of bed for the day).
it took him twenty minutes in the shower to feel like he had gotten the previous day’s work ick off his body; and an additional five minutes of standing under the showerhead as the water got colder to convince himself going out was a good idea. he hadn’t officially told ‘tsumu yet, so it wasn’t too late to back out. he didn’t want to be around a bunch of people who’d be enjoying themselves, laughing like today wasn’t a bad day for all of them. for him.
“‘samu have ya decided- oh, ya showered!” atsumu had a wide smile on his face, one that made osamu realize immediately that he wouldn’t be able to tell his brother no. “so yer comin’ out with us?” asumu studied his brother’s face closely, watching as his expression went from ‘no, ya moron’ to ‘fine, i guess’.
“yes.”
“awesome!” atsumu cheered, immediately pulling out his phone to text their little group chat they’d had since high school (that osamu had muted since almost the day it started- suna sent way too many memes back in the day). “we’ll leave ‘ere soon, that okay?” it didn’t really matter what ‘samu would say back, atsumu knew if he left it to his brother they’d never leave. “i’ll be knockin’ in fifteen.”
— – - – — – - – —
he didn’t know it at the time, but osamu would soon learn the universe works in mysterious ways.
he didn’t regret going out with the other’s, not by any means. getting to know kita’s fiancée and suna’s girlfriend had been an amazing time, they meshed into the group very well. he couldn’t believe he hadn’t done this sooner (don’t let him lie, he absolutely could believe it). but it didn’t take long for his mind to wander, thinking he could hear your voice in the crowded bar.
even though he knew that your voice had probably changed over the last six years, he figured it hadn’t changed that much. and he knew that he’d be able to pick your laugh out of a stadium full of people (he did often during highschool volleyball games). he kept looking around the bar trying to find out, thinking he had been casual enough with it that the other’s wouldn’t notice.
but atsumu did, of course. because of course atsumu would, he sense a shift in ‘samu from the other side of the house. he watched with a nervous face as ‘samu looked around the room, a hurt-puppy type expression on his face. he sighed, realizing now that maybe he shouldn’t have had ‘samu come out with them. even if they were celebrating their birthday, and it wouldn’t be the same without him, it was a hard day for him. if he were being honest, atsumu requested they do it on this day intentionally. they all had a hard time today, even if everyone else had gotten over it more than ‘samu had. they all found themselves mourning the loss of their friend, and being together to do so would be better than the five of them doing it alone.
atsumu nudged kita, who was sat next to him. silently signaling the older man to get ‘samu’s attention. “osamu,” kita grabbed his younger friend’s attention, “how’s onigiri miya been doin’? are ya due fer more rice soon?”
“oh,” osamu let out a little nervous laugh, running his hand though his hair, “meant to get to ya about that soon, but didn’t want to talk business while we were out,” he smiled at them, “i’ll probably order double the amount that i did last time. the more i buy the bigger discount, right?”
kita smiled, a chuckled escaping his lips. “sure, i guess i can manage that fer ya,” he gave osamu a nod before changing the topic to something that osamu didn’t have to put his full attention into. 
suna’s girlfriend started chatting to kita and his fiance about wedding things, aran, ‘tsumu, and suna all chatting about recent volleyball things. he knew they weren’t doing it intentionally, but osamu felt very alone. a feeling he had never felt while sitting in the group of his brother and best friends, he hated it.
osamu had been ready to leave, standing to excuse himself from the table and say goodnight to his friends. but something told him to look to his left, a weird little twinge in his stomach, the same feeling he’d got when he told ‘tsumu he wasn’t going to pursue volleyball. dread, guilt, hope. he almost had to do a double take, but god you were unmistakable. sitting at the table with a friend at the other side of the bar.
“‘samu, the hell ‘re ya- oh my god,” atsumu looked in the direction that ‘samu had been, his eyes falling straight to you as well. “well i’ll be damned..” he wasn’t sure what to do. on one hand, he wanted to go up to you. he wanted to ask you how you’d been, where you’d been. but, even with their sharp stares, you hadn’t noticed them, though he almost wished you had. you probably would’ve left if you saw them, and that would’ve been better for all of everyone.
by now the others noticed osamu standing completely still with an awestruck look on his face and atsumu staring in the same direction. osamu was too focused on your face to really hear what they said, but he definitely heard your name and a few profanities whispered.
“y/n, keep it casual, but there’s an entire table of hot guys staring at you,” your friend whispered, lightly shoving her head to your right. “like, really hot, holy shit.” at this point her face had turned a light shade of pink.
subtly had never been your thing; but surely if they had all been staring long enough for your very oblivious friend to notice then they wouldn’t mind if you made eye contact with at least one of them. you had it planned out in your mind already, you’d glance over your shoulder to meet eyes with one of the ‘hot’ men, wink, and then leave them (hopefully) flustered. maybe they’d argue over who you had winked at and have a little competition trying to get your number or something.
you brushed your hair over your shoulder, mentally replaying your little plan over and over in your head. eye contact, wink, look away. you were confident in yourself, excited to get a free drink or two from a guy probably far too drunk to be making financial decisions. however you did not expect to be greeted by the shocked faces of four of your high school best friends, and the heartbroken look from the boyfriend you never officially broke up with.
it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you the second you met osamu’s eyes. like you were going to throw up or pass out, maybe both. everything you had been hiding from for the last six years stood right in front of you now and you didn’t know how to react. it seemed like osamu didn’t either.
“wait, that’s miya atsumu,” your friend whispered, realizing now that she knew the blond man, “like the volleyball player..”
“jesus, i know who they are,” you finally took your eyes off of osamu to gare at your friend. it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know. you never told her about things before you came to tokyo, you figured the less you spoke of it the easier it would be to get over. and you were right for awhile, you had somehow managed to stop thinking about the twins and everyone else every single day after a year and a half of living in tokyo. now they only occupied your mind on days like their birthdays (the twins turned 24 yesterday), and the day you left.
today.
your friend seemed to notice the tension and excused herself to the bathroom, leaving you alone under the men’s stare. you didn’t look back up, rather directed your eyes down to the drink in front of you.
neither you or osamu wanted to be the first one to move. he felt like if he got any closer to you that you’d disappear. even though everyone else could clearly see you. he heard kita and suna explaining the situation to their partners, the recounting of his memories causing a pain in his chest: they didn’t know you. had kita and suna really never spoken about you? he hated that they all made it seem like you never existed after you left.
“are ya gonna go o’er there?” atsumu whispered to ‘samu, pushing him toward you. it had been three solid minutes of silence and staring, and atsumu had gotten tired of it. he knew that if he didn’t force his brother to go over there nothing would happen, because you definitely weren’t making any kind of effort to talk to them.
osamu’s body moved with the shove, finding himself standing right in front of you. his facial expression had finally changed from shock to pain as he sat in the free chair next to you. he knew he needed to think about what he would say next, worried that if he didn’t think it through he’d say something he’d regret.
what are you doing here? where have you been?
why did you leave me?
you finally looked away from your drink and spoke up, “we should go somewhere else and talk, miya,” you watched the way he reacted to being called by his last name. you had never done that before, because the twins hated being called by their last name. but it had been too long to call him anything else.
“since when d’ya call me that?” osamu let out a dry chuckle, unamused by your use of his surname. still he followed you outside, finally finding the right words to express the way he felt. “what the fuck, l/n,” your last name tasted sour in his mouth, he hated calling you that. but still, he hissed your name.
you flinched at osamu’s harsh use of language, you weren’t sure you had ever heard him speak that way to you before. not that you didn’t deserve it, of course you deserved it after everything you’d put him through. but still, you couldn’t help but shrink into yourself. “i know. i know i have a lot of explaining to do,” you hid your face in your hands, stopping in your place. it was late, only an hour or so until the bars would start closing, so the streets were empty. really only the two of you outside. “i just, i can’t. i don’t know what to say,”
“how ‘bout ya start with an apology?” he glared, but as soon as he saw the look on your face he felt guilty. how could he not when you look at him with those eyes? still, he kept his composure. “maybe an explanation as t’where ya’ve been the last six years?”
you struggled for a second, trying to find the right words. but there weren’t any, not really. none that could heal the pain you’ve caused him over the last six years, none that could even begin to make any sense to osamu. “i’m sorry,” you looked down at your fingers, picking at your cuticles, “really, i am. i would’ve told you that i was leaving but i couldn’t.”
“couldn’t?” osamu wanted to laugh, “y/n ya knew i would’ve followed ya to the ends of the earth if ya asked me. how could ya feel like ya couldn’t tell me?”
“that’s the issue, ‘samu!” your voice grew louder and broke, the lump in your throat making it’s way up. “you had so much going for you in hyogo. i couldn’t tell you i was leaving because i’d never forgive myself if you followed. and you would’ve. and i couldn’t let you talk me out of it. i had to go.” you tried not to let your tears fall. you didn’t deserve to cry, this wasn’t your moment. this was his, you needed to let him have it. he needed this.
it took osamu a full thirty seconds to process what you had said. you were right, if you had told him you were packing up and leaving he’d try and talk you out of it. and when (not if, because he knew you were very stubborn) that didn’t work, he’d go with you. but how could he not, even at eighteen osamu was pretty sure you were the person he would marry. he couldn’t see himself with anyone else. “so yer solution was t’disappear? not even havin’ the balls t’break up with me before hand?”
his words stung, you had to remind yourself that he needed to get this out. “it made sense at the time, ‘samu! i was eighteen. i needed away, it was a last minute decision. i spent all my money to get to tokyo in the middle of the night because i was too afraid that if i didn’t do it right then i’d be stuck and stay forever,” you weren’t trying to make excuses, you hoped he know that. “and once i was in tokyo, i didn’t want you to know. you would’ve skipped school, dropped all your plans, to come and find me. i figured if i ghosted, you’d worry for awhile and then get over it. get over me.”
get over you? surely you had to be joking, right? “do ya really believe that i had gotten over ya? that just leaving would make me magically forget ‘bout ya or somethin’? yer smarter than that, y/n,” osamu rolled his eyes, “i had it planned out in my head, how it’d go if i ever saw ya again. wanted t’give ya a piece of my mind and then leave ya standin’ alone dealin’ with it by yerself. but now that ‘m here, now that we’re here, all i can think about is how bad i missed ya this whole time. how ya still look the way i ‘member ya did.” osamu felt thankful you two had stopped in a dimly lit area, so you couldn’t see the redness in his face. he wasn’t sure if it had been from anger or embarrassment, but either way he didn’t want you to see it.
he felt pathetic. how could all of his anger fade away so quickly only to be replaced with the love he had never stopped feeling toward you? “couldja at leas’ break up with me? lemme move on ‘nd all,” his voice broke, a hand running down his face. he was trying not to cry, osamu hated crying. 
the crack in osamu’s voice caught your attention. until this point you hadn’t understood how upset he had really been. you expected anger, maybe hatred. but for him to cry? you wouldn’t have expected that from him. even though you knew he wasn’t one to hold onto emotions like that, he had always been more mellow than his twin. at least in the years you had known him he had been. but osamu was different now, you could see that. his face may look the same, but he kept his hair natural now and his shoulders looked wider. everything about him just seemed more mature. “let you move on? ‘samu don’t tell me you’ve been alone this whole time?”
alone wasn’t the right word, surely. osamu wouldn’t describe himself a lonely, but he did stay single. he had told ‘tsumu (and everyone else) that it was because he wanted to focus on onigiri miya and everything else going on in his life the whole time. “nah, been too focused on the shop t’date. s’all,” he refused to tell you that he hadn’t dated anyone in six years because it felt wrong. whether it be because you two had never officially broken up or because he was just so in love with you that he didn’t want to be with anyone else (was there really a difference?) he wasn’t sure.
you knew osamu was lying, as it seemed his tells hadn’t changed over the years. but even if you wanted him to tell you the truth, you knew he would only tell you when he felt ready. so you didn’t push it any further. “maybe we should get together tomorrow,” you offered the idea, knowing osamu probably had a lot he wanted to say but in the moment he couldn’t find any of his words.
osamu wanted to object, he was worried that if he agreed to meet up tomorrow then you’d just disappear again. he’d have no chance of finding you if you ran off again. “‘m not sure that’s-”
“i won’t run off again,” you shook your head, knowing what he was trying to say before he even finished. he was right to be worrisome about it, you couldn’t blame him. “here,” you pulled out your phone and sent him a text, watching as he pulled it out at the sound of a text. you didn’t really want to tell him that you’d kept his number saved in your phone all these years just in case you decided to reach out, but he needed the extra level of reassurance. “now you know i won’t just run away. i really mean it, we should meet up tomorrow and talk about this some more.” 
you could see the hesitance in his face, you felt bad that this was all happening. it was your fault, after all. maybe if you hadn’t been a stupid eighteen year old, if you had stopped being selfish for just a second back then, things wouldn’t be like this now.
you honestly wondered if things would’ve stayed the same between you and osamu. would you two have stayed together? would he still be running his restaurant here in tokyo (which yes, you knew about. your friends tried to drag you there on multiple occasions but you always found your way out, somehow)? there were so many things you knew you missed out on when running away, but you didn’t think you’d miss things you never had this badly.
“meet me at the shop,” osamu offers, “i open late on mondays. be there ‘round 11?” 
of course he opened late on mondays. they had always been his least favorite day of the week, and now that he was in control of his schedule it didn’t surprise you that he’d make it that way. “i’ll be there.”
— – - – — – - – —
having all night to clear his head and put his thoughts into words didn’t really help osamu at all. in fact, he could barely sleep that night. he’d be running onigiri miya off of steam and vibes alone today.
maybe starting off his day with talking things out with you hadn’t been the best idea osamu had ever had. it would set the tone for the rest of the day, so he could only hope that it went well. though he wasn’t sure how it could, the best ending for the two of you would probably be to never speak again, if he were being honest with himself.
but that’s not what osamu wanted.
even though it was stupid of him (‘tsumu wouldn’t let him hear the end of it the night before), osamu knew that he didn’t want to just call things quits and give up. he was never much of a quitter before, and he sure as hell wasn’t now. but it would be hard, he knew that. to even begin to build any amount of trust between the two of you would take ages. you’d be lucky if things got better within a year.
when you showed up to onigiri miya you could see osamu moving around inside through the windows. he seemed worked up, pacing around in his own world. you watched him jump when you knocked on the door, a wave of relief seeming to wash over him when he saw your face. it made you feel bad, he had probably been nervous all morning as to whether or not you were actually going to show.
“mornin’,” he greeted, unlocking to door to let you in and relocking it behind you. he made sure that the sign was flipped to closed and that none of the exterior lights were on yet, he didn’t want anyone to interrupt this talk between you. “how’d ya sleep?”
like shit. you wanted to tell him, but you refrained. “good morning, i slept okay. yourself?” the tension between the two of you remained thick, neither of you wanted to be the first to break it. this was your mess, therefore your job to fix it. “so did you uh, get to think about things? collect all your thoughts?”
osamu sucked in a breath. even though that was the main reason you were both here (well, main reason you were here. this is his job), he wasn’t sure if he were ready yet. though if he were being honest, he’d probably never be ready. “i’ll let ya go first,” he sat down at a table, gesturing for you to sit across from him. you obliged, figuring that it was better than standing.
“i guess, is it stupid to ask if you’re mad at me?” you gave a small, pathetic little chuckle. you already knew the answer to that question. “i’m not even sure how i convinced myself that running away was a good idea. i know i told you last night that i had to do it right then or i thought i’d be stuck. i stand by that, i wouldn’t have left if i hadn’t done it right then. but you guys didn’t deserve to just be left in the dark like that. you didn’t deserve that, ‘samu. not from someone you loved,”
love. he wanted to correct you, but held back. “i wanna be mad at ya, i really do. t’be honest, y/n ya really deserve me t’be mad at ya. i jus’, i really need ya t’break up with me,” he was worried he sounded just as pathetic as he felt, asking for that. as if you disappearing hadn’t been a very clear indication of a breakup. but without the real words, osamu felt sick to his stomach any time he even thought about being with someone else. at least now he’d be able to try and move on properly.
“right,” you puffed out your cheeks. why were you so nervous? ‘breaking up’ shouldn’t be a big thing, you two had been apart all this time. so why now were you so hesitant? the thought of saying those words to osamu made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. your chest tightening as you tried to find the words. “osamu i… i think we should break up,”
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rinslutz · 11 months
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HOW IT ENDS   ࿔ CHARACTERS
distance makes the heart grow fonder” is what you tried to convince yourself of when you left to study overseas. your main fear was that your long-distance relationship with suna would fail. your biggest fear becomes your biggest nightmare when you’re sent a video of suna making out with a girl at a party.
𓊘 M.LIST | NEXT
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taglist: (open)
@rntrsuna @sukunasrealgf @cloudsinthecosmos @daiception @miss-manupilative @sunarintarouswhore @highhjime
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noosayog · 1 year
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[Reciprocity] you leave Osamu at the altar despite wanting more than anything to say yes
wc: 600
warnings/content: angst to fluff, arranged marriage au
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“I can’t do it.” 
You leave Osamu at the altar. It’s painstakingly dramatic, the way you run the wrong way down the aisle, dress hiked up with shaky hands. 
It’s a quiet corner in the cherry tree grove, where the reception after the ceremony was supposed to take place. The whole place was lined in string lights, perfect white lily and baby’s breath arrangements on tables, and candles to bathe the space in a romantic, intimate light. According to the program, you, and the man you are very much in love with, should be having a celebratory toast and dancing the night away with friends and family in this very spot in two and a half hours. But you’re here now, hours ahead of schedule, alone, and sobbing uncontrollably. 
“Hey.” 
It’s the only person capable of making you cry like this. 
He sits down next to you, keeping a respectable 5-feet distance between you two. 
“I thought, when we talked last night, you were still okay with going through with this.” 
I am, you think. I want to be with you so bad but- 
“I thought we agreed that we could be good together even if this was arranged by our parents.” 
And you did think that last night. When it was just the two of you and you weren’t standing at the altar. It was when the two of you were in just your sleepwear, in the privacy of your shared home.
But today, you were in a wedding gown, standing in front of a crowd, staring into the man of your dream’s eyes, and you felt anything but beautiful. 
How can I promise to be yours, knowing that I fully mean it, but you don't? 
“I’m sorry, Osamu. I’m so sorry, but I just can’t.” 
After a long moment of silence, he says, “okay.” 
You don’t know what okay means, but it sounds a lot like “it’s over.” 
“Okay,” he repeats. “I went along with our parents’ wishes because ya were okay with it. I don’t want to do anything ya don’t want to do.” 
What about you? What do you want, you want to ask. The indifference towards his own wedding was heartbreaking. Maybe if he had the right partner, he would care more. 
He stands up and holds his hand out to you. “Let’s go back and call it off.” 
If only you could tell him how badly you didn’t want to take his hand. Taking his hand now would be the death knell to your foolish hopes and dreams of a life with him. How ironic. 
At your hesitance, he retracts his hand and crouches down to come back to your eye level. When your eyes meet his, he’s looking at you intensely. Despite his usual aloof demeanor, Osamu has always been this way: open, with his heart on his sleeve. He’s always been clear that he would only do what you wanted to do. 
“I haven’t been as straightforward as I should’ve been during this entire… process. I should’ve told ya this before we even moved in together, but I’m in love with ya. I love ya. We don’t have to get married now if yer not ready. We don’t have to ever, if ya don’t want to. But on the off chance that ya could love me, I want to be with ya.” 
He holds his hand out, this time, with entirely different meaning. 
You don’t hesitate in throwing your arms around his neck, savoring the deep grunt by your ear when he reels back from the impact, and blubbering your apologies and reasonings for why you couldn’t say yes. It’s all unintelligible to anyone else, but you know Osamu understands because he lifts you up, holding you close to him, whispering a soft “it’s okay,” and kissing your worries away.
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akimind · 2 years
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to: tokyo. love, hyogo.
a/n: first time writing osamu in honor of my smol friend’s birthday ♡ thank you for prying open my colorblind eyes and being my go-to for advice. thank you for being a slandering tag team with me and always indulging me with your story times and going all mafia on mean coop jerks. i appreciate u more than u know and love u lots, aki :D <33
content: angst, fluff
word count: 15k+
[ osamu x reader ]
–––––
The whisper of a memory echoes through your mind when you read the painted sign above the doorway, hand shielding your eyes from the glint of the sun reflecting off the silver handles despite the wide awning and its generous shade above.
Your mind wasn’t tricking you when it caught sight of this name from across the street you rarely frequent; it remains the same name even as you stand directly below now and reread that sign again.
…I’ll meet you in Hyogo.
The same echo.
The same memory.
You’ve always known you’d stumble across this place once, if only once, during your life here. Call it fate, premonition, whatever fancy word of destiny seems to fit the page, but yes — you knew. Somehow, you always knew.
You just never knew it would happen today.
And sure, maybe you don’t have to go inside. Maybe you don’t have to face destiny, as stupid as that may sound out loud. Maybe you can ignore the pitting feeling in your stomach, the tightness in your chest that seizes control of your body and makes you freeze but tremble at the same time, and you can turn around, raise your head, and continue walking home in peace.
But if you don’t…if you don’t go in now, two things will happen. First and foremost, it will never stop. The pitting, the tightness, the trembling, the fear…the emptiness. The stirring in your heart that hurts like hell but pulls addictively no matter how many weeks, months, years have passed. It didn’t stop then, even when you begged it to, and it’d be impossible for it to stop now.
Secondly, it’s 5:00 p.m. You haven’t had lunch, and your meager granola bar for breakfast has all but dissipated into molecules. You silently berate yourself for the habit of skipping meals just to finish work faster, now suffering the repercussions. Simply put, you’re going to get hangry soon, if you aren’t already.
So it’s with a breath of autumn air and a tightening of your grip on the strap of your shoulder bag that you push past the mental block and through the restaurant’s double doors.
The inside greets you with warm-colored walls and a homey touch of furniture that makes for a cozy, welcoming atmosphere, and your senses are immediately filled with the hungry scents of a time you remember all too well. A time you wished so often to forget, but now comes crashing through your memory along with a gentle reminder that you’re not completely back in the past.
“Welcome!”
You turn your head from the various plants and paintings towards the seating bar where a man in a black apron stands at the register, an open window behind him giving you a peek into the back kitchen and a large steel island in the center.
You approach the worker and see a menu hanging from the ceiling overhead.
There are a lot more options than you remember from before.
“What would you like today?” asks the worker, and you spare him a quick smile and a thoughtful hum before he gets the hint. “Ah, is this your first time here?”
 A shing zips through your body at the question because no, this is not your first time in a restaurant almost identical to this, but this is so different from the one you know back home that it might as well be brand new.
“No,” you answer with a shake of your head and another smile, “it’s just my first time seeing the menu like this. I didn’t know there was so much to choose from now.”
The worker grins proudly and seemingly puffs his chest out like he created the menu himself. “We’ve expanded a lot in the past couple years, and the owner’s created many new recipes that I promise you won’t find anywhere else. Our food is unforgettable here at Onigiri Miya!”
At the sound of the name being spoken out loud, your breath catches in your throat. A tingle runs across your shoulders and down your spine, and you suppress a shiver after not hearing that name for so long, ever since you left the city where you last spoke it.
“I’m sure it is,” you acknowledge undoubtedly. If the chef himself has been this unforgettable to you no matter how hard you try, it’s fitting that his food would be remembered the same way.
The worker takes your order after another minute of contemplation — you decide to order one you’ve never seen or heard of before, expecting satisfaction regardless of the flavor, considering whose recipe it is — and you take a seat at the dining bar while you wait for it to be done.
Chopping and dicing ensue from the kitchen as you unravel the red scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. You fold it in a small triangle on the empty chair next to you and hang your bag on the back of your seat.
So this is his place.
You look over your shoulders around the room another time. This time, you take in more of the pictures hung up on the walls and the framed awards displayed right across the counter from where you sit. In a newspaper clipping that’s been cut out and framed just like the awards, an image of Miya Osamu holding up a small plaque with his restaurant’s name engraved on it is smiling brightly into the camera. His eyes still crinkle in the corners.
You smile, too. He hasn’t changed a bit.
…Onigiri Miya. The branch in Tokyo.
A couple years ago, when the menu was smaller and the options more familiar, before the expansion and additional recipes, you always planned on visiting this branch. You and Osamu were fresh young adults and the Tokyo branch was a simple popup before he bought the place and everything — everything — picked up speed for him.
…Only for him.
Now the menu is larger, most of the options completely new, and Onigiri Miya has expanded enough that Osamu’s work is recognized by some of the best experts in the culinary arts. And here you sit in this restaurant of his, another mere customer in the metropolis of jam-packed Tokyo, ordering a meal from one of the most renowned chefs in the entire city. One simple meal among the thousands he’s served.
You think your worlds couldn’t be more different.
“Your order, miss.”
You nod and say thank you and admire the presentation of the onigiri plated in front of you. The rice is perfectly shaped in a triangular ball, molded with care and draped with the seaweed wrapped around it. The custom sauce looks creamy in its little dish and you smile to yourself when you remember the last time you actually sat down to eat freshly-made onigiri that wasn’t bought on the go. Somewhere around the same time he told you the words that have been echoing in your ears since you opened these doors.
The meal is delicious, as is expected. You stack the sauce dish on the plate when you’re finished and take a last sip of your iced drink, then hook your bag back over your shoulder. You say thank you to the worker at the counter and with a last look at the newspaper clipping and the smile you remember to this day, you grab the metal handle to leave it all behind again.
But before you’re halfway through the door, déjà vu of leaving the same place behind in Hyogo sends a tingle back down your neck. Standing in the open doorway, letting fresh autumn air waft into the restaurant, you turn back slowly to look at the worker refilling the cash register.
And trembling, you take a breath.
“Is the owner in the kitchen?”
The worker looks up in surprise that you’re still here, probably wondering why you look so nervous biting your lip, and glances behind him through the window as if to check something.
“Miya-san?” he questions, facing back to you. “Ah, he’s out picking up more supply right now. He’ll probably be back sometime this evening, if not pretty soon.”
You swallow down something that feels half like relief and half like disappointment, though you aren’t sure why. You let yourself release your breath.
“Was there anything you needed from him?”
You shake your head. “No, it’s alright,” you say.
When you still don’t leave, he cocks his head in question. You don’t know why you’re still here either.
So you simply say, “Please tell him the onigiri was delicious.” Then you leave.
The sound of a motor rumbling its way closer comes after the door swings shut behind you. You look both ways and see a small car sputtering its way down the road but it turns into a back alley and the street’s left empty again.
You cross back to where you were when this place first caught your eye and continue on your path towards home, stomach full with a taste of memory and the breeze of evening autumn nipping the skin on your bare neck.
–––––––
“Evening, Miya-san!”
Osamu looks up from hauling the sacks of produce out of his trunk and into the backroom that leads out to the alley where his car is parked.
He swipes the back of his hand on his sweaty forehead and adjusts the cap on his matted hair. “What’s up?” he says, only slightly out of breath. “Held down the fort while I was gone?”
His newest employee, Akira, lugs a crate towards the storage for the night after closing up the shop, his apron hanging loosely and untied around his waist.
“It was a pretty calm night,” says Akira. “A few customers came in, no problems. I think I’m ready for my promotion now.” He strokes his chin in mock thought.
Osamu laughs. “Ask me that after you’ve been here for at least a few weeks, rookie.”
“By the way,” says Akira, as Osamu lifts the final sack and tosses it down on top of the others, “one of ’em forgot something here. I didn’t know if we had a lost and found, so I just left it behind the counter.” He swings open the storage door and holds it with his foot.
“What kind of thing?”
He shrugs. “Just some scarf or something.”
Osamu watches him disappear through the door and stretches his back out before heading inside to the front of the shop. He has to remind himself where he keeps people’s forgotten belongings; it’s been a while since anybody left one.
As he’s scanning the counter, a flash of red catches his eye from between the register and the catering menus. He picks up what is indeed a neatly folded scarf and vaguely wonders why it seems so familiar. Flipping one frayed end over, he looks for a tag to see if any information is there to contact the owner.
Instead, he’s met with stitched lettering embroidered in gold, shining like firelight against the red, suddenly-heavy, and finally recognizable fabric.
Osamu’s heart stops.
There’s no way…this is—
Quick footsteps come up behind him.
“Oh, weird thing though,” Akira calls with a prolonged yawn, but Osamu can barely hear him through the ringing in his ears. “She wanted me to tell you the onigiri was delicious.”
He immediately whirls around. “Who did?”
Akira nods directly at his hands. “The girl who left that,” he says like it’s obvious. “Real pretty, too.”
Yeah, Osamu thinks, fingers slowly digging in as his heart plunges its way through his ribcage. His blood courses through him like tides in pulsing veins, overriding his rationale and sinking him into staticky nostalgia.
Yeah, she’s always been pretty.
“So you thought it was weird she said my onigiri’s delicious?” he asks, trying to cover the shake in his voice, the tremble in his hands, with a brow raised in playful skepticism.
“Wha—no! No, boss, I didn’t mean it like that!” Akira sputters, putting his hands up in innocence.
Osamu turns back around and chuckles ruefully, if for nothing else than to settle his own nerves. They’re exploding with every thought that fires through him now, scenarios running haywire around in his mind, both of the imaginary and the reminiscent.
Then he sighs; logic takes over.
For all he knows now, this could be anybody’s old scarf. Who knows how many hands it’s passed through over the years? After all, what would make him think you’d even kept it since then? Though it was his own fault, things had changed back then. He has to remind himself of that.
So, after a moment, he asks quietly, logically, “Did you get her name?”
Akira audibly smacks his hand on his forehead. “Shoot! Sorry, I forgot to ask.”
Osamu replies, “Don’t worry about it.” He bends over the counter and continues staring at the threaded name. He can’t seem to bring his eyes to leave it.
Even now, it seems that you still never leave him.
He thumbs the old cloth between his worn fingers, the familiar texture bringing back a sensation from within that he’s both tried and failed to stow away long ago.
“Thanks for telling me,” is all he murmurs; he doesn’t know if his words are meant for Akira or for you.
Later that night, when the clock reads 2:47 a.m. and Osamu is wide awake in bed, far past his usual dead-asleep hour and staring at that scarf slung over the arm of his desk chair, wondering why the hell he even brought it back here, you are all that remains to fill up his mind.
This again? his conscience mocks him. This is just like how it used to be.
But Osamu, never one to back down from all his dreams he wants the most, still allows every memory to tiptoe its way back in. After all, if he can’t fall asleep, he might as well turn his relentless, cascading thoughts into dreams he can control — even though no matter how hard he’s tried to tame them, conscious or unconscious, they almost always lead to you.
…Here, for you— sings the memory that bounces in his head, eyes squeezed shut and chest wound tight with that all-too-familiar friend named longing. He hasn’t thought about what he’s thinking in what feels like ages. Yet somehow, he can recall each word as if it was only yesterday.
Your face isn’t as sharp as he used to remember it; Osamu wonders just how long he’s managed to stave off your ghost this time, up until now.
—to wear until I come back, the him from years past continues to a smiling you, his hand outstretched with a small gift bag swinging. I don’t want you getting cold now, do I?
Osamu in the present brings his hands to his face and exhales heavily, surrounded by heavy silence despite the voices in his head.
Should he really be harking back into all of this? In his fingers holding yours, tracing over your name together, hand-sewn in gold, adjusting the scarf around your neck himself? In the gleeful “I love it, Samu!” resounding right into his ear, almost as if you’re next to him? And it’s still five years ago when he’s back in his hometown, and the snow is in your hair and a blush is on your cheeks, his toes cold but heart warm as you reach up and cradle his face in your hands and he leans down to grab your waist with his lips inching closer and clo—
Osamu snaps open his eyes.
No…no, he should take the scarf back and put it in a box near the entrance and just wait for whoever owns it to come back themselves. That would be the right thing to do…not to run around all of Tokyo trying to find the owner — well, who he hopes is the owner — by himself, right? Not after fruitless searching has led him down dead ends for too long now.
He sighs and slouches beneath his covers.
It would be the right thing to do, he tells himself. To let it go. Drop it now. Forget about it.
…Move on.
But why…hells, why can he never seem to just move on?
The answer sits there on the tip of his tongue, but he refuses to swallow it down, much less allow it to slip out; he’s mistakenly done that before. It only ever pains him more.
So he shuts his eyes to the truth of that answer and, until sleep comes, reminisces just one last time—
Your voice saying, “I miss you, Samu…”
—of a time that hurts more than the truth—
…His own reassuring you, “Don’t worry, baby…”
—and the words that never leave him because Osamu never got to fulfill them, left hanging over his head every day since he said them, a reminder of the same way you still have never left his heart—
“…I’ll meet you in Hyogo.”
–––––––
“You still wear that old thing?”
Osamu flicked the end of the scarf you wore so it swung and the frays lightly hit you on the cheek.
You made a face at him. He thought you looked cute.
“Of course I do, Samu,” you said begrudgingly, like you were still offended by his flicking attack. “You gave it to me.”
“You don’t have to wear it just because it was a gift from me. If you don’t like it, it’s okay.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet as he walked, hoping you wouldn’t catch the flattery that blossomed across his cheeks.
You always remembered gifts from Osamu like that. Small or large, for special occasions or on random days, nothing he did ever slipped your mind. With everything he did, you made it seem like he was gifting you the world; and although it made him melt, he often wondered how it was possible to gift you the world when that’s already what you were to him.
“Are you kidding? I wear this even when you’re not around, even when it’s not cold out yet. It reminds me of you.” As if to emphasize your point, you lifted the scarf up to your nose and took a big whiff as if it were a vase full of your favorite flowers. Osamu would have brought some today if they had only been in season.
“See?” you asked him, grinning widely. “Still smells just like you.”
“That means you never wash it.”
“Why you—” In an attempt to weave your arm through his, you veered last-minute to smack him right on the chest. “I wash it! Maybe it’d smell fresh if you didn’t keep hanging out in my room and rolling over all my stuff. Everything I have smells like you, you know. It’s not my fault.”
Osamu glanced down at your grumbling face and ducked his chin back into his own scarf so you wouldn’t see his teasing smirk.
“You know,” you said after a minute of silence except for the crunching snow beneath your boots, “I actually started making one for you, too.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Making what?”
“A scarf,” you replied, and he could hear the shyness in your voice as you mumbled like you were embarrassed to be saying it out loud.
Osamu, on the other hand, found it irresistibly adorable.
Though not without valid skepticism. “You’re making me a scarf,” he clarified, holding a straight face because his mischievous side, as always, was winning out. “You are.”
You started squirming even more and he fought the urge to wrap himself around you and carry you all the way back home.
“Well, yeah,” you muttered, not looking his way even as he leaned down to get a better view of your face. “Not the whole thing, though. Just stitching your name on one. Like you stitched mine.”
Osamu chuckled quietly. “Okay.”
When he straightened back up, you smacked him again.
“Wha—I didn’t say anything!”
“Don’t laugh!” you scolded him, crossing your arms over your chest petulantly. Gods, he loved pushing your buttons like this.
He booped you on the nose. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said fondly. “I just think it’s cute.”
“What is?”
“That you want to make me something even if you’re not good at it.”
“Miya Osamu!” Your whine made him laugh for real, and he couldn’t help but relish in the pout of your mouth and the puff of your protruding, mochi-esque cheeks. “I knew I should have kept it secret.”
“Couples don’t keep secrets from each other, Y/n.” He let the smugness drip from his lips.
“You know what? I hope you leave earlier so I can get you off my back. Pain in my ass.” You kicked a clump of snow towards him so it splattered against his pants.
You didn’t say anything after and neither did Osamu. Both of you knew you didn’t mean it. After all, the whole reason you were out today was wholly because you two were dreading when he did have to leave…although neither of you had yet to say it out loud.
But for some reason you always knew just when to plunge right in. “So…when do you plan to leave?” you asked him, all hints of sarcasm suddenly gone.
Osamu swallowed and bunched his hands into fists in his pockets, bracing himself for more intentional smacking, which didn’t seem too impossible to expect. It was his own fault for not telling you sooner, really. He just didn’t want to see your face fall when he finally did it.
So, like the Miya he was, he tried to weasel his way out of it.
“Why?” he taunted, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Gonna miss me?”
You threw your head back and groaned loudly. “Come on, Samu.” You threw him a pleading look. “I’m just asking so I know how quickly I need to finish making it!”
Osamu sighed out in a breathy cloud, visible in the frosty air. Despite the bantering and flustered smiles, he knew you still genuinely wanted an answer.
As you kept pace next to him, he reached down from his pocket on your side to grab your hand in his and stuff it back into his coat. He stayed facing forward as he did it, but he could feel you looking at him and your steps slowed down a bit. You quickly adjusted and tightened your grip around his with a little squeeze, and Osamu squeezed back. To himself, he sighed again, a little more discreetly this time, and rubbed his thumb against your skin to keep you warm.
And, just maybe, to help him buff the blow.
“I’m leaving this weekend.”
He kept rubbing circles on you as he said it, but he could feel your grip just barely loosen. He swallowed again.
“It should only take a week or so, but if the popup goes well, it might be two.”
Finally, he looked over only to see you staring straight ahead again. He studied as much as he could from your expression and felt his heart start to race when you opened your mouth.
With a little nod, you said, “I’m excited for you, Samu.” And when you turned your head to give him a smile, Osamu wondered why he even got worried.
Not a single word sounded like it was forced from you, and there were no signs of hurt he could see in your eyes. Your gaze was steady, your fingers intertwined with his once again, and for some reason, it seemed as if you were comforting him rather than vice versa.
You looked completely fine with this.
Hesitantly, he asked, “You’re not mad?”
You looked taken aback at that. “Why would I be mad?” you said, cocking the pretty little head of yours, a small frown on your lips. When he just stared back at you, your eyes softened. “Okay, yeah, it’s a little short notice and I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, so I get it if you’re mad—”
“But this is your career, Samu,” you told him. “Of course I’m excited for you!” You inched closer until you were flush against his side and practically molded together with your body next to his like clay. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you walked; when you did, he planted a kiss on top of your hair. You said, “I know you’ve never gone away for that long since we’ve been together, but it’s okay. We’ll be alright.”
And clarity hit Osamu just then as to why he felt the tables had turned.
Maybe he was never afraid of your reaction when he told you he was leaving for Tokyo for a while. Sure, you were right that neither of you had been away from each other that long since becoming a couple, so he figured you might need some reassurance about the whole thing.
Never did he imagine it was his own nervousness that kept him from telling you until now.
Truth be told, Osamu never liked being away from you for too long. In fact, he hated it. He was a people person. He liked having someone for support by his side and who he could support just as well. Call it a twin thing, but he didn’t like being alone that much. Not that he’d seek out any old scrub just because he was lonely, but he wanted people who he loved right beside him. In person.
Thus, a week or two away from you was going to be tough.
And now you were the one rubbing comforting circles with your thumb on his hand, still shoved down in the depths of his pocket, like he was the one who didn’t want himself to go.
Osamu loved you for realizing it, too.
“So this weekend, huh?” you said lightly, clearly attempting to lift up his mood. “Well, needless to say, I can’t finish your scarf by that time. So you’ll just have to wait until you come back.”
Your free hand fiddled with the frays of your scarf and you looked down again at your name sewn on it.
“Damn,” you said, clicking your tongue. “I really wanted to give it to you before you went to Tokyo.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
Vaguely, you mumbled something under your breath that he couldn’t quite catch.
“Y/n?”
You bit your lip.
“Baby, I didn’t hear—”
“So you remember me.”
…Now it was Osamu’s turn to be taken aback.
He blinked at you. “Sorry, but…excuse me?” Were you implying that he’d forget about you?
“Listen, okay?” You took your head off his shoulder and turned your face up to his, gesturing with your other hand in front of you like you were giving a campaign speech. “Tokyo is a huge place! There’s probably a ton of different people there, all types of people we’ve never met before. It’s not like Hyogo, you know?” Your attention went back to kicking snow.
Osamu raised his eyebrows, entertained at how you were actually concerned about this. “And you know that people in Tokyo aren’t like you,” he said. “So how could I possibly forget about you when everyone there will just remind me that they’re not you?”
You shrugged half-heartedly.
He rolled his eyes and smiled.
“Hey.” He reached over with his free hand and tapped a finger under your chin to motion you back up. “I’ll call you every day, okay?”
You screwed your lips together. “It doesn’t have to be every day,” you said.
“Are you saying you don’t wanna talk to me every—”
“But you already said it, so no take-backs!” you exclaimed, satisfaction flooding across your face.
Osamu wanted to grab you and kiss it right off in spite. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you miss a day, I’m giving your scarf to Atsumu.”
Just as quickly, his jaw dropped. “That scrub with my scarf?” he burst out. The urge to kiss you flipped inside out and he wanted to pinch both your cheeks in his hands when he saw you smirk triumphantly at him. “Don’t test me, baby. I’m not missing a day for the world.”
“Promise?” you said, testing him anyway.
He scoffed. “For you? And to keep his grubby hands off my gift? Always.” He looked down to see your smirk softening back into your sweet, familiar smile, and with another kiss that lingered when he kept his lips on top of your head, he said, “I promise, angel.”
And you squeezed his hand to say okay.
Though promises were a funny thing, you thought.
Because when Osamu had promised he’d call every day, you had — understandably — believed him. But that had been about eight weeks prior, and now you wondered what he’d meant by “always,” because the last time you heard from him was about a month ago.
When he’d left you on read.
To be honest, you weren’t surprised at first. You wished you were, because the first couple weeks when he’d left had been fine. While he was hundreds of miles away in Tokyo, Osamu had kept his word and called you every morning to say, “Have a good day!” and then every night to ask how it was. Usually you’d tell him all the errands you got done and what your plans were for the rest of the evening until you fell asleep. He’d say he was having trouble sleeping in his hotel room because the bed smelled weird and felt cold and foreign, and he couldn’t wait to sleep next to you again. You’d told him you were occupying his side of the bed with plushies in the meantime, which made him complain that it was unfair.
Slowly, the everyday texts and nightly video calls eventually dwindled and became more sparse. Sometimes he still texted “Good morning,” but you found yourself having to ask the same questions he used to initiate more and more just to keep the conversation going, because by now he’d stopped asking altogether. You had always answered them right when you woke up or as soon as you received the text, as well as picking up on the first ring when his name would light up your phone with a call, but now replies from him came much later, calls to him went unanswered. It wasn’t until the sun dipped down, sometimes not until you were home and putting your leftover dinner away, that his response would finally come. And although you were happy to see he remembered, it got harder and harder to feel like he cared.
Thus began the game of cat-and-mouse between you two. You tried to remind yourself of the exact words you’d told him, that it’s okay and we’ll be alright, to remind yourself of his promise to keep in touch every day, even if it came late, as long as he did so before you fell asleep.
But when a few nights passed and you did fall asleep with no call, no message, no nothing from him, you knew Osamu was starting to forget.
And then those few nights turned into some more. Then a short text the next afternoon. Then another few days with no word from him. And now here you were, a month without contact from your boyfriend in Tokyo.
You couldn’t help but feel neglected.
Yet you didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to be upset with him. If anything, you wanted to justify him. You wanted to understand because you knew he needed you to, that this was his career and he was going places.
You just wished that, to all those places, he’d remember to take you, too.
“I miss you, Samu.”
A tear rolled down your cheek as you said it, but before your voice could give you away, you brushed it off with the sleeve of his sweater, one of the many you’d stolen a long while back.
He sighed through the line from the other end. “Don’t worry, baby,” he said faintly, and you could picture him running his fingers through his hair as he so often did when he got home from work. “Things are just busy here, you know? I didn’t expect to get an investor’s deal this early. But I’ll be home when everything’s settled.”
“I know,” you said quietly, because you did. It wasn’t his fault Tokyo wanted him to stay, to open shop already and establish a branch right now. You were supposed to be happy for him. And you were.
It was just difficult to ignore the aching that throbbed, gnawing underneath.
“I just…do you have to be there for everything right now? Is there any way you can…you know, maybe take a weekend to come back home? Or even just for a day?” You braced yourself for sounding selfish because you knew how hard it was to start a business. Hell, you watched him build the Hyogo restaurant from the ground up, with barely any help and just his own two hands. Now he had people willing to help him in Tokyo, so why were you muffling your choked breaths in your hand?
Osamu sighed again. You wished you could see his face, but he’d told you he was tired and would read through some documents while talking to you. There wasn’t any point in video calling, he’d said.
“I don’t think I can,” he answered. “Things are picking up fast here and I’m just barely keeping up.”
You could sense the fatigue in his voice and worried instantly if he was feeling unwell. Osamu had a tendency ever since college, high school even, to not sleep when he was busy or stressed. Even before you dated, when you were simply still just friends, you’d always tried to help him with it. You silently prayed his progress hadn’t gone to shit while he was away.
“Baby, you sound exhausted. Maybe that’s a sign for you to take a break,” you offered gently. “You could come down here for a little while, rest and catch up on things again, then go back to Tokyo when you’re—”
“Look, Y/n, I just told you I can’t, so would you just quit and drop it already?” he snapped.
The hopefulness died in your voice and you clamped your mouth shut out of fear. Osamu hadn’t taken that tone with you since the last fight you two had. Because yes, of course you two had fought before. You’d both been annoyed with each other before, but never had it pierced you more sharply than now. And unlike before, when he knew he’d gone too far and would ignore the fight to ask how you were feeling, now he didn’t seem to care.
You cleared your throat a little, awkward tension palpable through the phone. “Okay. I’m sorry,” you said, compliant.
He didn’t answer.
You grasped at straws.
“Um, the restaurant here is doing okay. I went last night and—”
“Y/n,” said Osamu, interrupting with a yawn, “I hate to ask, but do you think we could call it a night?” You heard him stretch his neck and his joints popped from side to side.
Your initial thought was no. Of course it was no. Who knew when the next time you’d hear his voice again would be? You didn’t care if you were being desperate. You missed Osamu. You missed the way he’d laugh and poke fun at you, missed the way he asked for details on even the most minor of things you’d done that day, missed being asked “How’s my favorite person doing today?” You missed the feelings when you mattered.
You’d only been talking to each other for half an hour tonight. Maybe a month ago, that half an hour would have been two.
Hurriedly, you clutched your phone closer to your ear as if it was enough to keep him there with you. “Wait—”
“Let’s just talk again another day.” He was shuffling papers, probably stacking them together in a neat little pile like he always did when he was finished.
“No, but Samu—”
The scooting of his chair backwards. “I’m kind of tired—”
“I’m tired!”
The force in your voice startled even yourself, and you heard his breath hitch on the other end. The scraping of his chair legs ceased abruptly. There was a rustle, and you guessed that he sat back down.
Nothing was said save for numbing silence.
You sucked in a breath. “I…I’m tired of feeling like you don’t care anymore. I’m tired of feeling like an option to you. You’re never here, Osamu,” you whispered into the phone. “And I don’t just mean here in Hyogo. You’re never…here.” You closed your eyes as tears started to fall, the hole in your heart that you stuck with a bandaid ripping open with all your emotions pouring out of the hidden dam.
“You’ve been there for over a month now. You don’t text anymore, you barely call — this is the first time I’m hearing your voice in what, five weeks? That’s a whole month. You went a whole month without telling me anything. For all I knew, you could’ve been dead.” You knew you were crying but it was too late to hide; he’d probably already heard it by now.
You breathed out shakily, fighting back tears. “You promised, Samu.”
“What else do you want me to say?” he asked. The exasperation was clear in his voice. “I’m sorry. Alright? Is that enough?”
If only enough was as simple as that, you thought.
But after a minute, your heart only hurt more when you replied quietly, “You’re sorry you promised or you’re sorry you broke it?”
He groaned into the phone. You never thought such an important question would make Osamu this annoyed.
“Y/n, it’s hard right now,” he said, clearly getting impatient. “You have no idea how many things I’ve got lined up. These investors — they’re busy guys, they only have so much time to come here and I’ve gotta make the most of what they can offer. You would never understand.” When his voice softened and he sounded more calm, you didn’t know whether to believe him. “It’s for our future. Saving up, all that stuff. This is in our best interest.”
Best interest, huh?
You looked across your room and your eyes fell upon the photo of you and him framed on your desk.
It was a Christmas photo. With the scarf he himself stitched your name on, the scarf that made you want to embroider his own which was blue and now right on top of yours, folded on your vanity with one more letter waiting to be finished. Your handiwork looked sloppy next to his, but that didn’t matter. He had found time to sew it for you, and you intended to give him the same.
That was the Osamu you knew. The one who made time even when there was none, just so he could spend a few cuddles with you. The one who told you it was okay if you missed date night to work late, but who you raced home for without a care in the world nonetheless, even if it meant overtime tomorrow. The Osamu who told you he’d never be too tired to listen, that he’d remind you he was yours at any time of any day — all you had to do was ask.
He was your best interest, your lifelong investment. You wanted that Osamu…not this stranger on the phone.
You would never understand…was that how low he thought of you? How shallow, insensitive?
It occurred to you then that the only thing you did understand was that you didn’t know him anymore.
“If this is what the future you’re working so hard for looks like,” you said, forcing it out loud enough to make sure he could hear, “then I don’t think it’s worth dealing with for either of us.”
He paused. “Wait,” he said, and you picked up on his breath quickening, panic evident in his voice. “Wait, what are you saying?”
You fumbled with the loose thread on your hem, a tear slipping down and staining the cloth.
“Our lives are going in different directions, Samu.”
When you wound it too tightly around your finger, it snapped.
“…Maybe it’s for the best if we did, too.”
“A-are you serious?” He sounded angry, almost. You wondered how he could go from lacking any emotion to sputtering it through the phone so bluntly. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” you said flatly, devoid of feeling like it had now transferred from you to him, as if trading heartbreak for cold-blooded emptiness would make it just a little less painful. Somehow, it still hurt. “You don’t even know where my life is headed right now. You never even bothered to check in and ask.” When you’re met with nothing but silence, you answered what you knew was now running through his mind. “My job is relocating me to Hokkaido.”
His voice sank to a whisper. “What? How? When?”
“This weekend.” It felt like irony.
Osamu’s breath quickened. “Y/n—”
“I can’t do this anymore, Osamu.” Your tone had dropped, uneven yet holding firm. “So…let’s stop.”
“No,” he said immediately, and you closed your eyes because damn it, these Miyas were always so stubborn. “I’m not stopping shit. I love you.” When you didn’t reply, Osamu desperately tried to fill in the gaps. “I’ve been an awful boyfriend, I know, and you deserve better. I’m gonna give that to you.”
You didn’t respond.
“Y/n?”
“No,” you said equally, echoing him back, but it was so, so hard to keep telling him no, to push the man you loved away. “We’re…we’re over, Samu.”
“No,” he said again, even more forcefully, but now his anxious fear was obvious. You could feel it prickling through the distance, so much that it hurt your heart the more he tried to speak up, talking faster like he was afraid you were going to cut the line; the knife was indeed gripped in your hands. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“Osamu—”
“Wait for me. Okay? Don’t leave Hyogo until I get there. I’ll make it up, Y/n, I swear it. I will.”
“You can’t—”
“Just wait for me. Please.” Osamu’s pleading voice had gone raspy, clear-cut just minutes ago and now sounding as if he couldn’t breathe. You pressed your hand over your mouth so he wouldn’t hear you cry. Because hearing Osamu like that, hurting just as much as you were despite your frustration and anger with him, still completely tore at your heart, clawing frantically like you almost wanted to yank back everything you said. “Don’t go to Hokkaido yet, just—”
You squeezed your eyes tighter to push down your whimpers when you heard him choke up and sniffle, more tears flooding down your cheeks.
“—stay where you are, okay? And I—” Osamu sniffled again, his wobbly words breaking down to sobs, so close to your ear it felt like he was home. You wished it didn’t have to end like this, with you and him both crying on opposite ends of a phone call, countless miles keeping you from at least offering comfort to one another, instead leaving you both with no one to hug but yourselves. It felt much lonelier than you could have imagined.
Silently, you waited for him to finish but it took a long moment before he gathered his broken voice back to speak up enough again.
“I’ll meet you in Hyogo,” he said shakily, finally finishing his sentence.
And there was no hesitation in his next words.
“I love you.”
Then he hung up the phone.
Needless to say, it took a long time for you to fall asleep that night.
By the time the weekend rolled around, all your bags were packed to go and you sat on the apartment complex roof with a gift bag beside you and a blanket hanging over your legs.
“Fancy finding you here.”
You didn’t look up to see who was talking, simply scooted over a bit so he could fit his arrogant, muscular body without falling off. You were the one who called him here.
“Now, what are we looking at?” Atsumu followed your blank gaze to the streets below and sat quietly for a minute, but quietness never lasted long with him. After less than thirty seconds, he was incessantly poking you in the shoulder.
“Hey. What are we looking at?”
“Nothing,” you answered, bored and monotone. “We’re sulking.”
“Sulking?” he said with disgust. “Well, that’s not good for my complexion.”
You almost shoved him off the roof.
“Hey! Watch it!” he cried out, flailing his arms like the baby bird he was.
When you offered him no reaction, he tiredly sighed.
“You’re really gonna do this?” he asked you.
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because it’s my job. It’s in the plans.”
“And Samu isn’t?”
Your lips stayed sealed tight.
“Come on,” groaned Atsumu. “You’ve known the guy for, what, fifteen years? You know he’s better than this.”
“I thought he was.”
“Y/n….” Atsumu trailed off, trying to coax you to see his point of view.
You still hadn’t looked at him since he’d sat down. Those big brown eyes of his would only remind you of his brother’s, you knew that. And if that happened, you also knew that you would probably cave.
Atsumu sighed. “He said he’d be here in a couple days,” he muttered, scooting closer to you and away from the edge of the roof again. “It’s the soonest he could come.”
You slid over some of your blanket towards him. “My plan was always to leave tomorrow. It has been for a while now.”
Atsumu covered one leg under the blanket, or at least whatever of one leg could fit, and exhaled loudly. “Look, my brother’s an idiot,” he told you. “I know that. You know that. He knows that. Give him a chance, would’ya? Wait for him. Make some time.”
Your chuckle dripped heavily with sarcasm. “There’s an option.”
When it was quiet, it seemed like Atsumu had given up. You just pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs and shifting your gaze up to the moon instead. Blindly, you reached for the gift bag beside you and thrusted it at Atsumu, still without looking at him.
“What’s this?” he said quizzically.
“That’s for Samu.”
“Aha, so you do love him!”
You finally faced him just to glare. Automatically, he shrunk back.
As you gave mercy and diverted your eyes again, he said, “Y/n, he’s doing what he thought was what you both wanted. But he’s sorry now. He knows he did wrong. He focused on the wrong things. And he wants to make up for it.” You heard him place the bag to the side and felt him nudge his foot against yours. “I know he’s a little late and all because he’s an idiot, but he figured out that just because it helps sometimes, money isn’t always everything. Especially not in relationships. Not even when he means to use it well.”
You ruminated on that saying for a brief moment. “Money isn’t everything, huh?” you murmured.
Atsumu nodded vigorously. “That’s right.”
In some sense of defeat, you let your head fall over your arms and lay on your cheek to stare at him sideways. “Yeah, well…sometimes, neither is love.”
He frowned. “Now that makes no sense to me.”
You rolled your eyes and faced forward, chin digging into your arms. “Relationships take effort, Tsumu. Time and effort. Sometimes those matter more than money or love.” Did this full-grown man really have no life lesson in this? “No wonder you’re still single.”
Atsumu sputtered, dramatically offended. “If you weren’t the love of my brother’s life, I’d wish you good riddance,” he spat under his breath.
You looked over and returned his half-grin with a small one of yours.
“Give that to him, would you?” you said after a minute, jutting your chin out at the gift bag.
“What is it?” Atsumu started peeling back the tissue paper and you swatted his hand away.
“It doesn’t matter. Stop snooping.”
For a while, you and Atsumu stayed on the roof like that, side-by-side with a blanket between you and an unspoken agreement hanging in the air. He wouldn’t stop you from leaving, and you wouldn’t hold any ill will towards him. After all, your friendship had nothing to do with your and Osamu’s issues, and it felt nice to have a friend who understood your side too, even if it was his brother.
When midnight started creeping in and the temperature dipped to more than a chill, you stood up and gathered your blanket from him, folding it in the air as it flapped in the breeze.
“You know, I really thought you were gonna marry him.”
You glanced down at Atsumu after the final fold and just stared at those eyes for a second, deep and dark and so very like Osamu’s, wondering if he was playing a game with you. He refused to look away, the words cementing themselves into your brain, sinking into your skin like a tattoo staining the very air you breathed.
Either way, it seemed you and him both had been wrong.
“Me too,” you said sadly, giving in and tucking the blanket under your arm.
The moon sat high in the dark sky of night. Beams of luminescence shone through the transparent tissue paper in the bag now perched on Atsumu’s lap. The embroidered name you knew was there remained hidden underneath, and you clenched your jaw because despite everything, you had completed it. Despite everything, you still hoped the man it belonged to would somehow like it.
You turned on your heel towards the stairs and Atsumu, understanding in his eyes, watched you go, your voice drifting through the quiet, lonely wind. He didn’t need to see your face to feel the sadness in your words.
“I thought I was going to marry him, too.”
–––––––
Of all things, why on earth did you have to forget that?
And of all places, why in the hells did you have to forget it here?
You grumble curses inwardly at yourself with one hand on the door and the other dragging down your groaning face, fighting with yourself in tormented stupidity.
It’s an old scarf. You can just buy a new one.
But it has your name on it.
It’s not like anyone knows that it’s yours.
But he might see it, if he hasn’t already.
All the more reason to leave it behind and avoid any awkward interactions.
Coward! Just run in and grab it and get the hell out! This is on your way to the market anyway!
The back-and-forth ricochets in your mind like ping-pong balls across a net until you decide once again that just like finding this restaurant, any interaction with him will be inevitable. Besides, it’s been ages since you last saw each other. Even if you meet him here, aren’t you mature enough to handle that much?
You silence all of your instinctive alarms and, for the second day in a row, find yourself entering Onigiri Miya.
Inside, the same worker is at the register again.
“Welcome!” he says cheerily, squinting his eyes when you approach. “Hey…I remember you! You’re the one who said the onigiri tasted good.”
You nod, eyes already scanning the tabletops. “Ah, um, yeah. I’m sorry, but have you seen—”
“And you’re the one whose name the boss asked about,” he mumbles to himself, so quiet you barely hear it. Then he snaps his head up and you immediately take a step backwards when he throws half his body across the counter. “Aha! That’s right! What’s your name, miss?”
You stare at him warily.
He patiently waits with his eyes wide open, like saucers.
“Um…my name is Y/n. Have you seen a—”
“Y/n! Thank you!” The worker — Akira, according to the name tag you inch a little closer enough to read on his apron — pumps a fist in the air. “Now he’ll definitely think I’m competent.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not competent?”
“Huh?” He swivels around to you. “No! I-I am competent!” His posture immediately straightens and he returns to the register like a soldier falling back in line. “What would you like today?”
You shake your head quickly, stifling a laugh. “Nothing, I’m here for my scarf I left yesterday. It’s red and it was on the seat next to me over there.” You point to the dining bar, the entire row of seats obviously devoid of anything now. “Do you know where it is? Or if someone took it?”
Akira taps his chin in thought. “Well, I told the boss yesterday so I figured he put it in the lost and found. Which, by the way, I do know where we keep now.” He flips over a small section of the counter as part of a mini built-in gate and walks past you towards the door, crouching next to a wooden box in a small alcove you never noticed before.
You’re itching to get out of here because yesterday, you lucked out when he wasn’t here, but today may not be the same. “Is it—”
“Not here,” finishes Akira, getting back up and furrowing his brows. “Maybe he took it with him.”
Your hope is replaced with sterile panic. “I’m sorry…what?”
“Maybe he took it with him,” Akira repeats, going back behind the counter while you stand there and mentally flail like a fish out of water. “Now that I think about it, the last time I actually saw it was when he took it with him when he went out to the back.”
Your gaze shoots behind the window that sees into the kitchen, and you desperately flatten your palms on the countertop.
He wouldn’t have…right?
“Is there any chance it’s in the back?” you ask, trying to sound as calm as possible.
Akira scratches the back of his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve been in the back rooms all morning and there was definitely no scarf there,” he says apologetically. “I really think he took it with him. Sorry.”
“But why would he….” you trail off, slumping your shoulders in utter perplexity. “Did he say anything to you? Is he here?” Your last question comes hissing to a whisper at the end in case Akira says yes, even though you know that if he was here, he probably would have come out at the sound of your voice already.
Akira says no to both questions.
With a defeated sigh, you rub your temple. “That’s okay. I’ll just get going then.”
“Miya-san probably just wants to give it to you when he sees you again, you know.”
You pause and eye him carefully. “Um…what makes you think he’ll see me again?”
He shrugs. “Don’t you two know each other?”
“Why would you think that?” You wish your heart would stop pounding a million miles per second at the mere mention of him. You really might just burst an artery here today, and all because of a freaking Miya.
“He looked like he saw a ghost when he found it. And you’re, well….” He gestures his hand towards you in some abstract motion. “You’re overreacting a bit, if I must say. When I said his name, you looked exactly like he did yesterday.”
You anxiously clench your jaw.
“I didn’t mean any offense! I just—”
“It’s alright,” you say, waving it away. “Thanks for your help, though.”
“O-of course.”
Before turning away completely, you half-heartedly add, “Um, when you see him again, if he still has it…tell him he can keep it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He can keep it,” you repeat. “I don’t need it back.” And with that, you make your way out of the restaurant.
You pull the collar of your jacket up around your neck for more warmth, mimicking the softness your scarf always provided against your skin, which was tenfold when you were still in love with him. Your jacket doesn’t quite feel the same.
The days have been getting chillier with each passing hour along with the coming peak of autumn, and today is no exception. Red leaves flutter down from trees whose branches are gradually becoming barren, and a mix of cinnamon and pine floats like a seasonal aroma through the air, probably carried over from some shop selling autumn-themed scented candles. With your hands stuffed into your pockets, you make your way to the marketplace to run your daily list of errands, praying they’ll get him off your mind.
Why would he…?
You can’t fathom why he’d do what Akira claims he did. Your last keepsake from him, somewhere in the city, in the hands of your ex-boyfriend? Impossible. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t just keep some stranger’s old scarf. And there’s no way he could’ve known it was yours at first glance, anyway. Even if he did, there is only one reason that could ever make him possibly recognize—
Your heart comes slamming against your chest.
Ah…he saw.
As if to match the pace of your heartbeats, your footsteps quicken too, as does your breathing; chain reactions were always one thing that he had on you.
It’s impossible, you want to tell yourself. He didn’t see.
But the chances he did are high enough to say otherwise.
If he did, none of your efforts matters now. It doesn’t matter how, over the years, the habit you forced of folding your scarf so a certain side was tucked in first hid your name so it could never be seen. It doesn’t matter how, to prevent anyone from asking who it was that put your name there, you took so much caution hiding the embroidery like you were hiding a piece of your heart from the rest of the world, blocking out the genuine care you know he’d sewn into every letter.
Because every time you’d look at it — just one glance at your name woven by his well-trained fingers — you’d remember how he used to care. And missing the way he used to care, used to drape it on your shoulders and ask if you were warm enough, still makes you suffocate.
Yet despite all the ways it choked you, you never, ever got rid of it.
Because how could you get rid of the last thing you had that used to smell like him?
The sight of his handiwork he left behind would throw your heart into a yearning ache. Picturing him sitting there, threading your name ever so delicately, so devotedly, then waking up to find him gone somehow made life a worse reality than you knew in your head.
So you made his mark invisible. On every day you’ve worn your scarf till now, you’ve concealed it, hidden it, kept it secret so no one, not even you, could see that scar embedded in gold. No one, especially not you, could recall those times when the simplicity of just each other’s names was enough to call it love.
But all of that, every little precautious step taken, is proving absolutely fruitless.
All your efforts to forget his love — forget he cared, forget his smile and his voice, forget his promises and all the times he held you close — all for nothing, because the person who put his love in your name is the one whose hands are holding it now.
Just as it always used to be, the thought of him catches your breath in your throat.
The rest of the world goes silent.
And just as it always used to be, the sight of him pinches your heart in your chest.
Red is the first color you see, balled in his fist against his pant leg. As your focus gradually shifts upwards, dark hair, a black cap, and a slightly familiar navy blue begin to swim into your vision until the destination of unblinking gray irises is reached.
Your gazes stay locked, your lips slightly falling apart. You find that you’re unable to move, because Osamu is staring back.
With every second his eyes widen just as you imagine yours do. Neither of you waver for what feels like eternity, though maybe it only seems so long because everyone around you melts into the background and the very air stills between your ears. Gravity has all but fled.
When he slowly takes a small step forward, you get the urge to scurry back but your legs don’t move and your feet stay planted like stubborn, weighted boulders as he makes his way to you, and you can do nothing but breathe in the gray wisps of his eyes and wonder if you are merely in a daydream, if he is nothing but a mirage.
He comes to a stop right before you. You’ve forgotten how tall he is. You don’t even realize your head is tilted up until you notice he’s blocking the whole sun from your sight. Neither of you speak as you simply stare at each other, the initial shock wearing down to fragile shyness as you feel your cheeks flare up for some age-old reason. Being this close to him, close enough to touch if you simply lift your arm, sends your heart spiking. The look on his face crashes over with a wave of — well, you don’t really know how to read it — and you feel yourself drowning in the wake. Then he lets out a subtle breath, and your hazily subdued dream snaps harshly back to reality.
The bustle of the marketplace swamps back into your senses and you are acutely aware of being in public now. You drop your gaze to the ground, honing in on your shoes like nothing’s ever piqued more interest — not your scarf in his grip, not the way he shuffles closer, the ends of his shoes an inch away from yours, and certainly not the prickling sense of his full attention still on you.
In the midst of all this, you can’t help but do a mental facepalm and think, Yeah, he definitely saw.
After a slow exhale, something shifts forward right under your nose. Gold threading gleams as freshly as it did on the day he gave it to you, and the familiarity sends your head reeling back up.
You gulp, giving him a questioning look. You don’t want to be the one to ask your questions first. All of them will probably come out sounding stupid, anyways.
How’d you know this was mine? Idiot. He saw, right there.
Where did you get this? Duh, where your scatterbrain left it.
Why are you here? He lives and works here! He has every right to be in Tokyo!
You’re still wearing the one I gave you?
Wait.
Your gaze moves to the blue around his neck again and lingers on his scarf. On one end of it, part of his name you sewed yourself peeks out from behind his jacket.
He thrusts your own back at you.
Hesitantly, you reach out and take it. Your fingertips brush his skin when you do, and you resist the urge to flinch at his touch.
You suck in your cheeks and wait for him to say something, your head still full of white noise and static but trying to come up with something, anything, mildly comprehensible, while still trying to avoid his gaze.
“A thank you will suffice.”
Muscle memory sways your iron-tensed body to relax at the comfort of his deep, husky voice, and you actually do for a moment — before you remember the circumstances.
Your jaw clenches. “Thank you.”
When he doesn’t say anything more, you steel yourself and shift to move past him, thinking maybe he’ll just let you go. Maybe nothing needs to be said and he’s over it and moved on, so the only one overreacting here is you and he’s just waiting for you to leave—
You barely get past his shoulder when you feel him spin and grab your arm.
Rattling anxiety makes your chest heave. You close your eyes and silently count to five to breathe.
Slow, slow…come on, Y/n, why are you so nervous right now? Calm down. It’s only him.
Osamu clears his throat behind you.
“Can we—” he starts. You hear him inhale, a shallow breath. “Can we talk?”
You turn halfway as he lets go of you, his eyebrows furrowed with that expression on his face you still can’t quite read, expectantly waiting for your reply.
The last thing you ever said to Miya Osamu back then was no.
Since then, things have changed. You like to hope that you have, too.
So you tell him, “Okay.”
And he leads you out of the crowded marketplace.
At a cafe, Osamu asks for a table for two. He opens the door to the patio for you, slides your chair out so you can sit first, then asks you what you’d like to drink. You tell him coffee and he orders two at the counter.
You’re twitchy when you’re around him now. He can tell by the way you keep squirming in your seat, shifting your balance from one side to the other. You haven’t put your scarf on yet, even though it’s brisk out here on the cafe’s terrace. He doesn’t mention it, though. He’s just grateful to see the way you still tuck your hair behind the same ear hasn’t changed, to see not everything he knew has completely washed away.
There’s a lot Osamu wants to tell you. Countless, countless words he had saved for you on the night he rushed back from Tokyo now come swarming in his head, excuses and questions and endless apologies circling round and round like a carousel. His tongue feels thick, carrying the weight of everything he wants to say, so much so that he can’t even pick one word amongst them all before you beat him to it.
“You still have that.”
He looks at his scarf when you nod at it, then loosens it around his neck a bit.
“Ah, yeah, well…so do you.” He quirks a brow at the one in your hand.
You shuffle in your seat again.
He extends the olive branch. “How are you?”
You lick your lips. He notes how soft they look despite the drying air and wonders if you use the same strawberry lip balm as he remembers.
“I’m doing okay,” you reply.
“I didn’t know you were in the city. How long have you been here?”
You tilt your head in recollection. “About a year now. My job relocated me again but hopefully this will be the last time. It’s a lot of energy, packing up and moving again.” You reach for your coffee mug and instead of taking a sip, simply stir the small spoon in it and ask, “What about you? How is everything?”
Osamu shrugs and takes his Onigiri Miya hat off, running his fingers through his hair before wincing internally at how he’s probably mussing it up like usual.
“I’m okay, too. The restaurant is—well, I guess you’ve seen for yourself.”
A hint of a smile flickers over your face, and Osamu’s heart awakens from a dormancy he never even knew it was in.
“It looks incredible, Osamu. Tasted incredible, too.”
“As Akira has told me.”
“Ah.” You set your mug down. “He’s an eager one, huh?”
Osamu nods. “He has a lot to learn, but he’s reliable,” he says. “He’s the type who’ll come in on his day off if I ask him to.”
“Sounds like his heart is really in it,” you say after a moment, your smile growing fainter as you shift your eyes from him again.
The implication in his words and yours hits Osamu a few seconds too late and he inwardly tenses with a shadow of guilt at the flashback of his last phone call with you. Hearing you ask him to come back home, snapping excuses at you of why he’d been so absent, hearing you cry and then sobbing himself…the regrets of that call never left him that night, nor any night that followed for the years that have led him here to you now.
And now, it’s all those regrets of the things he said, of all the things he wishes he said, that push him to grab hold of the words he means most and hand them to you on a platter long broken, one he’s been all but wishing to glue back together.
“I’m sorry.”
You blink at him in question.
“I’m sorry for…that time.” Osamu wills himself not to break away, to face head-on the one mistake he’s never forgiven himself for. Maybe, he hopes, you’ll somehow crack open the slammed door for him.
You sigh. “You don’t have to apologize, Samu. I’m not mad about that anymore.”
“I am,” he says. Too hurt by the reflection of himself he sees in your eyes, he defeatedly lowers his gaze to the table. “At myself.”
“You shouldn’t be,” you say softly. “You were being practical. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There is when it costs me the people I care about.”
He knows he’s right when you pause at that.
“But you’ve always had everyone’s support. You never have to worry about that anymore,” you reassure him.
Osamu shakes his head stubbornly. “I never stopped worrying about it,” he gripes. “After you…I learned. I prioritized better. Especially the people I love.” He sighs and wraps both hands around his mug, watching his knuckles turn white. “But it didn’t even matter,” he scoffs roughly. “Because you weren’t there anymore.”
His teeth grit and his chest tightens as he blinks once up at you, and you in turn tuck another strand of hair behind your ear. An anxious habit.
“Why did you leave?” asks Osamu in a calm but strained voice, suddenly starving for all your reasons that held the answers he never received. Anguish courses through him, full with the frustration he was never able to let go of from the last time he heard your voice. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
Your eyes break away from his. “Samu, you know why.”
“No, you could’ve stayed. We both know that.” He rakes his fingers through his hair again, tugging lightly on the ends of the strands. “I never stopped thinking about it. I never could come up with a reason as to why. And you changed numbers, were impossible to find after that. I’ve been trying to figure it out every day since then, but…” The question is so hard to ask that he practically comes to whisper it. “I just wanted you to wait for me in Hyogo…why didn’t you wait for me?”
In his peripheral vision, your scarf is gingerly laid on the table, your hands clasping over each other, then unclasping, and clasping again. “It was better for us, Osamu. That’s all.”
“It cannot just be as simple as that.”
You shift your weight again. “It’s not—”
“Then tell me.” He hardens his stare to stop you from worming away. Now that you’re in front of him, in person again, it’ll take divine intervention for him to lose you once more. “Tell me why you weren’t there, Y/n. Why did you leave—”
“You weren’t there either, Osamu.” Your voice is rocky, gravel through your gritted teeth, your eyes of cold steel a harsh contrast to the timid glances you’ve been shooting thus far. He imagines this is how you looked that night when you were at the end of your rope, the night you broke each other’s hearts. But then you exhale and, just as quickly, the harshness dissipates.
“You left too. In more ways than one.” Your fingers absentmindedly fumble with the frays of your scarf. “And I felt neglected, okay? As I said then, we were moving in different directions and it was already going poorly. You were stressed out of your mind and I was about to move cities and we were in different head spaces. I needed support in a way you weren’t able to give at the time, which I understand.”
Your tone dips with a sad sort of nostalgia. Osamu fights the urge to reach across the table and cradle both your twiddling hands in his.
“We both had our own paths to pursue,” you tell him. “It wouldn’t have been fair for one of us to give it up for the other. I’m sorry if it seemed like I was asking you to. That’s not what I wanted at all.” You give him a half-hearted smile. “I wanted you to succeed in Tokyo, I did. But I also wanted my boyfriend to come home. And I didn’t want to make you choose.”
He watches your eyes gloss over in the rays of sunlight that filter through the foliage overhead, highlighting your features and the fleeting shadows of sadness barely discernible behind them.
“It just wasn’t the right time for us anymore,” you murmur. “That’s all.”
Your shoulders slump and you sink a little into your seat.
Osamu studies you for a moment, wanting to scoff in disbelief at your assumed ideas.
“I would have chosen you.” He keeps it low but even, hoping you know he means it. When you don’t acknowledge him, he says it again, louder. “I would have chosen you,” he repeats. “Don’t you know that?”
Your throat bobs. “But your business—”
“Could have waited.” A tired breath streams out through his pursed lips. “I know. I wish I figured that out sooner.”
A minute passes and Osamu sits stewing in nothing but aged regret and shame, two unwelcome guests he’s kept below surface for a few too many years now. But here you are, reeling them up like fish on a rod with every glance and word you give him. And despite your hook prying open his heart, bait drowning him in his bubbling emotions, Osamu feels that with every feeble, snapping heartstring and every yank up to the top, it becomes easier to breathe.
“There’s no use talking about what could have been,” you say quickly. Your voice is a lasting ripple that soothes over his rougher waters. “It’s not your fault the timing was wrong.”
Timing…
Osamu ponders that. He studies your expression as you lift your coffee to your lips, briefly wishing he was the mug, to gauge how insane he might be for asking what he wants to ask. But hidden behind your coffee mug, your expression is unreadable.
Hells, screw it.
“What about now?”
You sip your coffee and raise your brows over the rim. “Hm?”
“The timing,” he says. “It’s gotta be right this time…right?”
Your eyes go wide and your hands freeze mid-air for a second before lowering your mug to the table.
He waits for you to swallow before continuing, “Why else would we be here now?”
Nothing comes out when you open your mouth before clamping it shut again, jaw set, then repeating the motion. Still nothing.
“Do you think…we can pick up where we left off?”
You poke your tongue in your cheek. “I don’t think it’d be best to pick up where things—where we ended the way we did,” you reply.
After a moment, Osamu nods.
Well, there he has it. He doesn’t blame you for your concern.
What else was I expecting?
He feels heavy with the deep pit in his stomach as his heart gradually sinks down, a deadened weight at the bottom of the drop. The little hope he had left, had been storing like a sheltered flame weathering an unending storm, sputters its last flimsy sparks before it fizzes out.
Of course he knew you would say no. That’s what you told him last time. He knows he shouldn’t be upset, or even surprised, because your reasons are valid to say no. It’s valid for you to want nothing to do with him when he did nothing but make you feel alone.
Right?
And yet despite knowing this, the tiny flicker in him still thought it could miraculously be fanned to life. That he could prove himself again. Could feel your hand in his again, could have the chance to love you once more, that you would have answered him instead with—
“But…maybe we could start over.”
—yes.
He snaps his head up at you — you, warily holding on to his attention and digging your fingers into the tops of your legs, probing eyes testing his and lips pulling in to wait for his reply — and he immediately pushes himself up off his chair.
He stands to the side of the table as you scan him up and down, wonder blanketing over your expression. You watch as he briefly bows his head, almost like he’s just a passerby.
“Miya Osamu,” he says politely.
You squint your eyes in complete puzzlement.
He chuckles inside.
When you scrunch your nose up as you try to figure out what it is he’s doing, he glances over all your features because somehow, in all your utterly befuddled glory, you still look as pretty as the day he left for this city and it’s taking everything in him not to cup those little cheeks of yours and tumble straight into your lap.
“What are you doing?” you plainly ask him.
“I’m starting over,” he plainly says.
Osamu prays he sounds as sane as he thinks he does, but also doesn’t look as stupid as he probably seems. He offers you a wry smile and repeats his introduction.
“Miya Osamu. Owner of Onigiri Miya.”
For a second, you just stare at him, and he bites down on his tongue in panicked anticipation, jaw clenching tighter with every second and maxed-out heartbeat until you finally decide to give him a grin. 
“Y/n,” you indulge. “Loyal customer of Onigiri Miya.”
It’s then that Osamu thinks no one fits him quite like you do.
He drags his chair a little more to your side and slides back into it, leaning closer towards you. “So what do you think about the menu?”
The longer he focuses on you, the more you seem to relax in his presence. He’s relieved to see your squirming has stopped.
“A lot of it is new,” you answer slowly, and his eyes dart down when he notices just how close your face now is to his. It’s the closest since the last time he kissed you in Hyogo. “I haven’t gotten quite familiar with it yet. But the ones I do remember remind me of home.”
“Oh?”
“Mm-hm. I think it’s good the owner branched out, too. It’s obviously been a huge success.”
He forgets you’re playing along with his ruse for a second because it takes him a while to realize you’re talking about him. But when he gets there, his heart soars.
You go on, “But even with the changes, Onigiri Miya is still pretty much the same. Which I mean in a good way.”
He leans back in his chair, feigning ease. “And what about the owner?” he asks with caution. Genuinely, this is his chance to hear how you truly still feel…or how you don’t. Whichever.
You bite your inner cheek. “What about him?”
“Do you think he changed, too?”
You hum in contemplation. “I think almost everything’s changed,” you say. “The restaurant and the owner. But the parts that haven’t…well, they’re still the same. And I still like those parts the same.” You lean back, mirroring him, and clear your throat. “Does he…still like anything the same? The owner, I mean.”
Osamu blinks at you. “He never stopped,” he says simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world to share. “He still wants the same one he likes.”
You jest, “I think I meant it a little different than that.”
“Well, I’m just repeating what he told me,” he says, bringing his arms above to rest behind his head in a stretch. “Don’t believe me?”
“I believe you.”
It’s said so quickly and with no hesitation that Osamu wonders if he misheard. He wets his lips and lays his palms on his knees, steering this on a serious note because you don’t look like you’re joking anymore. And he doesn’t want to, either. At least, not about this.
“Y/n…do you believe me when I say he’ll do better this time?” he murmurs quietly. It feels a bit safer to hide behind the role play for now.
Slowly, you nod. “I believe you’ll do better this time, Samu,” you tell him. “I will, too.”
His heart is pounding in his chest and he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t kiss you right then and there. But now is not the time for that. He struggles to maintain self-control and, in order to bring himself back from falling too fast off the edge, he lets out a chuckle and lightheartedly replies, “I think I meant the owner, not me.”
You grab his arm. “I’m not playing this game anymore,” you say. The look in your eyes is heavy yet vulnerable, and Osamu sees all your uncertainties spread bare in them, as gingerly as he knows they would sound if you were voicing them out loud. Resonance settles in his chest at the unspoken question he can see you’re asking him.
Like you, Osamu wants to be serious again.
And he is — always was.
…Though he’s also Miya Osamu.
And he wouldn’t be Miya Osamu if he didn’t try to entice you once more, if only to slow his ambition down and not rush too ahead of himself.
“What if I said he wants to make you some of those onigiri that remind you of home?” he asks, following your rolling eyes in amusement. “Would you believe me then?” Before you can shut your figurative door on him again, he saves himself with a “On the house?” and holds his breath.
Then, with an unexpected grin Osamu thinks might just be more roguish than his, you grab him by his name you sewed on his scarf, catching him by surprise and drawing him in so your face is too close for his poor heart to take, so close his eyelids almost flutter shut if it weren’t for the glint in yours that he doesn’t ever want to miss — not anymore.
“Tell him we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
–––––––
You wake up to forks beating, the sound of whirring, and mild chatter from outside. Sleepily, you drag yourself to slide out of bed, grab a sweater to tug on, then groggily make your way to the kitchen.
The sight that greets you is a mess.
Sugar and flour coat the countertops, the sink is full of unwashed measuring cups, and multiple canisters of extract and flavoring are scattered around the aluminum blender. You see some colorful sprinkles spilling out of their bottle that’s tipped on its side, and the poor dish towel slung over your husband’s shoulder is practically hanging on by a thread, no doubt due to the constant wringing his strong hands have probably put it through.
“Like this, Kanae.”
You follow that voice to see your husband with his back turned to you, facing the counter where your oldest teeters on a stool.
“Whisk this way.”
“Like this?”
“Just like that. Good job!”
He keeps his large hand clasped over hers to hold the fork steady and sift through whatever mixture is in the bowl. His other arm stretches around her to hold the bowl in place and you lean against the wall to watch them for a moment, taking the time to appreciate the sort of father he has become.
A tiny hand comes up behind him and yanks on the hem of his t-shirt.
Osamu looks over his shoulder and smiles, still not seeing you in the entryway. “Hello, Kao-chan,” he says to the hand, then entrusts Kanae on her own before bending down and picking up your youngest. “Where did you—” He glances around before widening his eyes at the metal pan near the stove with cream-colored batter spread inside. The same batter he’s now trying to clean off your kid. 
You stifle a laugh at the look on his face.
“Kaori, you can’t eat this yet, okay?” he says sternly yet kindly, hurrying to wipe her fingers clean and sweep the raw mix off her face.
She smacks her lips and exclaims, “Okay!”
When she’s clean, he sets her down and turns back to Kanae, oblivious to Kaori waddling her way back over to the pan and reaching her sneaky fingers up. You’re about to bolt forward when parental instinct must zip up his spine, because he whirls around and sweeps her off the ground in one move.
“Kao-chan!” he scolds.
“Kao-chan!” Kanae copies him, one hand on her hip, fork flicking residue in specks on the floor.
Yeah, you should probably step in now.
Kaori frowns and juts her bottom lip out, eyes going big and round with fear. “But nee-chan said I could—”
“Good morning.”
The three of them spin to see you and Osamu’s face immediately brightens up.
“Morning,” he says with a smile, adjusting Kaori in his arms. Then it dawns on him that you’re seeing all this and he quickly sets her down and tries to hide the haphazard state of your kitchen. “Ah, I-I mean, good morning! Um, you’re up early.”
You hum and walk closer, Kaori making grabby hands at you to carry her. “What’s going on in here?” you ask, obliging her.
She throws her hands up in the air. “We’re making a birthday cake!” she squeals.
You raise a brow at Osamu.
He cringes and smiles meekly. “Surprise?”
Shaking your head, you give him a peck on the cheek he leans into your touch. “You could’ve woken me up to help,” you tell him.
“How could I ask the birthday girl to make her own birthday cake?” he says, recoiling and offended. “I have my two assistants to help.” He motions to the one in your arms, who’s licking more batter between her fingers, and the other still whisking, a little too roughly now as egg whites and yolk spatter out of the bowl.
You give him an amused look.
He sighs and runs his fingers through his dark hair, a habit unbroken throughout the years. “Alright, I think that’s good now, Kanae,” he says through a not-so-subtle painful smile. She nods and gets off the step stool, handing him the bowl and fork.
“Well,” you say, looking around one last time and trying not to think about the cleaning this’ll take because what matters is they were doing something nice for you, on your birthday, trying (and failing) to keep it a surprise. “Since I’m here now, what’re we doing next?”
Osamu breathes out a sigh of relief and peppers kisses on your forehead. “You’re the best,” he tells you, and you shrug.
“It’s my birthday. I should hope I am.”
He chuckles and gives you another kiss. “Alright, next we’ll finish making the frosting. But first, let’s get you something to eat besides raw batter, Kao-chan.”
The rest of the day is spent in your elements.
Osamu in the kitchen, baking and cooking and whipping up snacks for in between meals, all of which he’s home-cooked completely from scratch. He tells jokes while he does it, teasing you and poking you in the side when you’re at the stove with him, helping him chop and mix and stir. And you with your chin resting on his shoulder as you watch him do it himself when you accidentally cut your finger, letting your two girls bandage you up and plant a kiss on it to help you feel better. Together, the three of them take turns writing your name in icing on top of your cake, occasionally dipping a finger in and smearing it all over one another’s cheeks. Laughter fills the entire house throughout the day until nightfall.
And when your birthday is nearly over, and it’s just you and Osamu cuddled up in bed, you thank all the stars you met him again. You can’t imagine where you’d be now if you hadn’t.
“What’s on your mind?” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing your bare skin on your side and setting his phone down to look at you.
Your head turns on his chest to face up and you answer, “Nothing much. I’m just really grateful for you.”
Osamu’s thumb stops and he bends down to kiss you, lips lingering on yours before pulling you up closer so your whole body leans into his own. He brushes your hair to the side and says, “I love you,” and then he kisses you again.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders and let him nuzzle into your neck, his own arms encasing you in his warmth.
“I love you, too,” you tell him as you feel him smile against your skin, his kisses littering your neck and his hands stretching around to brush soothingly along your back. He moves up a little so his mouth is closer to your ear, and you smile at the love in Osamu’s voice when he whispers softly, “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”
726 notes · View notes
emmyrosee · 9 days
Note
you asked for angst and I hate angst but imma give you some bc I love you.
It is widely accepted that the Miya twins dad is not in the picture. Mama Miya is a single mom and is worshipped by her twin boys. They always prioritize taking care of her bc "she's got no one else but us". Which is great, its one of the reason why you feel in love with your man. But it becomes a hindrance when he starts missing out on things important to you. Esp when their mom didn't even need them there at that moment.
Could work for either Osamu or Atsumu.
I hate my brain.
LIT RALLY HAD A PIECE SIMILAR TO THIS IN THE WORKS BUT I GOT TOO SCARED TO POST IT ABDBEJSBEEI SO THIS IS NOW MY OUTLET 😯🫶🏻
—-
The moon is high in the sky when Osamu finally comes home, your hands buried in the sink as you wash dishes that have been sitting there far too long.
You’d asked osamu to do it, but he hasn’t even been home to look at them. A phone call from his mother took him straight from work to her house almost two hours away, leaving you to your own thoughts and feelings.
You adored Ms. Miya. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was your feeling of neglect brewing in your chest, with each time he leaves you with no regard for your needs.
“Hey Angel,” he hums as he finally crosses over the threshold, toeing off his shoes and tossing his keys on the hook. He says nothing when you merely grunt back, but he does make his way over for a kiss.
You return his kiss, despite your own desires to not, you just wanted to be close to him again, feel his hands cradling your body and relight the love in your soul.
“How was your night?”
“Quiet,” you sigh. “Just… cleaning up from dinner.”
“Shit, you made dinner?” At that moment, his stomach growls, “I was so busy at Ma’s I didn’t get the chance to eat. Do we have leftovers?”
You nod sadly, “yeah. Help yourself.”
“…everything okay?”
“Peachy.”
He clears his throat and picks up a plate from the strainer, “are you sure…? these used to have a design on them.”
You scrub harder.
“Talk to me, baby. I don’t like us keeping secrets from each other.”
“We don’t have secrets. If you can’t use your cognitive thinking skills as to why the person you’re going to marry is mad at you, that’s not my problem.”
“Is this about today?” He asks, voice dropping in defeat.
“Usually is.”
“Baby, you know I-“
The plate snaps under the force of your scrubbing, but you don’t focus on that, though osamu’s brows shoot up.
“Your mother needs you, your mother comes first, your mother asked you, your mother this, your mother that, I KNOW, OSAMU!” You bark, wet fists balled angrily and teeth gritted sharply. “I know the damn drill!”
He takes a step back and raises his hands in surrender, but his brows are furrowed in worry, “hey… it’s okay-“
“It’s not okay!” You yell. Your hands come up to grip your chest, “what about when I need you? Hmm? Where’s my turn to be selfish and need you-“
“My mother is not selfish,” he growls. His brows furrow, “you damn know that.”
You roll your eyes, “no, she’s not. But I want to be. I want to be the big important thing in your life for once, I want to be the thing you run to; I want to be the one you drop everything for.”
“You are, but she needed me today, atsumu couldn’t make it-“
“Yeah, what was the big emergency today, huh? Problem with the internet? Phone bill? Fridge cleaning?”
He doesn’t say anything; merely scratches the back of his head, looking at you with tired eyes as if you’d done this dance far too many times. Which you had- but that’s not your fault.
“Tell you what,” you begin, using your wet hand to grab the engagement ring from the edge of the sink and grab his hand to put it in, “when you can give me more than 4 hours out of the day, you can propose to me again.”
He grips your hand sharply, and for a moment it snaps you back to reality for what you were saying, how venomous and toxic your words were, and your jaw slacks softly, “I… didn’t mean that-“
“We are not going to be this couple,” he snarls. “We are not going to weaponize our engagement when we get into fights. Understand?”
“It just came out-“
“Then keep it in. Do not question my love for you in such a meaningless fight. Do not give me the ring that I decided to give you back, sheerly because you’re mad at me. We’re not going to be a couple that threatens our love from each other. You know better than that.”
The room is silent, the only noise coming from the creaks of the house and osamu doesn’t let go of your hand. His eyes are firm but they shine with betrayal, and his Adams Apple bobs as he swallows thickly.
You sniffle under his intense gaze, “all I wanted was for you to come home,” you whimper. “I got a promotion at work. I cooked dinner, I bought a cake, I-I-I just wanted you to show up.” Your bottom lip wobbles as he simply nods at your words, encouraging you to speak up more if you need to. “I hate sharing you all the time. I want to be selfish and have you come home to me, and not have to wonder about when or if you’re going to come home because of how far away she lives.” He lets go of your hand to wipe a stream of tears that dribble from your eye.
“I just miss you, ‘samu…”
He takes a deep inhale in before pulling you in for a hug, cradling you close and letting you cry in his chest. “Thank you, for being honest,” he says softly, kissing your head. “It must be frustrating to have to share my attention, especially when you have something important to tell me.” He lets you cry it out for a few minutes, before squeezing you closer, “but you have to communicate with me. You have to tell me if you’re feeling neglected. I can’t be here if I don’t know, baby.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “I’m sure you wanted to surprise me today, and I’m sorry that fell through.”
You nod in his chest, relishing in the smell of rice and cologne, mewling and squeezing him tighter.
“How about we take tomorrow off?” He hums, pulling back to cradle your cheek in his big hand. “We can celebrate your promotion, and be together, yeah?”
“W-What about the shop?” You whimper. “That’s more important-“
“No.” He pulls back and looks down firmly. “Don’t finish that sentence. The shop will be plenty fine for one day.” He smiles softly, “after all. Need to celebrate my baby’s big break.”
You give him a watery laugh before inching to be closer to him again, more than anything just glad to be in his vicinity after so long.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” you whispered.
“Hmm… what was that?” He asks, cheekily.
Brat.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” you repeat, this time with some giggles.
“One more time?”
“Osamu!”
He snickers and places a kiss on top of your head, “I’m so sorry I was busy with Ma all day. I didn’t think it would take that long.”
“What did she need?”
“Eh, she needed her oil changed and god knows atsumu’s not going to do that.”
You laugh against his chest and nod, “he’d never risk messing up his hair like that.”
“Never.”
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demxnscous · 1 year
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⊰⋄⊱ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Miya family centric, mentions of parental separations, childhood memories, past unhealthy relationship between their mom and dad (NO mentions of abuse, just overall toxic), satisfying ending
⊰⋄⊱ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 0.5k
⊰⋄⊱ 𝐚/𝐧: @darthwheezely @soranihimawari @qichun consider this reparations
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The first time Atsumu and Osamu meet their father, they're four years old and wear small, velcro shoes. They see a man standing in their doorway; he wears dress shoes, the laces tied in that particularly neat way that Atsumu had always tried to replicate on his mom's tennis shoes for her. That day, his mom hadn't worn her tennis shoes, but slippers.
"No," she says. "No, you don't get to just come back." The twins have never heard her talk with such anger before. They've never met this man.
She feels a little fist tug at her pants, a quiet 'mom' being spoken in the genkan. Osamu is holding to the fabric, Atsumu right behind his brother as he grips to a plush toy instead.
"Can I see them? Please—they're my kids too."
Their mom turns back to the man, abrupt, sharp and livid. "You—" she pauses, reevaluates her response as her boys hide behind her. "They're not your kids. They've never been your kids; they don't even know you." The hand she holds at the door moves down to cup Osamu's crown, stroking the dark hair with a thumb.
The man shifts, something akin to guilt and imploration in his eyes, the same color of Atsumu's. "Then let me meet them now. Let me step in, sweetheart, please. I wasn't ready back then, but—"
"Neither was I," she seethes. "I wasn't ready to have kids at twenty-one, just like you weren't. But the difference was that I couldn't fucking leave."
Atsumu clutches his toy. His mom has just said a bad word, he thinks. He doesn't understand the rest of the conversation. What would their mom leave for?
"I was so scared, and you just left." Her chest is heaving, her hand holds tighter to Osamu. "You never called, you never did a thing. Would you have even cared if something had happened at the hospital? Would you have even known?"
His expression falters. "Did...something happen?"
She shakes her head, mournful, angry. "I almost died in that bed. And you weren't there."
For the first time, Atsumu and Osamu hear their mom sob, and then they see her cry. They see her shoulders shake from where they wait behind her and wonder why her laughter sounds so sad.
The man steps forward and reaches for her, she lets him. She lets him hold her. She lets him into their lives for three years (three terrible, regretful years) before he leaves again and never comes back. Until he sees a broadcasting on his television, a sports channel, a professional volleyball match, and two young men that are the epitomes of the woman he left twice.
One man for each mistake, because they're twice the man that he will ever be.
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teamatsumu · 4 months
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was i meant to love you? (part two)
pairing: miya osamu x reader
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summary: the kanji on your arm says miya atsumu’s name, but every fiber of your being is in love with his twin brother.
word count: 3314
warnings: fem!reader, soulmate au, friends to lovers, some non canon events, swearing, angst if you squint, atsumu x reader, cheating trope (you have been warned), suggestive sexual content but nothing explicit
taglist: @hadukada @utopiamiroh @angstylittleb1tch @sassycheesecake
previous part // series masterlist
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The thud of volleyballs and squeaking of shoes was quickly dissipating as members of the Inarizaki Boys’ Volleyball Team slowly cleared out of the gym. Everyone had done their share of cleaning, but your captain, Kita Shinsuke, was meticulous as ever, making sure the wet mops were clean so they didn’t stink up the storage room and all the balls were accounted for. As usual, he insisted you head out, saying it was already very late and he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of you still being out of the house at this time and in this weather.
The cold air stung you when you stepped out, choosing to forego changing back into your school uniform and instead walking home in your volleyball team tracksuit. Your wool scarf did plenty to warm you up, but it couldn’t substitute for the heat of your blankets or bed, so you hurriedly trudged on.
Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket.
Samu: where are u? walk home together?
You frowned and sighed at the message. Osamu offering to walk you home meant Atumu would be there too. And you really didn’t want to be around him, not after your newly realized feelings. Or lack thereof, actually. You weren’t in the mood to once again be confronted by the fact that your soulmate didn’t make your heart burst with love like he should.
Your phone buzzed again, shaking you from your thoughts.
Samu: ur not at the gym?? its just kita here
You scowled, slowing to a stop. Where the hell was Osamu? You tapped on the little receiver icon, lifting the phone to your ear. Once the line connected, you heard his breaths on the other end.
“Why are you at the gym? You should’ve been home twenty minutes ago.” You asked, shivering. The twins had left after practice, knowing you often stayed late to tie up loose ends.
“I sat down at the store around the corner for a bit. I came back to check if ya were done. Where are ya?”
Before you could answer, heavy footsteps sounded behind you, making you cut the line when Osamu entered your field of vision. You felt your lips tug up, waving at him as he hung up and reached you, shoulders hunched to protect his neck from the cold.
“You’re gonna get sick.” You frowned as you watched him.
“Hello to you too.” He rolled his eyes and childishly stuck out his tongue, both of you falling in step as you trekked the way back to your neighborhood.
The walk was relatively silent, with Osamu offering you a packet of jelly beans. You popped one in your mouth, trying to rid yourself of the relief you felt when you saw that Atsumu wasn’t with him. It wasn’t something you were proud of, avoiding your own soulmate, but it helped that Atsumu was so focused on volleyball most days that he didn’t really care either.
You wondered if you should tell Osamu about it, but dismissed the thought quickly. Osamu didn’t even have a soulmate. If you complained about your own soulmate problems, it would make you feel like a monster.
Maybe you were a monster. An ungrateful one at that.
“Where’s Tsumu?” You asked, biting the inside of your cheek. Your guilt had spurred your question, and all it did was double the horrible feeling inside you.
Osamu shrugged. “He didn’t wanna wait at the store. Somethin’ about wanting to pee real bad.”
“Charming.” You deadpanned, before frowning at the boy next to you. “Wait, you were waiting? What for? Me to be done?”
Osamu only nodded, focused a little too much on his jelly beans. Your scowled deepened as did your confusion.
“Why?”
Osamu shrugged, still avoiding your eyes. “It’s colder than usual. And with the wind blowing like this, it might rain or storm. What if ya got stuck in it?”
Your heart skipped, mouth going dry as words failed you. You watched Osamu’s profile, the way his gray hair fell over his forehead, some strands catching his eyelids. His profile was all straight lines, the jut of his jaw prominent as he chewed.
“Samu…”
Unexpectedly, tears were pricking at your eyes. You choked out a surprised sob, your feet stopping as months worth of suppressed emotions overwhelmed you.
“What the-” Osamu’s wide eyes snapped towards you, crushing the empty snack wrapper and shoving it into his backpack before he turned to you. “Why are ya cryin’? What did I say?”
You shook your head a bit harder than necessary, trying to convey that no part of your fucked up, guilt ridden, fearful brain was caused by him. You waved your hands a bit, trying to say anything at all that wasn’t pathetic crying noises. Osamu softened a bit.
“Is this about Tsumu?” His voice was more muted now, and you almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the wind whooshing in your ears. You stared at him with wide eyes. Did…. he know?
Osamu gave you a sad smile and a shrug. “It’s pretty obvious. Yer avoidin’ him. Didja guys get in a fight?”
You shook your head, looking closely at Osamu. His face was blank, but open. He stared right back, and his eyes were so calm that it stopped your own flowing tears. Something in your mind was made up.
“Samu, can I confess something to you?”
He gave you an encouraging little smile. “Always.”
That did it. Your rant started there, on the sidewalk outside a closed down bookstore, and ended at your house, on your bed, both of you out of your outdoor wear and with steaming hot cocoa mugs between the two of you. Osamu had not only listened, but he had guided you all the way home while you lost yourself in your words. And he made you a hot beverage along the way too.
Silence stretched over you both when you finished, staring down at the mug before you. Your cheeks were warm, half from how heated you got as you spilled your heart out and half from being out of the stormy weather. Osamu had been smart to return to your house instead of his, so you could talk without fear of Atsumu listening. You stared at him when you finished, but when he didn’t say anything, you tacked on one more sentence.
“I don’t know what to do.”
The cry for help was clear in your voice, and it made him look up at you.
“I…. don’t know that either.” He confessed. “I wish I could tell you.”
He shuffled a bit closer to you, directly in front of you, and gave you the softest smile. Your heart skipped again, that same funny feeling you got when he told you he waited for you. And you felt, once more, the urge to hug him tight.
“I don’t….. really know how this soulmate thing goes.” He muttered, and you listened with bated breath. For the first time ever, Osamu was talking about his own lack of soulmate. “But I do know one thing. You and Tsumu have known each other forever. Whatever this thing is, it will pass. And the universe put ya two together, of course yer meant ta be. Don’t worry yer little head about it, okay?”
You felt your heart settle as you looked into Osamu’s eyes. So calm, so unlike your muddled thoughts. But his words inspired little comfort, but in his close proximity, you ignored it entirely. Your cheeks heated up, and you felt the urge to close the gap between you two even more. So you did.
Osamu wrapped you up in his arms when you pressed closer to him, not hesitating in hugging you tight. You felt your heart race faster, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it made your nerves quietly buzz, a soft thrumming that felt so nice you nearly cried.
You didn’t even realize when you fell asleep, too exhausted from having spilled your whole heart out. So you definitely didn’t notice the wet sheen in Osamu’s eyes, or how he rapidly blinked his tears away to make sure they didn’t fall on you, his hold on your body gently tightening.
………………
Something changed after that night. Somehow, Osamu being the only one who knew your shameful secret brought you even closer together. While you didn’t talk about it again, Osamu subtly encouraged you to get closer to Atsumu, to spend more time with him and “mend” your failing relationship. To Atsumu’s credit, you two did end up spending an awesome night out together, which could technically be classified as a date but felt more like hanging out with your best friend. You giggled and laughed with him all night, like you used to, and some of the fear in your head melted away. Maybe Osamu was right. Maybe everything would be okay.
When Atsumu kissed you goodnight at your front door, you didn’t feel anything. But you weren’t worried. This would fix itself too. Just as everything else had fixed itself.
You entered your third year of high school with your boyfriend and best friend by your side, ready to crush senior year and then move onto adult life. Atsumu went to Youth Camp again, now being seriously looked at as a candidate for the pro leagues. You were ecstatic for him, and you trusted completely that he would crush it. Osamu was looking into culinary school, and you were looking into university as well in your own preferred field.
Graduation was an emotional affair, especially with the realization that you were splitting up from the Twins soon. You had been accepted into a university in Tokyo, while Osamu was staying in Hyogo. Atsumu was already trying out for the V League, and it had him bouncing from place to place.
Your mother was vehemently against you and Atsumu not staying together, which annoyed you. The idea of staying glued to his ass was not appealing. You wanted to carve your own path. It was only when you convinced your mother that Atsumu’s endless traveling would have him in Tokyo quite often did she feel satisfied enough, and so life as an adult began filled with a promise for new adventures.
It was away at university that you first experienced just how much you depended on the Twins. Especially Osamu.
Emotionally, Osamu had been your rock. He was always the one you went to with every rant, every problem, every worry. While Atsumu was helpful at times too, he was more of a talker than a listener. But Osamu always gave you his full attention. He would sit and listen to you for hours if you asked, chiming in at all the right places and really making you feel heard. When you started life at a new place, you were hit with the nasty, all encompassing feeling of missing him down to your very bones.
You texted him, you video called, you watched as the gray dye slowly faded from his hair, leaving him with his natural dark brown. He talked to you about culinary school, excited to share what new dish or flavor he had learned or created, and you watched as his face fleshed out more, losing almost all his remaining childhood fat and leaving him looking older. You supposed you changed in the same way, but Osamu never commented on it. He always talked to you the same, like you had never left.
You missed him terribly.
Your university friends were overly in awe that your soulmate was a pro volleyball player, and often thought you were on the phone with him when it was actually Osamu. It did hit you with a pang of guilt slightly, because while you also talked to Atsumu daily, it was never very long drawn out like it was with Osamu. You knew everything going on in his life, but you weren’t invested like you were in Osamu’s life.
And that little skip of your heartbeat never went away. In fact, it became more frequent. Whenever Osamu’s voice would first ring through your phone, your heart would jump, and your smile was automatic. His laugh would make you grin, and talking to him settled your nerves in a way no other person could.
It didn’t surprise you when a certain worry started sitting in your chest. A gnawing voice, low pitched but annoying, muttering in your head about how this was wrong, you should be feeling this way for your soulmate and not his fucking twin brother. You weren’t dense. You knew what a crush was. And you knew that these feelings were definitely indicating a crush. But you dismissed it as just Osamu being Atsumu’s twin. They were identical looking. So it was natural for you to like Osamu because he was so closely reminding you of your soulmate.
You tried to ignore the fact that your actual soulmate never made you feel this way.
Atsumu visited you often, maybe one weekend every month, which he would spend in your apartment. Your roommates would wiggle their eyebrows and make lewd, suggestive comments, saying something about how they should clear out for the weekend since you two would be getting loud and rowdy. It made you flush furiously, but you couldn’t exactly tell them nothing would happen.
You and Atsumu had yet to go all the way. The most you did was a makeout session that felt cold and distant. It was worrisome, it was a huge concern, but it was something neither of you talked about. You were comfortable with Atsumu. You would pig out on junk food, talk shit about old high school folks you both knew, he would whine about his teammates and you would fill him up on your share of university gossip, and then you two would fall asleep cuddled under your blankets. It was comforting, a slice of home, and so what if the thought of sex with Atsumu made you kind of uncomfortable and grossed out? It would pass. You were still young.
But then you would feel the butterflies burst to life in your stomach when Osamu called, you would watch his eyes through your phone screen, how every passing month made him look more like a man and less like a boy. His dark eyes, just as calm as they were when you were kids, but now….. sultrier. More dreamy. Sometimes he would send you a morning selfie, still in bed, just above the neck but you could tell he was shirtless, and you would imagine waking up like that, with his shirtless body next to you. And you would wonder what his skin would feel like under your fingertips.
This was bad. This was so, so bad. But you couldn’t control it. All you could do was deny the existence of these feelings. Waking up every morning and convincing yourself that the man in your dreams was not him, but Atsumu. Though you knew. Deep down, you knew.
You didn’t go back to Hyogo after your first year. Your parents had traveled down to Tokyo and you spent a wonderful two weeks with them before the new term started, and while Osamu groaned and complained about how bad he wanted to see you, you were relieved. You couldn’t see him, not when your head was messed up with thoughts of him. Thoughts you should never, ever have. You wondered, now very often, what you would do if you saw him in your current state. How badly you would want to kiss him.
No. God. No.
Once Atsumu became a starter for the MSBY Black Jackals, he and Osamu decided to get an apartment together in Osaka, the team’s hometown. Osamu had freshly graduated, while you still had one year left. And as per her nature, your mother started hounding you to complete your final year in Osaka. She wanted you to move in with the Twins, and for the first time in a long time, you were on board with one of her wishes.
You had missed them both so much. And you yearned for the time you spent every single day with them. The thought of sharing a living space with them was extremely exciting, so when you ironed out the details of your university transfer, you were on the first train to Osaka.
Halfway through your ride, Atsumu texted that he couldn’t make it to the station (since your train had been delayed and he had an event for later that night), and you tried to digest the implication of his untimely absence.
Osamu would be picking you up.
You felt anxiety creep up on you at the thought, fiddling with your hands and biting severely at your bottom lip. Shockingly, you had not seen Osamu since graduation. Your parents had moved to Tokyo after your first term, since nothing was holding them in Hyogo anymore, so you spent your breaks with them. And between Osamu opening his own Onigiri Place and working on his uni courses, he never got the time to come down and visit you.
Fresh in your twenties, you were a different person now. Tokyo had truly changed you, given you new experiences, new friends, new opportunities. For a brief second, you worried how your reunion with Osamu would go. You two had talked nearly every day for three years, but surely seeing him in person would be different, right?
You were right.
You found him standing next to a pillar in the crowded station, trying to stay out of everybody’s way. It wasn’t hard to spot him, since he was so tall. He had grown, which was a given. You should’ve known, because Atsumu had grown too. But you didn’t expect it. And you also didn’t expect him to have…. bulked up so much.
You knew he hadn’t really played volleyball after high school, so he had decided to start going to a gym instead. Your mouth went dry as you saw the results of it now. Osamu was wearing a tight compression shirt that hugged him in all the right places, broad shoulders, bulging biceps, down to his slim waist. His hair, now dark, looked softer than ever before, and you felt the urge to feel it between your fingers. His focus was on his phone screen, so he didn’t notice your distant gawking. God, he was…. a specimen. Was he always like this? Had you never noticed?
You felt your knees wobble like a baby deer as you walked closer to him, watching as he finally looked up and his eyes met yours. Something zipped through you like hot current, and you felt your ears buzz.
“Hi.” You sounded breathless.
“Hey.” He replied, and you saw, in real time, his eyes run over you from head to toe, before quickly snapping back up to your face. You saw his ears warm at the thought of you catching him as he looked you over, and you felt something liquid hot churn in your stomach.
When you hugged him, you experienced the true change in his strength. His arms were steady, torso firm but warm, and he smelled so good. You shivered when you felt his face find home in the crook of your neck, and you feared he would feel your heart as it jumped around frantically in your chest, trying to beat out of your ribcage.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and you were met up close with the wonderful, calm slate gray. You watched as his lips tilted up at the corners, as his cheeks twitched with that same, lazy smile.
“Missed ya.” He whispered.
“I-” Your eyes flickered, and you finally gave into your overwhelming urge, leaning forward only a few inches so your lips pressed firmly against his.
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mavrintarou · 1 year
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Lord Miya Osamu [3-end]
One more series to cross off my bucket list! Thank you for hanging on to Lord Osamu's bandwagon! I'm not sure who is next but stay tune! If you're new, this is the last part and you can find the first two in my masterlist or the link below. I do have other Lord series for some of the other characters, check them out!
Warning: angst; fluff; explicit smut
Second part
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The engagement to the Imai’s daughter ended mutually and shortly after and their daughter met and married her husband.
After being dismissed from the Matsui’s, Osamu returned home completely devastated.
His parents has never seen their youngest son in such a state that they didn’t know what to do.
He slept his pain away and spoke to no one. His food would return untouched and cold.
The colors in his life slowly fading by the day.
Atsumu and his sister-in-law were the only ones who could really talk some sense into him.
After two months, Osamu finally left the compound.
That was only at the request of Lord Aran.
He is guided to the main room where he can hear mumblings of two people.
“He needs to know…”
“I know, dear, but you mustn’t stress –“
The servant announced Osamu’s arrival.
He greets his old friend and his wife and wasn’t surprised when his eyes landed on her bulging belly.
“Congratulations Lord Aran and Lady Aran.” Osamu said with excitement, the most excitement he’s heard in his own tone.
The gentle giant gives Osamu a soft smile but not his pregnant wife. She turns away, one hand resting behind her back and one hand at her belly.
Osamu looks at Ojiro with confusion.
“We have… uh – you see… Saeko she asked for –“
“I demanded, Ojiro. Demanded.” The pregnant woman corrected.
Ojiro nod and sighed, “she demanded that you come here immediately because she has something to…” he glances back at his wife who narrows her eyes at him before he turns his attention back to Osamu. “We have something to tell you.”
Osamu’s eyes switches from his friend and to his wife. What could the pair have to tell him?
“You see,” Ojiro struggles, “my brother-in-law has returned and he has informed Saeko –“
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Lady Aran shouted, wobbling over to the two men.
Osamu still confused at the tension in the room. “I don’t understand? Is there something I should know –“
“Yes!” She rests a hand on Ojiro’s shoulder for support. “Y/n is pregnant!”
Ojiro inhales sharply, mumbling a what happened to letting me do the talking.
The blank look on Osamu’s face had Saeko waving her hand in front of his face. “Lord Miya? Did you hear me?”
Osamu flinched hearing his name. “Yes,” he uttered. Hearing Y/n’s name put him in a state of shock, but hearing she is pregnant nearly made him brain dead.
His Y/n, pregnant by another man.
“Did you… hear me?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he answered, slightly annoyed. “Yes I heard you, I am… happy for her.”
Lady Aran tilt her head, her ears turning red by the second. “Happy… for… her?”
Osamu wasn’t sure why she was growling, “if you want me to congratulate her, Lady Aran, I cannot. Quite frankly I am not really happy for her either –“
“You fool!” she yelled, grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl, and chucking it right at Osamu’s chest.
He gasped, a hand rubbing the sore spot she just threw the orange at. Ojiro immediately tries to console his wife, but she pushed him aside and grabs two more fruits before swaying around the table. Osamu quickly gets up, retracting and hands out in a defense mechanism as the heavily pregnant woman charges at him at a turtle’s speed. She throws another orange and Osamu dodges it before it could hit him in the face. “You impregnant her and left her bear the pregnancy alone?!”
Osamu immediately stunned at what she just said that he was too slow to dodge when the second fruit came flying at him. The extremely ripe red apple knocked him right above his left eye.
It was as if he didn’t feel the pain or noticed the apple residue now dripping from his face. “What?”
Ojiro grabs a cloth, handing it to Osamu before trying to calm his wife down.
With one swipe, Osamu tosses the cloth aside and tries to get to Lady Aran, but Ojiro blocks him. “I need to talk to your wife, Ojiro, please move aside.”
“Just… have a seat.” Ojiro pleaded desperately.
Osamu takes a seat and impatiently waits for the couple to stop whispering to themselves. He heard bits and piece of their conversation.
I told you that Lord Osamu would not have known. I know he is not like that…
Why hasn’t he answered her letters then?
I’m not sure, that is something we need to ask him and not jump to conclusion that he did not care about Lady Miyazaki.
Osamu clears his throat, getting both their attention. “Lady Aran, please explain yourself. What do you mean by you impregnated her and left her to bear the pregnancy alone.”
She spends the next two minutes, trying to sit down across from him. “A few weeks ago, my brother did propose to Y/n again after your engagement with Lady Imai was announced.” She reaches for an apple and a knife and Osamu shifted backwards without realizing it. She begins cutting the skin of the apple, continuing, “with you marrying, Y/n thought it was the right thing to do and marry my brother since he proposed a second time.” She takes a bite out of the apple, “my brother respected our cousin Tadashi and when he passed away from his illness, he brought it up our parents offering to marry Y/n but said no the first time.”
Ojiro reaches over to take the small knife out of her hand since she was waving it as she was speaking. “Let me cut the peel for you, love.”
Lady Aran pushes other apple towards him and return her attention back to Osamu, “since he asked a second time, she said she consider it, but she wanted to return home to her family for some time.” Her palms slams down on the table making both men flinch. “But Satoshi took her home and things began to change!”
She took a deep breath, “she confirmed what she already suspected that she has been pregnant for some time and declined to marry my brother.”
Osamu’s breath hitched.
“My brother offered to still marry her and raise this child…” she looks straight into his eyes, “your child as his own –“
Osamu’s face darken and the atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Ojiro quickly intervened and assured, “but nothing happened, Y/n still did not proceed to marry Satoshi.” He assured with a forceful smile and chuckle.
“She stayed in her hometown with her family, she wrote to you – are you ignoring her?”
It was Osamu’s turn to slam his hands on the table, “what? She sent me a letter?”
“Yes! Letters apparently, that is why my brother is here to deliver them since you weren’t responding to her.” She snatched the apple Aran is holding out to her and chomps angrily.
Speak of the devil.
Lord Matsui Satoshi walks in hearing his sister’s upset voice. “What is going on?” His eyes falls upon her guest, “I presume Lord Miya is being informed of Lady Miyazaki’s condition?”
“Correct,” Osamu growled, standing up and walking to him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, “let’s talk in private.”
.
“Things changed during our journey back to her family home. She couldn’t keep food down and was unwell the entire time until we got to her home.”
Osamu remained quiet, refraining himself from asking questions and to listen to what he had to say.
“Even in the comfort of her own home, she wasn’t getting better. I sought a doctor and she refused, saying a doctor would not be able to assist and it was something she needed to get over.” He sighed, “I believe she knew then of her condition.”
“A few weeks past and sure enough, she did get over it. Her appetite increased and I noticed and was happy to see she had gained weight and color to her face.” He chuckled, looking straight at Lord Miya. “It wasn’t long before she was not able to hide the bump.”
Osamu’s eyes shifted to the servant that just entered the room, handing Lord Matsui a box before exiting.
Satoshi’s fingers grip hard at the box before thrusting it towards Osamu. “She wrote you letters but didn’t have the courage to send them to you. I stole them and I’m here to deliver them to you.” Osamu’s hand slightly tremble as he accepted the box. Satoshi sighed deeply, “I faith you know what you should do, but, if you do not take any action…” Satoshi move to stand shoulder to shoulder, facing the opposite direction. In a low voice, “I will.”
. .
Lifting the box cover there were a handful of letters with his name neatly scribbled on the top.
Miya ‘Samu,
I am sorry to write you this letter. As I am a coward, and I was not able to truly tell you about my feelings from the bottom of my heart.
I shouldn’t be thinking about you. I shouldn’t be wanting you. I shouldn’t even be writing you this letter.
But here I am, writing to you, ‘Samu.
I regret not telling that I love you and if we there is ever another opportunity in the next life time that I will come find you.
Miyazaki Y/n
His eyes reread the entire letter again, and again before he opened the second letter.
Miya ‘Samu,
Tonight, I dreamed of you.
But it is every night that I wish everything was different.
I wish I had the courage to tell you that I am with child, my love.
And I’m so scared.
Miyazaki Y/n
Osamu’s hands tremble as he tries to comprehend everything. “I need to go to her.”
. .
Y/n learned to ignore the whispers and the obvious glances in her direction.
She is the talk of the town, a widow, pregnant and unwedded.
Placing a protective hand around her belly, Y/n continued shopping for the necessities.
Satoshi had returned home saying he would return in a few days.
As much as she tells him she can manage, she is forever thankful of his presence. Just having him there by her side regardless of her always tell him not to.
At one point she believed she could have returned his feelings but after discovering she is with child; she couldn’t do that to him. Or Osamu.
Guilt sat heavy on her shoulders as the last time she saw Osamu, he spilled his heart out to her and she wanted badly to forget all the right things she should do and allow her heart to lead. To go wherever as long as it was with him. She had already suspected she was with child then, but she wasn’t quite sure.
Her family has been nothing but supported of her, she was prepared to be disowned. Y/n was shocked when her mother hugged her, telling her there is nothing to worry about and that she will be there beside her.
Her body changed every day, and she logged letters to Osamu. It was her only source of comfort. Satoshi caught her writing these letters and inquired if she would send them to him, but she answered him with a simple no. She just needed a way to offload the feelings of knowing she’ll be alone during the pregnancy.
Y/n would talk to her unborn baby, describing their father and assured them they will be loved.
It was her first pregnancy; she didn’t know what to expect but she knew enough that when her tummy protruded immediately and immensely…
“Either you are much further along or… could you be expecting twins?” Her sister-in-law noted, nursing her 6-month-old baby. “I didn’t show that much until I was at the end of the pregnancy.”
The village midwife came to visit and confirmed what they all suspected, Y/n was expecting twins. “It will be much difficult but not impossible. You are at higher risk, but I have delivered many twins, have faith in me.”
Y/n paid the lady, placing the two cabbages in her basket and tightens her scarf around her head before returning home.
Her 4-year-old niece greeted her around the corner of their compound. “Aunty!”
“Iya,” Y/n smiles but her smile ceased when the look on her niece’s face alerts her. “Is something wrong?”
“Someone is here for you.”
Y/n didn’t need to ask who it was, the person appeared around the corner.
Osamu’s expression was unreadable. She could feel his eyes burning at her belly.
“Iya, can you tell your mother I’m going to go for a walk with him and I’ll be right back.” Y/n hands the basket to her, “can you take this to grandma?”
Once the little girl was out of sight, Y/n exhales softly, “Lord Miya.” Her heart thumped loudly as he stalked towards her. When he showed no sign of stopping she held her hands out to stop him, but he over powered her, pulling her into his arms. She melted into his touch for a few seconds before struggling to escape. “We mustn’t –“
Osamu pulls away and cups her face, forcing her to look right at him. “I did not marry Lady Imai.”
“What?” Her voice faintly whispered.
His eyes gaze at her longingly before he noticed the eyes of bystanders and they sharpen immediately. “Let’s find somewhere to talk in private.”
.
The first thing Osamu did was kiss her senseless the moment they walked into the empty kitchen. A large hand protected the back of her head as he backed her against the wall. He
He breaks away and they both gasp breathless.
Osamu pulls her tightly against his chest, cradling the back of her head. “I missed you. Missed you so much.” He pulls away and looks down between them before dropping down on to one knee. He presses both his palms to her belly, staring at it silently before looking up at her.
Y/n nods her head and places her hands over his, silently answering him.
Yes, yours…
Tears prick his eyes, and he blinks letting them slip at corner of his eyes. “I can’t… I can’t let you two go now…” he chokes on his words. “Please Y/n…”
With one hand, she wiped away his tear and smile. “Three.”
He frown confused, “what?”
“There may be two babies in there,” she answered softly.
“Two?” he gasped, and Y/n nodded. He pressed his forehead against her belly, hot tears spilling from his eyes. “I will give up everything… just – just don’t leave me again.”
.
The guest room door slides open, and Y/n looks up at her mother walking in with a tray of food. One glance at the sleeping figure on the futon,  she shook her head with a smile. She quietly stepped in and sets the food on the table. “He must be hungry, wake him up to eat. Dinner won’t be served for another few hours.”
Y/n nods and quietly thanks her mother who exits.
Looking down beside her, Osamu slept deeply away. After a meltdown she had to beg him to get up. Even though he was almost a whole head taller than her, he look like a child wiping away his tears. Once his tears was dried you can see the tiredness in them.
“When was the last time you slept?” Y/n asked cupping his cheek.
He leaned into her hand, “I was in a rush to get here, probably slept a total of like ten hours in my two-day ride?”
She took him to the guest room and made him change his clothes. She ordered him to rest, and she’ll come back for him at dinner time.
Y/n looked down at the hand that’s holding her back. “Stay with me.”
“’Samu –“
“Please?”
She couldn’t say no to those eyes.
She ran her fingers through his hair and watched him fall into a slumber, his grip on her other hand was firm, as if he was afraid she would run for it once he slept.
It has been over an hour since he’s fallen asleep. Running her fingers through his hair and she leans down whispering, “’Samu… wake up.”
He hums, turning his head to kiss her palm. “I’m not dreaming, right?”
Y/n giggles, “open your eyes and check for yourself.”
His eyes open and he smiles, “this is real, right?”
She nods, “yes, you, me and us.” He shifts his head onto her lap and nuzzle against her belly. “You should eat before the food gets cold.” He mumbles something against her pregnant belly. She pushes his head back, “what did you say?”
With no shame, “I want to eat you.”
Her eyes widen and she smacks his shoulder, whispering, “’Samu! Don’t say things like that.”
He bites his lower lip and hiding his smile. “Fine…”
. .
Y/n feels her face heating up by the second feeling the eyes of her family members burning at hers and Osamu’s locked hands.
Her family gathered to one side of the room while Osamu and Y/n sat on the other side. It was clear as day that he was the father of her unborn babies with the way his aura was spreading in the room.
Osamu would move mountains just to be with Y/n. He would no longer allow anything to get in his way to be with her and their unborn babies.
Her father was the first to speak after clearing his throat. “My Lord, you… you are aware my daughter here is a widow, right?”
“Yes, father, I am aware.” Osamu answered without a heartbeat.
Y/n’s head dropped as her face flushed into a darker pink at Osamu calling her father, father.
She could hear her mother and sister-in-law’s giggle and her brother and father’s gasp.
“Uh…” her father choked; he too begin to blush.
Osamu pulls his hand away from Y/n and bow, head to the floor.
Everyone in the room, including Y/n gasped.
“Please my Lord!” Her family shouted all in union.
He ignores Y/n’s attempt to lift his head. “Please forgive me, I am here to take responsibility and ask for your approval and blessing to marry Y/n.”
“My Lord, please lift your head and sit up.” Y/n’s mother pleaded.
With a deep sigh from her father, “yes, I forgive you. Please lift your head.”
Osamu lifts his head, “and your blessing?”
Her father cleared his throat again, “as long as you… are aware of her status– we have nothing else to say.”
“You will give us your blessing, father?” Osamu asked again.
Her father nodded, a growing smile on his face, “you have my blessing.”
Osamu immediately looks at Y/n with gleaming eyes.
“Y/n, look at me,” her father softly ordered. His eyes soften at his daughter, “be happy.”
. .
Her hand is sweaty against Osamu’s as they now sit in front of his parents, twin brother, and also pregnant sister-in-law.
Osamu’s mother burst out in tears. “Forgive your father and I, Osamu,” she looks at Y/n with tears falling. “And Y/n too, we hope you two will find it in your heart to forgive us and allow us to move forward from here.” She dabs her eyes with her sleeve, “I want to be part of my grandchildren’s life.”
“Of course,” Y/n softly answered.
Osamu’s father breaks his silence, “yes, please forgive us.” He looks at Y/n, “we welcome to the Miya family, Y/n.”
Y/n inhales, eyes becoming wet, “thank you, I am honor.”
“We forgive you,” Osamu answers quietly and looks at Y/n, “we would like our children to be part of their grandparent’s life too.”
Lady Atsumu smiles at Y/n and rubs her belly that seems to be the same size as hers. “Welcome to the family, Y/n.”
Osamu’s twin smiles identically to Osamu, “welcome to the family sister-in-law.”
. .
Osamu’s grunts fill their room with Y/n’s soft quiet moans.
Her belly has tremendously grown to protect his unborn babies and Osamu quickly discovered his wife looks amazingly beautiful pregnant.
She became tired from bouncing on is cock, so Osamu took over, shifting her on to her back and lifts one leg to hug it while thrusting slowly into her sweet pussy.
Osamu rubs her puffy clit bringing her over the edge as she cums around his cock.
“’Samu!” She moaned his name loudly, trembling and clutching onto the pillow.
He was close too, rolling his hips a few times he stilled as he shoots his load inside of her.
After a few seconds, stares down where his cock is still jerking from sensitivity. He loved staying buried inside of her, especially now when her pussy seemed to be more sensitive then usual.
“I love you,” he kisses her ankle before setting her leg down. He leans over to kiss her but stopped when he noticed something milky leaking from the tip of her nipples. With a closer look, he sees beads of milk forming. “Are you… lactating?”
Eyes closed and energy depleted, Y/n muttered, “for the last couple of days it’s been doing that.” It was fine until Osamu suckled her bosoms moments ago, stimulating the nipple to leak. She was just about to slip into slumber when she feels a pair of lips latch on to her tit and a hot tongue suckling.
Her hand slips into his messy hair, pushing his face further into her breast. “What – what are you doing?”
He mumbles something incoherent and continues to suckle and slurp.
After a few seconds Osamu lifts his head, tongue licking the corner of his lips. “Must take my share now before I have to start sharing.” He switches over to the other side.
Y/n covered her mouth with the back of her hand, to cover her moans. With Osamu still embedded inside of her too she was unconsciously clenching around his cock that became erect again.
. .
“For you.”
Y/n accepts the box wrapped in red ribbon from Lady Atsumu. “Thank you, sister-in-law.” She opens the gift, to reveal a beautiful wind-chime. “Oh my! It’s so beautiful.”
“Every home need one.” Lady Atsumu smiles.
Osamu and Y/n was gifted an estate as their wedding gift, and recently just settled in.
“May I touch your belly?”
Y/n gasp, “oh, yes!” Lady Atsumu presses her palm against her belly. “Osamu tells me you are expecting twins too. What are the odds of both of us pregnant with twins? Do you hope for boys or girls? Or one of each?”
“Ideally, one of each would be nice but many experience mothers who birth twins is telling me that I may be having boys.” Lady Atsumu pats Y/n’s belly, “how about you?”
“I want one of each too,” Y/n answered with hope, “but deep down, I have a feeling they will be boys, which is fine too.”
Lady Atsumu laughs, “what will we do with all boys?”
“Osamu and I will definitely get a taste of our own medicine then.” Lord Atsumu answers from behind. He hugs his wife and rubs her belly.
“If we do end up having boys, it will be they will be gentlemen for sure.” Osamu promised, coming from behind Y/n and hugging her close. “Boy or girl, I hope they will look like their mom.”
.
A few weeks later, Y/n gives birth to their twin sons two days later after Lady and Lord Atsumu who welcomed their twin sons.
The set of twins are a carbon copy of their twin fathers.
Like Atsumu, Osamu is over the moon with his sons. He is on his toes at any sort of movement or cry, ready to love and pamper his babies, including Y/n.
“They are adorable, you did well Lady Miyazaki.” One of the nurses said looking down at two infants in the same cot.  
Osamu had his arms wrapped protectively around his wife. “Miya.” Osamu corrected, “Just Miya. Lady Miya Y/n.”
.
.
.
E/n: #happytears. Again, thank you for being patient with me through my crazy imagination. I have requests for Tsukishima and Akaashi - so those two are on the list. I know I've mentioned Kuroo... and maybe Ushijima. Oh, I don't think I can leave Oikawa out. Or Iwa... the list will go on. I am getting back in touch with Wipe Your Eyes - I think I have it figured out where I want to go with that series. I may release a Naruto one-shot in between...
>>>@hellatrashdontask @queenelleee @wrongimagine @eadyladlegard @mfreedomstuff @erintaro @callmeraider @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wolffmaiden @satoritendoucultsacrifice @yourgonvermnethooker @littlemochi @cloud-lyy @pana-dolle @basmamme @haitanifxn @itsroseally @warrior-of-justice @jmnfilter @captainchrisstan @natriae @haikyuubiggestsimp
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