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burntheedges · 2 months

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Is this a date? 💜

Frankie Morales x f!reader | 9k words 18+ (rated E) | my fic list | ao3

a/n: Happy Valentine’s Day, Jenn! @jennaispunk I hope you enjoy my gift for you for the #SpaceSistersSecretValentine. it got a bit long (lol). I loved your prompts – this is the one I chose:

prompt/summary: Everyone is going to the Valentine’s Day party as a couple and it would look stupid if you both went alone, so you and Frankie go as a couple (of course that’s when you're forced to confront your feelings for each other).

tags/warnings: fluff, flirting, banter, food and drink mention, best-friends-to-lovers, kissing, smut, p-in-v sex, oral (f!receiving), creampie (use a condom, folks), pet names (hermosa, querida, bebita, preciosa, amor, baby, babe), dirty talk (in English and Spanish, translated in parentheses), no use of y/n, reader has no description other than having a vagina, being on birth control, and using she/her pronouns, AU (either no Colombia trip or better outcomes from the trip, you decide), no mention of breasts or bra

Thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta (as always) and to @urmomsgnocchi for looking over and helping with the Spanish dialogue! (check out ali’s tips for sexy talk in Spanish, too)

Is this a date?

Frankie grimaces as he drops out of the driver’s seat of his truck onto his driveway. He takes a moment to stretch his back, knowing it won’t actually help. The tightness he feels isn’t in his back, anyway.

He groans through the stretch and turns to grab his work bag from the backseat before locking his truck and heading inside, where he drops it by the front door. Toeing off his shoes, he shakes his head. He still feels it. He tries to ignore it and heads to his bedroom to change out of his work clothes, which are stained with engine grease from a long afternoon of repairs. It isn’t anywhere near as good as flying the helicopters or planes himself, but at least this way he still gets to work with them. (At least, that’s what he tells Pope whenever he asks.)

A few minutes later, Frankie is flopping onto his couch, beer in hand, no longer able to hide from the worry and the way he can feel it in his body. The way he has felt it, for weeks now.

Two weeks, to be exact.

He’s had the same pit in his stomach ever since Benny told him about the party. The Valentine’s Day party. Frankie sighs, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, and feels his hat fall off his head. He sighs again.

He doesn’t know what to do. For the first time in years, all of the guys are with someone. All of them, except for him. And all of the women he knows are dating someone.

Except for you.

Frankie presses his palms to his eyes and tries not to sigh again. He’s developing a habit and he knows the guys will call him on it. But he can’t help it. Not with his feelings about this, about you.

You’ll be the only two at the party without a date. And somehow Frankie had agreed that that meant the two of you should go together. As friends. On a friend date. And now the party is only one day away and Frankie feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. Maybe he should just fake sick, try to get out of it. But he doesn’t want to leave you hanging, even if he knows it’s going to be absolutely excruciating to be your fake date. Just for one night. Fuck.

(Pope, the absolute asshole, had been the one to suggest it while you were all out at the bar. Right after Benny invited everyone to the party.

“Well maybe the two of you should just go together, then!” Pope had been grinning as he said it, knowing he was getting under Frankie’s skin.

Frankie figured most of the guys knew he liked you, had probably noticed the way he couldn’t look away from you whenever you were in the room. But Pope was the only one who knew for sure, who had heard it straight from Frankie himself. He was using that knowledge for evil. “It’ll be fun! Give you a reason to get dressed up, Fish, stop looking so scruffy for once.”

Frankie had wanted the floor to swallow him up, or maybe just to run away. He wanted to look at you to see your reaction to all of this but also couldn’t bear to do it. He’d just stared at his beer, tense. He’d felt like he was one word away from bursting into action, with no idea what that action might be. Maybe strangling Pope with his bare hands.

But then you’d responded. “Give it a rest, Santi, we all know you just wish you could rock a mustache like Frankie.”

Everyone at your end of the bar had laughed and the conversation had mercifully moved on. Frankie had finally looked up and found you looking at him, too. You were smiling but he could tell you were nervous. He couldn’t think why you would be.

You both started talking at the same time.

“Sorry about Pope—“

“It’s not a bad idea—“

You both trailed off, and it took him a second to register your words.

“You don’t have to apologize for Santiago, Frankie, I have met him before. Once or twice.” You were smiling now, but he was stuck on what you’d just said.

“Wait, what isn’t a bad idea?” He reached for his beer.

“Oh! Um,” you looked nervous again. He tried not to do the same. “We could go to the party together. Since everyone else is paired up. You know, make it more fun.”

Frankie froze with his drink halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t been expecting that. You just meant as friends, right? You had to. In all the years he’d known you, he’d never thought for even a second that you might feel about him the way he feels about you.

He’d been quiet for too long. Your smile dropped and you started again. “I mean, we don’t have to—“

“No! Wait,” Frankie hastily put his beer down, barely noticing the way it spilled onto his hand when he almost missed the bar top.

“It was just an idea, I mean—“

“Hold on,” he slid his dry hand closer to yours on the bar but didn’t touch you. “I didn’t say it was a bad idea. It probably would be more fun.” He was trying not to hope you’d mean to suggest a date. No way.

You nodded, still looking nervous. “Yeah, we could, um–” he watched as you took a deep breath. “Maybe do the whole thing, you know? Get dressed up. Make it fun.”

The whole thing. Frankie felt his hope rising and tried to shove it back down. “You mean, um. Do you mean as—”

Your eyes widened and you sat up straight on your barstool. “No!” Your voice was loud and Frankie was a bit surprised. “I mean, not like that.” You laughed but you looked uncomfortable doing it, and he didn’t know how to take it. “Just as friends, right? A friend date. Or something.”

Frankie had felt his heart drop into his shoes. A friend date. The last thing he wanted, and probably the best he would ever get. He’d agreed, trying not to notice your relief when he did.

And he’d been trying not to think about it ever since.)

You’d barely talked to him since that night and Frankie was trying not to read into it. You’d agreed, before you’d parted ways that night – a friend date. He’ll pick you up at 6, you’ll both dress up a bit. Try to have some fun.

Fun. He scoffs to himself, thinking of it. More like, try not to think too much about how he wishes it was a real date. Try not to make it weird.

Usually you text him daily. Not always for long conversations, but you would share funny or annoying things about your day, and Frankie would do the same. But not since that night. The radio silence is killing him, but he doesn’t want to push and find out that you’ve gone quiet for exactly the reason he’s afraid of.

Sometime in the last two weeks Frankie has allowed himself to face the reality of the situation. Sure, he’s admitted to Pope in the past that he likes you. But the distance between you has given him the space he apparently needed to face up to the truth, something he’s secretly known all along – he’s in love with you. Absolutely head over heels, fully lost, one hundred percent in love. He’s been lying to himself, afraid to acknowledge it. But he is, and now he’s afraid he’s lost you before he can even do anything about it.

You’re his best friend. You have been for a while now. And you deserve a good date, even if it kills Frankie to give it to you. So he’ll do it. And he’ll try not to hope too much for more.

Frankie doesn’t sleep much that night.

…

On the day of the party, you wake up at 6am. You’re lying in bed, asleep, and then suddenly you’re awake and staring at the ceiling and your first thought is, it’s today. Your friend date is today, and you press your hands to your face to hide from yourself.

You can’t believe you got yourself into this situation. You’d been so close, breaths away from suggesting an actual date with Frankie. And you’d chickened out at the last minute. Like you did every time. You’d wanted to kick yourself the moment the words “friend date” came out of your mouth, but there was nothing you could do about it now.

Not without admitting the truth.

(After Frankie had left, Santiago had made his way over to you and leaned against the bar next to you with a serious look on his face.

“So I guess you heard that,” you said, groaning.

He nodded. “You should ask him out for real.”

You shook your head in response. “If he wanted that, he would have said so.”

Santiago rolled his eyes at you. “You and I both know Fish isn’t going to do that. He’s all in his head about this.”

You sighed. “I just–” you swallowed and closed your eyes. “What if you’re wrong, Santi? I can’t lose what we have now.”

He’d looked at you, and as always you appreciated that Santiago took your feelings so seriously. He was a good friend.

“Well, then, you have a couple of weeks to think about it. About what you want. And then at the party you can see. Flirt a bit. You’ll have his full attention, and you know it. And you’re his best friend, you know that, too. You won’t lose him. Either way.”)

It reassured you at the time, but it turns out that something had changed that night. You feel like you’ve forgotten how to be friends with Frankie all of a sudden and it hurts. What if you’ve already lost him? Because of this stupid friend date?

By the morning of the date, you’re in knots. You can barely focus and you have no idea where the day goes – the time flies by and suddenly it’s 5pm and you’re rushing into your bedroom to get ready.

You know what you’re going to wear. You’d pictured it in your mind, the same night you’d gotten yourself into this mess. There’s an outfit you’ve been saving for a special date (a date with Frankie, you try not to think) and it’s time to bring it out. You’re hoping, and trying not to hope too much, that Frankie will be blown away by it. That something will happen tonight. That things will change, but not so much that you lose your best friend.

You look at yourself in the mirror and you know you look good. This is how you were hoping you’d look for a first date with Frankie, and you try to let that be a good sign. You take a deep breath and close your eyes.

Here we go.

Frankie, always punctual, rings your doorbell right at 5:59pm. It makes you smile and you feel some of your nerves fade away.

They all come rushing back when you open the door and see him.

Frankie is wearing dark jeans and a deep purple button up dress shirt, both of which fit him perfectly. His beard is neatly trimmed and he’s not wearing a hat. His curls are loose and styled and your breath catches in your throat. He’s holding flowers. You barely notice the way his eyes have widened as he looks at your outfit, too.

“Your hair!”

“You look amazing–”

You speak at the same time, and then you both smile. It relaxes you a little bit.

“Your hair looks great, Frankie, I can’t believe you’re not wearing a hat!”

He grins a little. “I wouldn’t wear a hat on a first date, come on.” The words send a shiver up your spine and you try not to read into them. But you want to. “Um, or a friend date, I guess.”

“Um,” you reply, and then mentally kick yourself. “Well, it looks really nice.”

He blushes. “Thanks. I mean it, you look amazing. I’ve never seen this number before.” He gestures at your outfit, and you smile wider. “And these are for you.” He hands you the flowers, and you look down at them, overwhelmed. You step inside to find a vase and Frankie lingers near the door behind you.

“I’ve been saving it,” you say over your shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“The outfit.” You smooth your hands down your sides and try not to look nervous as you turn back around to face him.

“Oh yeah? For what?”

“Oh, um. For a first date.” You can’t believe you just said that. But he said it first, and that means you can say it too, right? You keep talking before either of you can dwell on that thought. “Should we go? Don’t want to be late.”

Frankie steps back to let you move past him and nods. “Sure. Don’t want Benny to give us crap for missing any of his party.” You laugh.

You feel better in the car. This feels easy, as easy as it always does with Frankie. Whatever weirdness has arisen between you hasn’t broken what you already have. It’s a comforting realization.

As Frankie pulls over to park outside Benny’s house, he asks, “so, how do you want to play this?”

You tilt your head at him. “What do you mean?”

He gestures at the house. “They’re going to tease us for this, you know that. About how we’re on a date. How do you want to play it?”

You consider him, and wonder if this is your chance to test the waters. You turn your upper body to face him and lean against the door of his truck. With a teasing smile of your own, you reply, “well, they’re expecting us to be awkward, right? They’ll tease us, we’ll be weird about it, they laugh. What if we beat them to it?”

Frankie turns towards you and rests his left arm on the steering wheel. He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we go in there and act like we’re on a date? Not like two friends who are expecting to be given hell for it. Like we’re on a real date. It’ll confuse the hell out of them, they won’t know what to do with it.” You hold your breath while you wait for Frankie’s answer. You have no idea what it will be.

His brow is furrowed as he looks between you at the gear shift. “But…” he trails off and you reach over to nudge his hand to encourage him. He slips his hand over yours slowly and squeezes. It isn’t the first time in your years of being friends that he’s held your hand to reassure you like this but you badly want to read more into it now. “I see what you’re saying. It would probably be pretty funny to see their faces.” You nod. “But what about… after? Since it’s not a real date.”

You meet his eyes and gather your courage. “Who said it isn’t?” And before he can reply, before you can even see his reaction, you open the door behind you and slip out of the car.

“Wait!” You hear Frankie call for you and try not to grin too widely. He comes jogging around the back of his truck and meets you halfway across the lawn of Benny’s house. “Wait, hey, hold on. What do you mean?”

You focus on walking, and he falls into step next to you. You can feel his eyes on you as you step up to the front door. Before you knock you look at him and meet his familiar warm gaze. “I meant what I said, Frankie. Who said it’s not a real date? Maybe it could be.”

You turn away and knock without letting him reply. You’re vibrating with nerves, surprised at your audacity. You’re certain he can see the tension in your body, the nerves. But maybe this is what you need, to see if you can have what you want.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Frankie straighten up and shake his head. He goes to run his fingers through his hair but stops himself. Suddenly, he steps closer and slips an arm around your waist to pull you close to him. You gasp at the feeling of his body, warm and solid along your right side. “If you wanted this to be a date, hermosa, you only had to ask.” His voice is deeper, suddenly, and he’s so close to your ear you can feel his breath.

You start to turn your head towards him to respond, but before you can, the door flies open in front of you. You both turn towards it, startled.

“Hey, you two! You’re late!” Benny smiles widely when he sees you waiting on his porch. He’s wearing a bright red dress shirt and holding a pink cocktail. He starts to gesture you inside when his eyes fall to Frankie’s arm, which is still snug around your waist. You can see his surprise and decide it’s now or never.

“Hi Benny,” you reply, leaning into Frankie and smiling. “Where’s the party at?”

His eyes dart between you. “Go straight through to the kitchen. Hey, I thought–”

You cut him off. “Thanks! Let’s grab something to drink, Frankie, I’m thirsty.” You step forward and reach back to catch Frankie’s hand as he lets it fall from your waist. As you pass by Benny, you know he’s staring at your hands, which are laced together and holding tight. Frankie squeezes your hand and it reassures you.

When you arrive at the kitchen, Frankie crowds behind you, much closer than he ever has before. His hands land lightly on your hips. You have no idea what your face is doing.

You need to focus. This was your big idea and clearly Frankie is shifting into some first-date mode that you’ve never seen before. Get it together. Flirting is clearly on the table, now, and you need to step it up.

As you move into the room, with Frankie close behind, the others yell greetings and welcome you in. You notice that Benny and Steph have gone all out with the decorations – the kitchen looks like you’re inside a Valentine’s card. And most of the food and drinks are red or pink (or made of chocolate). Soon enough you have a drink in your hand and you’re deep in conversation with Santiago’s girlfriend, Yovanna. Frankie stands behind you, left hand on your left hip, drink in his right. You can feel his body heat and you’re trying not to let how flustered you are show on your face.

After a few minutes, Santiago comes over to pull Frankie into another of the boys’ longstanding arguments about something or other. Before he goes, Frankie suddenly shifts his grip on your hip and squeezes. He leans close to murmur in your ear, “I’ll be back soon, hermosa.” His words send warmth spiraling down your spine and you shiver. You blink and meet Yovanna’s eyes.

She has one eyebrow raised as she takes a long sip of her drink. “So, what’s going on here, hmm?”

You feel your cheeks heat and throw back the rest of your own drink. “A real date, I think.”

“You think?”

You shake your head. “We just said it, or I did, outside. ‘Who said it’s not a real date? Maybe it could be.’ And then it was like he flipped a switch and now Frankie is flirting and I’m still catching up. Even though it was my idea. I guess.”

She laughs a little, but kindly. “He’s head over heels for you, you know. Of course he’s flirting. You gave him the go ahead and now he’s going all in. He knows what he wants.” She nudges you with her shoulder. “You should get him back. Raise the stakes.”

You tilt your head, considering her words. “You think so? I’m still worried I’m going to mess this up.”

Yovanna looks around the room before stepping closer to you. She lowers her voice. “You’re in love with that man. You gave him an opening, and he leapt through it. Go get him.”

You knew that, of course. But something about the way she says it to you flips the switch for you, this time. You look over at Frankie, who has his back to you, and you smirk. She nods. “That’s right. He wants you. And I can’t wait to see the look on his face when you show him you want him, too.”

You grin at her and give her a hug. “I think I need to go save my date from your boyfriend.” She laughs and waves you onward.

As you approach, you see Santiago notice you and you wink at him. He grins but doesn’t let Frankie see his distraction. He’s still got his back turned when you step up behind him and slide your right arm around his waist, ducking under his left. “Hey, babe. You want something to eat?” You can feel the way his body responds to yours – he turns towards you immediately, like it’s second nature, and his left arm wraps snugly around your shoulders. He looks surprised, but he meets your gaze with a delighted smile.

“I could eat.” He runs his fingers down your arm lightly, and you bite your lip. You turn to Santiago, and realize Will and Benny are there, too.

“I’m stealing him, boys.”

Santiago is grinning, hugely, while Will and Benny both look like someone just hit them over the head with something heavy. They look shocked and you smile innocently at them in response.

“Come on, Frankie.” He follows easily as you tug him away and you realize how attuned to you he is, like always.

“Was about to come find you, hermosa.” He leans closer to murmur into your ear and you shiver. “Would much rather talk to you than those idiots.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm, of course.” You feel Frankie’s nose brush against the top of your ear and your breath catches. But you’ve arrived at the table laden with food and he stands up straight. “Seems like we have a lot to talk about.” You meet his eyes again and for a moment you both just stare at each other, knowing somehow that you’re both recognizing the huge shift in your relationship that just happened as you arrived at this party. You start to reach out towards him when Steph comes flying into the room.

“It’s game time! Everyone in the living room, stat!” She taps you both on the shoulders as she passes, and you sigh.

“I guess it’s game time.” You laugh ruefully as you say it, reaching out to grab Frankie’s hand as you move towards the living room.

But he uses his grip on your hand to pull you back in and ducks forward to press a fleeting kiss to your cheek. “I’ll be ready to talk whenever you are.” You feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you smile at him helplessly.

“Smooth moves, Morales.”

He grins as you tease him. “Only for you, baby.”

In the living room you find that the group has split, with the boys on one side and the significant others on the other. Steph claps her hands together when you arrive and gestures for you to split up, too. “To your sides, you two! It’s us versus them!”

It turns out Steph has planned a series of games that pit the two halves of each couple against each other. It’s fun – the whole room is laughing, everyone is having a good time.

But it also means that you and Frankie are separated for most of the evening, watching each other from across the room. You know it’s obvious – your friends have elbowed you more than once, and Yovanna waggles her eyebrows at you after you watch (and admire) Frankie drawing so carefully and precisely for Pictionary. You roll your eyes back at her.

You feel his eyes on you, too. Watching as you read off a clue, tracing down your back as you draw for Pictionary. He’s looking at you, only at you, and it’s washing over you like the tide, pulling you to move back to his side.

It’s a long while before the games are exhausted, and therefore a long while before you find yourself next to Frankie again. The group has dispersed, filled the room, and Benny puts on some music for dancing before pulling Steph into his arms over by the fireplace. You’re smiling and watching them when Frankie steps up beside you. He leans in and you turn towards his warmth like a flower turning towards the sun.

“Dance with me, hermosa?” He wraps his arms around your waist from behind as he says it, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the base of your throat. You shiver as you lean back against him and nod.

“Yes, Frankie. Anytime.” He grins into your neck and you close your eyes, wondering how you got here so quickly. It feels amazing but you’re also reeling at the change. Frankie just kissed you.

He steps back and grabs your hand to lead you down the hallway to the backyard. “I thought we were going to dance?” You look back and notice all of the other couples are still in the living room.

“We are,” he agrees. “But I want you all to myself, for a minute.” You smile and follow him out the backdoor. Benny and Steph clearly decorated out here, too, and there are twinkling lights everywhere. You can hear the music piping through the speakers on the back porch.

Frankie leads you down the steps and into the yard, and you feel the anticipation building inside of you. He turns to the right to step into the shadow of a tree. You realize you’re now out of sight of the back door and you raise an eyebrow at him when he pulls you back into his arms.

“All to yourself, huh?” Not that you’d rather be anywhere else but here.

He smiles at you as you start to sway back and forth to the music. “Come on, baby, can you blame me? I just found out a couple of hours ago that I’m on a real first date with the woman of my dreams, and I’ve barely had a minute alone with her since.” You feel your cheeks heat as you grin at him and tighten your right arm around his neck.

“The woman of your dreams, huh?” The idea of it makes you feel breathless, almost dizzy. Of his dreams.

His gaze softens and he nods. “Yeah, querida. You have to know that by now.” He pulls you closer. “I wanted this, so much. You’re my best friend, and you’re more than that. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. I just never thought you’d feel the same.”

You run your fingers through his hair at the back of his neck and watch as he shivers. “I do, Frankie. For a long time, now.”

He tilts his head, considering your answer. “How long?”

“Well…”

He grins. “Come on, baby, bet I’ve got you beat.”

You frown at him. “I think…” He squeezes your waist to encourage you and you laugh. “Well, definitely since you helped me build that bookshelf.”

His eyes widen. “The bookshelf? The one in your bedroom?” You nod. “That was years ago. You mean we could have been together all this time?” For a moment he looks crestfallen, but shakes his head. “No, wait, I’m sorry. I did hope for that. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy right now.” You smile at him. That’s Frankie, for you – always so worried about how everyone around him is feeling.

“It’s ok, Frankie. I know what you mean. But I also love being your best friend. And that took us a while.”

“... also?” His eyes were locked on yours, intent. You felt your heart rate pick up.

“What?”

“You said you also love being my best friend. What do you mean, also?”

Shit. You bite your lip, unsure of how to reply. It’s too early, right? Even if you have known for years. You can’t confess your love on a first date.

Can you?

His gaze drops to your mouth and he smirks. “Hey, baby, it’s ok, I’ll go first. Te amo.”

Your mouth drops open and he grins. “Frankie?” You’re sure you look absolutely shocked.

“Te amo sin freno, preciosa. Ever since that day you pushed Pope in the lake.” (I love you no matter what (a lot).)

You’re gawking at him now. That was only a month after you met. “Frankie! That was–”

“I know,” he lifts his left hand to cup your face gently. “And I didn’t know it then. But I recognize it now. I was head over heels from the beginning.”

You throw yourself at him before he even finishes speaking, and he laughs as he wraps his arms around you. You press your face into his neck and let him hold you close. You feel like your whole body is tingling, head to toe. Frankie loves you.

You take a deep breath and say, voice steady and full of emotion, “I love you, too, Francisco Morales.” You feel his breath catch and you grin. “I’m in love with you.”

Frankie suddenly lets you go, and you almost stumble before he grabs your face in his hands to pull you in for a kiss.

It’s not what you imagined kissing Frankie would be like.

It’s better.

His hands are large and warm as he cradles your face gently between them. His lips are soft and firm as he presses his mouth to yours. You can feel the heat of his body against your own and you sigh as you let your weight rest against him, wrapping your arms around his waist. His thumb brushes your cheek as his tongue teases your bottom lip, and you start to open for him, eager. You feel more than hear the small moan that escapes you. Frankie smiles against your lips and wraps one of his hands around the back of your neck.

That’s when you’re interrupted.

“I’ll get it going!” Benny comes barreling out of the back door, shouting about the firepit. Frankie doesn’t step away from you but he breaks your kiss, looking up to watch as Benny jogs past the two of you. He doesn’t seem to notice you standing by the tree.

“Fuck,” Frankie releases a breath and rests his forehead against yours. “Fuckin’ Benny.” You can’t help but laugh, and Frankie joins you. Your laughter seems to finally attract his attention.

“Well, hello, lovebirds.” You look over and find Benny grinning at you, hands on his hips, firepit forgotten. “What are you two up to back here, hiding behind that tree? Hmm?”

You roll your eyes at him as Frankie buries his face in your shoulder. “Well, we were having a pretty good dance, until someone interrupted.” You raise your eyebrows at him and he laughs before tilting his head at you, seeming to consider something.

“So this is a real date, then?”

You nod, and Frankie finally picks his head up to look at Benny. “Our first date.”

“Well, shit.” Benny winks at you. “You know, Fish, if you leave right now you can probably sneak around the side of the house before anyone realizes. Maybe take your date somewhere more romantic. And private.”

Frankie looks startled, and then smiles down at you. “Need anything from inside, querida?”

You bite your lip. “My bag and my coat are in there.” Frankie starts to frown, but Benny moves closer and interjects.

“Oh I can handle a little op like that, no problem.” He claps his hand on Frankie’s shoulder, grinning again. “You two go around the side and I’ll meet you out front. No one’ll notice. They’re all still in the living room.”

You both nod, and you can see the way Frankie relaxes. “Thanks, Benny.”

“Don’t mention it, man. Just go somewhere more romantic. Don’t hang out with us losers on your first date.” You laugh as Frankie takes you by the hand to lead you down the path that circles the house. Benny actually salutes before heading inside to take care of his part of the plan.

It must go off without a hitch, because he hands you your things by the front door and waves you onward, smiling. You and Frankie are both giggling as you sneak around the corner and run across the lawn. You practically leap into the passenger seat of his truck, grinning as you watch Frankie start it up and throw it into drive. He peels away from the curb so fast the tires squeal.

He reaches over to grab your hand once you’re on your way, lifting it to press a soft kiss to your knuckles that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Where to, hermosa? Want to go get a drink? Maybe some dessert?”

You turn and let your temple rest against your headrest as you consider it. Consider him. You’d love to go out with him on a real date, but right now there’s only one thing on your mind.

“Come home with me, Frankie?”

He grins at the road and squeezes your hand. “You sure you don’t want to go out for real, first?”

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the center console. Your joined hands fall into his lap and you smile as your hand comes to rest on his thigh. “I do want that. But we have all the time in the world to go out. I know what I want, Francisco.” You pause and he turns to look at you as he pulls to a stop at a red light. “You.” You watch as his eyes darken and you smile. “Take me home.”

Frankie nods eagerly and turns right when the light turns green, in the direction of your house. Only minutes later he’s pulling into your driveway and you’re out of the truck almost before he pulls the key out of the ignition.

He meets you as you round the front, arms snaking around your waist as he backs you up against the side of your garage.

“Hey, baby.” He leans in to press a soft kiss to your lips. You run your hands into his hair. “Shit, it feels so good to hold you like this.” He kisses you again, and this time you both get swept away in it. Until a car passes by on the street and you remember you’re still outside.

“Frankie,” you breathe his name as he presses soft kisses down the side of your neck. “Frankie, let’s go inside.”

“Mmm, in a minute.” He nibbles at a spot just below your ear and you whine, so quiet you can barely hear it.

“Francisco.” You try to sound stern, but you miss it by a mile. He laughs.

“Alright, alright.” He steps back and grabs your hands as they fall from his hair. “Let’s get inside, querida, I got plans for you tonight.”

You follow him towards your door with a grin. “Oh yeah? What plans are those?”

He tugs the keys from your fingers and opens the door for you, ushering you inside. “Well, the first item on the agenda tonight is licking your pussy until you come for me.”

You stumble, bracing yourself on the wall as you slip your shoes off, almost face-planting on the floor. You turn to look at him, incredulous. “Frankie!”

He’s looking at you with a cocky half smile and you feel the arousal pooling in your underwear. “Please, baby? I’ve been dreaming about it. For so long.” His words are a plea but his tone is something else entirely. He sounds so sure of himself. Your head spins and you turn to let your back fall to rest against the wall. Frankie is only this cocky when he knows, without a single doubt, how good he is at something. You know that, and you’ve heard the guys tease him for how much he likes doing it. The promise that underlies his words makes your legs feel like they might give out.

“Y-yes, Frankie,” you breathe and he steps forward to wrap you up securely in his arms. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He kisses your cheek and starts to walk with you towards your bedroom. Before you can even catch your breath he’s easing you down onto the edge of your bed and kneeling in front of you. “Can’t wait to get my mouth on you, hermosa. Lo necesito.” (I need it.)

Sitting in front of him, you reach for your clothes and smile as you tease him. “Lo necesitas? Really?” (You need it?)

“Sí, querida,” he helps you remove your clothes until only your underwear is left. “Estoy desesperado.” (I’m desperate for it.) He winks and then leans forward to press a kiss over your underwear. “Por favor? (Please?) Let me make you feel good. I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good. Lo prometo.” (I promise it.)

You shiver at his words and move to slip your underwear off. As you do he leans forward and pushes your thighs apart. His gaze is locked on your pussy as you reveal yourself to him.

“Baby, you are so fucking beautiful. Every bit of you.” His eyes raise to meet yours and your breath catches at the look on his face. “Relax, let me take care of you.”

You fall backwards onto the bed at his urging. Frankie leans forward again and presses a soft kiss to your slit. Your fingers tangle in his hair without you even realizing you were going to do it. He slides one hand upwards from your thigh and gently opens up your pussy under his gaze.

“Hermosa,” he breathes, and you feel it on your clit. You squirm. “Lo sabía. Estás tan mojada, bebita. Es todo para mí?” (I knew it. You’re so wet, baby. Is this all for me?)

You lift up on your elbows to meet his gaze and nod, grinning. “Always for you, Frankie.”

“Mm,” he hums and moves forward to lick a devastating stripe from your entrance up to your clit. “Que cosita tan linda. Tan deliciosa.” (What a pretty little thing. So delicious.) And then he stops talking, focusing fully on eating you out with devastating precision.

His tongue teases at your clit before pressing down firmly, sending a spike of pleasure shooting up your spine. His fingers tease at your entrance while he finds a rhythm with his tongue that has you clutching at this hair. “Yes, Frankie–”

He presses forward lightly with one finger, slipping inside of you, and you moan. You’ve caught yourself staring at his hands so many times and the stretch is better than you ever imagined. He curls it and presses inside of you at the same time as his tongue circles your clit, and you shiver. His tongue and his fingers work together to push you higher and higher as you struggle to keep from closing your thighs around his head.

Fuck, he really is good at this. He slips another finger inside of you and you gasp, arching your back.

Frankie reads you like a book – he learns from every moan, every breath, and soon you’re almost there. You feel it, just out of reach as he holds you on the edge.

“Frankie, I’m– I’m gonna–” Your voice is breathy as you thrust your hips towards his mouth. He hold you down with one hand while he fucks you with the other.

He leans back for just a moment, moving his thumb up to replace his tongue, drawing gentle circles around your clit. “I know, querida. I can feel it. Dámelo.” (Give it to me.) He dives back in and opens his mouth against your pussy, and you cry out.

He hums, and you feel it through his tongue and his lips. He thrusts his fingers inside at the same moment and you feel yourself start to fall over the edge.

“Frankie–” You arch your back and tug at his hair. He suddenly moves his mouth downwards as his fingers take over teasing your clit, and your breath comes out like a sob when he pushes his tongue inside of you. “Yes, please–”

One more thrust of his tongue and a clever movement of his fingers and you’re gone. You rocket over the edge into an orgasm that feels years in the making, like Frankie has been stoking the fire and then set it ablaze for you now. You think you say his name, but you can’t be sure. Your entire body is trembling as it washes over you.

You take a great, heaving breath, and lift your head up to look for Frankie again. He has his chin resting on your pelvis, clearly waiting for you to come down. He’s smiling, eyes half open. His hair is a wild mess. His face glistens with evidence of where’s been.

He looks so fucking smug. You look at him and you feel something tug at your heart.

“You’re fucking beautiful when you come, querida.” His lips are quirked in a half smile but his voice is deep, almost gravely. He dips down swiftly to press a gentle kiss against your clit, and your legs twitch. “Better than I ever imagined. Never seen anything so pretty in my life.”

You cup his face in your hand and smile. “Shit, you really are good at that.”

He tilts his head. “At what?”

You roll your eyes but indulge him. “At using your mouth.”

Frankie grins, clearly delighted. “Well, when you’re properly motivated, it’s easy to practice until you get it right.” He winks at you.

You laugh and shake your head. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmm,” he hums as he pushes himself up, crawling over you on the bed. “Of course. And you know I have to keep my skills up. Keep practicing.”

“Is that an offer, Francisco?”

You feel him press his grin to your neck and you smile at the ceiling. “I’ll eat your pussy any time you like, querida. Just say the word.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Best thing I ever tasted. Only thing I want to do from now on, put my mouth all over you.”

You squirm a little, overwhelmed by his praise. “How are you still fully dressed?”

He laughs and sits back, straddling your hips. “Want me to strip for you baby?”

You nod and push at him lightly until he stands up. “Give me a show, Frankie.”

Frankie stands back and smiles, a little shy as he raises his hands to his buttons. “Am I supposed to dance?”

You tilt your head to one side and smile at him. “Frankie, you know I love the way you look. You could just pull your shirt off normally and I’ll be staring, totally distracted. It’s what happens every single time anyway.”

He furrows his brow. “How have we never noticed?” He’s deftly undoing his buttons now and you’re watching intently as each one reveals more of his chest to you.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

He smirks as he shrugs his shirt off, and you bite your lip but keep staring at his arms anyway.

“I mean, querida, how did we never notice we’ve been looking all this time? I mean, I know I was looking at you. Shit, the way you look in your bathing suit? Those little shorts you wear around the house on your days off?” He sighs, closing his eyes like he’s picturing it, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks. You laugh at yourself, just a little, because you’re sitting naked in front of this man and you still react to his teasing like this. “You’ve been killing me, hermosa. And you’re saying you’ve been looking at me, too?”

You reach for him as he undoes his belt and help him with the button and zipper of his jeans. “Maybe we were both too scared of getting caught. To see what was right in front of us.”

Frankie strips off his jeans and the sight of him in just his black briefs stops your breath. You reach out and run your hands down his broad chest and hips, sliding around the back to squeeze his ass in both hands. You grin up at him. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

He smiles back and steps closer. You can see how hard he is in his briefs and you move to tug at the bottom hem, hand on his thigh. “One last act in your show, Frankie.” You start to pull and he lets you, moving his legs apart to make it easier as you slide his briefs down his legs. His cock springs lightly from the waistband and your eyes widen.

You knew Frankie was big. You’ve been swimming together, after all, many times. His body isn’t a total mystery to you. You’ve also heard the guys teasing him for it. But you’ve never seen him hard.

He’s big. His cock is beautiful – long, yes, but really what’s blowing your mind is how wide it is. How much girth it has.

“Shit,” you breathe, and without your conscious input your hand moves from his briefs to his cock. You lightly brush your fingers down his length and smile as it sends a shiver up his spine. When you look up and meet his eyes they’re dark, and hungry. “Frankie, you’re huge.” You punctuate your statement with a firm grip of his cock, and his hips thrust forward as you slide your hand up and down, once. You watch as his eyes flutter closed and his mouth drops open.

“Fuck,” his voice is deep, deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “Yeah? Big enough for you, baby?” You can hear it in his voice again – he knows. He knows how big his cock is and you feel your arousal growing as you think about how he probably knows exactly what to do with it.

“Francisco.” He looks down to meet your gaze. He’s breathing hard already, cheeks tinged pink and mouth wide. “Fuck me.” You say it firmly, steady, no hesitation. A slow, cocky grin takes over Frankie’s face and your eyes widen.

“Querida, I will give you everything you want.” He crowds you back onto the bed, shifting so you’re lying in the middle with him hovering over you. You brush your hands across his shoulders and marvel at how beautiful he looks like this, holding himself up, surrounding you. The head of his cock brushes against your stomach and you both moan. “That’s all I want. All I’ve ever wanted. To give you what you want. Always.” He murmurs the last word into your throat as he runs his right hand down your side, fingers seeking out your pussy again. When he finds how wet you are, even more than before, he nips lightly at your jaw with a smile. “Shit. You think you can take it, hermosa?”

You nod, eyes falling closed. Frankie presses inside you again with two fingers and you sigh. “Let me open you up a bit, first. Get you ready.”

“Frankie–” you try to protest, hands tangling in his hair to urge him onward, and he chuckles, darkly.

“I don’t want to hurt you, baby. Not ever. Let me take care of you.” You nod and let him work you open on his fingers, gasping every time he brushes against that spot inside of you that makes you see sparks. After a few minutes he’s thrusting three fingers in and out and the sounds of how soaked you are fill the room.

The feeling of him above you and around you is overwhelming. You run your hands up and down his arms and chest and marvel that you can, that you’re allowed to reach out and touch. Finally. After so long.

It feels so good, you can’t wait any longer. “Now, Frankie, please–”

He nips at your shoulder again and curls his fingers inside of you. “Now, hermosa? Quieres algo?” (You want something?)

You poke him in the side and he laughs. You feel the love you have for his man start to well up inside of you. “You know what I want, Frankie.”

“Mmm,” he hums and presses a line of soft kisses down your neck. “Quiero oírte decirlo, bebita.” (I want to hear you say it, baby.)

You nod and pull him into a short kiss. You hold him there, lips brushing yours, as you say, “I want you to fuck me, Frankie. I want your cock. I want you to stretch me open. I want to feel you, everywhere.” He shudders and you can’t tear your eyes away from the effect your words have on him. His arms tremble and his shoulders hitch up by his ears. His hips stutter forward and he presses quick kisses to your mouth and chin and neck and mouth again.

“Shit. I know you’re on birth control, baby, do you have a condom?” You both know how long it’s been since either of you had sex. He is your best friend, after all.

You don’t hesitate. “Don’t need one.”

“You sure?”

“I just want you, Frankie. Always have.”

“Fuck,” he breathes the word into your mouth before pulling you into another kiss. “How’d I get so fucking lucky, huh?”

As he speaks, Frankie reaches down to spread open your pussy. He slides his cock against you, nudging your clit with the head. You pull him into another kiss. For a moment he just thrusts against you, and the slide of his length against you makes your head spin.

On the next thrust, he moves his mouth to your ear as he pulls his hips back. “You are so fucking beautiful, you know that? I can’t believe you’re here, with me. Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

The head of his cock notches against your entrance and you both suck in a sharp breath.

“Fuck, querida, if I’d have known? That you wanted this?” He begins to thrust forward and you feel the head of his cock stretch you open. Your next breath sounds like a sob. “All I want is to take you apart. To make you feel so fucking good you can’t think of anything but my cock inside of you, my tongue on your pussy.” He thrusts inside shallowly, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He presses a kiss to your neck under your ear and you whine, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“Look, querida.” He lifts up and looks down your bodies, pulling his hips up until just the tip is still inside of you. You stare. “Mira como me toma.” (Look how she takes me.) He thrusts back inside and you moan as you watch. He fills you up completely, this time, and you’re so fucking full you can barely breathe. You can feel every inch of him and it’s everything you’ve wanted.

“Yes, Frankie, yes—“

“Yeah?” He finds a rhythm and you feel it start to build inside you again, climbing up your spine. “Así no? Así te gusta?” (Like that yeah? You like that?)

You nod, and he kisses you. His hips keep up their devastating rhythm and you try to rise to meet him. You can feel yourself getting closer, and Frankie must sense it, somehow, because he slides his right hand down to gently circle your clit. You arch your back at the touch and he slams into you again, hard.

“Yes, I—“

“I know. I can feel it. Come on, baby. Come for me. Just like that.”

And you do. When Frankie tells you to, you do — you feel it like a lightning strike down your spine. It washes out your vision and steals your breath. You cry out, maybe his name, maybe something wordless, and you come back to yourself and realize he’s murmuring in your ear as his thrusts pick up speed.

“… no sé cómo es posible que tengo tanta suerte. Que eres mía. Ay, hermosa, mi preciosa, mi— fuck—“ (I don’t know how it’s possible that I got this lucky. That you’re mine. Oh, beautiful, my precious, my— fuck—)

You tangle your hands in his hair again as you feel his hips stutter forward. “Yes, Frankie. Come for me, baby.”

He moans and thrusts forward again. You tug at his hair to pull his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open, wrecked.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and murmur, “así amor así. Dámelo.” (Just like that, love. Give it to me.)

You watch as he thrusts forward one last time and his orgasm washes over him. It’s fucking beautiful. You’ve known him for so long and still you’ve seen so much of him tonight that you’ve never seen before. It’s overwhelming and you want more. You want everything.

“Querida,” he breathes as he lets his head fall forward and gently rests his forehead against your own. “You are so fucking beautiful when you come.”

You laugh, poking him in the side. “You are too, baby.”

He smiles and kisses you softly. “I can’t believe how good that was. It’s gonna be hard to get out of bed, knowing what’s waiting for me.”

You nod. You know exactly what he means.

He lifts his hips to gently slide out of you and you gasp. “Sorry, querida, let me clean you up.”

“Hey, wait.” Before he can move too far away, you catch him and pull him so he’s leaning over you again on one elbow. You brush his sweaty curls off his forehead. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Frankie.”

He smiles so wide his eyes crinkle and you feel your heart skip a beat.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, querida. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

...

a/n: Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you liked it, Jenn!!

taglist: @jupiter-soups @beardedjoel @morallyinept if you're on my taglist for maintenance request, let me know if you want to be tagged in general?

#frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier fic #x reader #SpaceSistersSecretValentine

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ilyuu · 4 months

Text

sweet aroma & ink.

ft. kazuha, scaramouche & xiao.

warnings : modern au, college au, florist!kazuha, barista!scara, songwriter!xiao, cursing (scara), ooc, strangers to friends (to lovers), i’m putting that in parentheses because it’s more implied than anything.

a/n : this was an old draft i’ve had like,, months ago that was 3/4 of the way done before i’ve given up on it so,,, heh surprise? :D

kazuha.

that one florist that gazes at every single flower, bouquet, that comes in his touch with a brush of fondness. whenever he talks, his voice and words brings spring to mind.

it catches his eyes with its colors, scents, and meanings, its feelings, in the droplets that clings onto the petals - that and he catches the eyes of everyone who passes by, inside the small space or by windows. he greets with every one of them with a gentle smile, his eyes softening, and sweeps them off their feet.

his days are more than alright to him - after classes, surrounded by the fruits of all inspiration and poetry, he likes to think, and brings in nothing but comfort.

and a ring of a bell tugs him out of his thoughts.

the look in your eyes is like a breath of fresh air.

there’s something about it that makes it more of a pleasure to talk to you - whenever you stare at a flower in particular, star-shaped petals, a pure white as smaller ones are a violet, as it hangs its head, he’s tempted to simply go off on a tangent on its beauty, though simply sticks to the book on its name.

“hoya belle,” he says, and his voice, with how warm and soft it sounds, is music to your ears already. “that’s their name. a gentle sight, is it?”

“it really is.” there’s a sort of awe in your words that he chuckles to himself at, catching your attention. “oh?”

“apologies. i didn’t mean to laugh.”

“ah, no worries. i do seem to be excited over flowers of all things… can’t really help that part of me.”

“and there’s no need to. no reason to hold back your adoration for them either. it’s alright.”

your eyes widens just a bit before turning your head to the side, wearing a smile that’s all over the place that he can’t help but do the same, looking away with a huff of his own.

“can you… tell me a bit more about them?”

his eyes lightens. “of course.”

and you take it all in. with every word he says, it only lights up a question, which further coaxes him to say more. for those few minutes, he indulges you as much as he indulges himself; his curiosity in you simply growing by the second - that is, until the small bell chimes again, and the world around the two of you seems to slip back into place.

you profusely apologize for taking up his time and he shakes his head (a voice asks “what time, when it all felt so short?”) he excuses himself and, while tending to the trickle of customers here and there, his eyes kept straying back to you.

off to the seed packets hanging on a racket, off to dote on some of the flowers on display by the windows, off to the ceiling and walls with slithering ivy that adds its charm. he captures every little moment.

so it came as slight surprise for him, for some reason, when you came up to the counter, holding a packet of their same flowers the two of you were talking about earlier. “this one please.”

he simply smiles.

something bloomed, and no, it isn’t the flowers.

you come to visit him here and there, and his shift seems to pass by a blink of an eye whenever you do, enjoying the seconds, minutes, and hours on all sorts of flowers at first, before moving on to each other. it’s to the point that you’ve already exchanged numbers!

and you drift away a bit too swiftly for his liking whenever it’s time for you to head out. he makes it out with the rest of the day with the quiet promise you’ve made to him that you’ll spare some time to see him soon.

he catches himself staring at the door whenever business is a bit slow, and only chuckles at himself for his impatience.

scaramouche.

that one barista that makes coffee rather flawlessly, always a distinct taste to each other - sweet or bitter, scorching or cold, and so on.

just a way of earning money, that’s all; it’s good, so he can’t complain much about it. …other than the many, many eyes that stares at him from a distance, and the lot who asks his number. it’s the moment he opens his mouth that either, they’re disillusioned from their fantasy, or they only grow more enamored with his charm.

it’s something he’s grown used to at this point, as much as he doesn’t want to be, and, though he has the pleasure of seeing a familiar face here and there, he doesn’t have much to say about it.

and a new order comes to the counter. it’s 10:13 PM.

a new face. his shifts are longer than life itself, so he’s come to remember a few regulars time from time as a passing thought, so whenever one he doesn’t recognize pops up, they pique his interest for a bit before it fading just as swiftly.

you didn’t, and for good reason too.

“we’re closed.”

“i know, i know, but it’ll be real quick!”

he should’ve locked the door first thing after the last customer left. he heaves a sigh, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose as if it’ll do anything to whisk away the person at said door - aka you. his other hand held the stick end of the broom, sweeping up what others couldn’t even throw away even when it’s five inches away from them.

he digress.

“if it was real quick then you should’ve been here before we closed.”

“i mean… if you think about it, it technically helps the economy.”

“by a fucking perc- no, maybe even less than that.” for the umpteenth time in these five minutes alone, he sighs. he looks up, and you stare back at him. the quiet stretches on for a bit. “…will you leave right after if i do?”

you perk up. (cute.) “yeah!”

at that, he sets the broom aside on the counter and, with a wave of his hand, beckons you over just so he could get it over with. all you wanted was a pair of cake pops which he physically cringes at. it didn’t escape your notice.

“not a fan of sweets?”

“i’d rather keel over and die than eat one.”

“i’ll take that as a no then.” a puff of laughter leaves you and it somewhat lightens his mood. silence follows again and it’s the same as before - it’s not a bad type of quiet. “…the cookie ‘n crème one, two of them.”

“eh, not bad.”

“you tasted them before?”

“only once. …don’t give me that look, it wasn’t because i wanted to, alright?”

“s-sure… pft.”

he huffs. it feels like a load off of his shoulders and chest for some reason, and he’s not going to start question that now. it’s too late for that and every part of him is aching from standing around for too long, from evening to nightfall. it just seems that you make said pain fade a bit into the backdrop.

nothing much to think about.

the two of you start to meet each other a lot after that one night - at the same time. you keep coming in late, he caves in, the two of you banter for a bit, and then you leave with your cake pops. then the cycle repeats.

it’s a nice little routine to have at this point, and, as much as he likes to deny it, a bit of a highlight of his day.

you don’t come in every night, of course, yet those nights seems to be the most loneliest boring of all.

then those meetings ooze into evening, few, seldom, but he finds that he doesn’t mind that much if it means seeing you.

you find yourself being a part of his life and as he is to yours.

he makes your coffee a bit more bitter. and, yeah, sure, a bit might be a understatement from the person who likes bitter things… maybe that’s why your features scrunches up at the first sip and, from the first time, your gaze grazed over the counter, only to soon land on him - it’s satisfying seeing the way your face falls with flattened eyes.

he asks himself why he hasn’t turned you away that first night sometimes. eh, maybe it was just because you were fun to talk to, someone he can pass the time with.

just maybe.

xiao.

that one songwriter that’s always found at one of two places - the cafe or the flower shop. says that it gives him the inspiration he needs, and the truth of it is in the way his hand jots down word after word in his notepad, humming a quiet tune to himself.

he seems to fade into the backdrop whenever murmurs start to grow around him about him - eyes a pool one can drown in, eyeshadow a nice touch, his hair adding to his look. hey, at least some of their compliments (those were compliments, yes?) acts as some lyrics.

nothing for him to complain about - other than the sea of oohs and aahs he’s heard, aimed at him or one of his friends (which is putting it lightly, he thinks), the silence he’s always lived in is something he welcomes with a nod. not much that he wants to change, other than to pursue his dream.

and said dream makes space for one more person.

he’s starting to see you more often.

whenever he has a moment to spare after classes, you’re there. his spot at the corner of the café - the world around him falling quiet to the melody he’s testing, bittersweet and soft in his headphones, and then sees you not too far off from your own seat, taking a tentative sip of your coffee.

it proves not to be enough as a sudden wave of bitterness rushes on your tongue. xiao catches the way scara turns around, his shoulders shaking subtly.

his spot hidden away in pots and all sorts of flowers - there’s this burst of beauty he can’t pin, staring at how the petals swells, just shy of its time to bloom. he starts stringing a line of words together, enough to try and describe a simple sight into a lyric, only to then see you strolling in with a wave.

it’s as bright as the sun itself, shining through the panes of glass. xiao catches the way kazuha returns the gesture (with a bit more of his calmer energy.)

other than the fact that you’re new, he didn’t know much, and he wasn’t interested to. that’s the thing - all past tense. it’s the little things he starts to notice about you from a distance… as a bit creepy, as scara had so kindly put it, as it is.

he can’t find a reason to talk to you. that and neither does he feel is right to just walk up to you and start a conversation. so… maybe… for now… this’ll be alright.

of course, change is nature. nothing was going to stay the same forever just for familiarity, as much as he silently wished for.

he forgot a small item - a pencil, something he could easily replace. in memory? in feeling? as you walked up to him that one time, telling him that he left said item on his usual coffee table as you held it at the palm of your hand?

his mouth felt dry all of a sudden.

“…thanks,” is all he said. his hand slowly settled in yours, curled in, and, in record time, pulled back.

“no problem!” that smile of yours already lights up a fire on his skin, something that he can practically feel. he blows out a sigh as if the heat in him will seep out.

“if there’s nothing else then i’ll…” he’s already turned his head to the side, both an indication of his direction, and as to mask the color on his cheeks that he’d prefer if you didn’t notice.

“wait!”

and wait he did. he didn’t even notice how his hold on the strap to his case tightened just a bit, didn’t even feel the rough surface against his hand.

“oh, sorry that was, uh, a lot louder than it needed to be. wow.” the heat in your face is starting to set in, and, now, he didn’t quite mind feeling as warm as he did right now.

“it’s alright,” and nothing else than that.

“a bit awkward, but i’ve always seen you around and, well… i’d always thought you were pretty cool.” you’re scratching the back of your head at this point; it’s also at that exact same point he realized just he lik— admires you. “so i was wondering whether you’d like if we…”

you laid out your other hand to him.

“…be friends?”

he hesitates, his fingers curling into the palm of his hand, but only for a moment. xiao then recognizes the warmth in your hand sifting into his, and vice versa - tingles thrum through his skin.

it was from both your touch, and the smile on your face, it has to be.

“i’m [name].”

it took him a bit to recall his. “…xiao.”

“nice to meet you, xiao!”

and you said it in a way that made him think you meant it.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #genshin impact smau #genshin smau #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin impact drabbles #genshin drabbles #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x you #kazuha x reader #kazuha x you #xiao x reader #xiao x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you

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harrysmimi · 8 months

Text

Fangirl

Synopsis: One where Harry's got yet another concert crush and she's got a sign for him

Ps. . This is sort of a shoutout to my fellow long hair girlies xx

More of my work

Wembley night one.

Harry was excited, nervous, jittery, happy and hyper at th same time. Playing three nights there was surreal enough.

All three of his shows are sold out. They sold put within seconds!

Night one, he got the sound check done, He worked out, took a shower, had some soup and got ready to rock the stage all whilst his opener, Wetleg band went first.

The show was amazing!

The next day he woke up, and did all of it all over again. He enjoyed it every single time. But somehow he was more nervous today. He didn't know why, he had this weird feeling in his gut there.

But it was his turn and the butterflies in his tummy never went away. He stalled for five whole minutes before he had to really go up and get on with the show.

After Late Night Talking, they stopped for a quick instrument change. And during that time it was Harry's sole job to keep the crowd entertained. He had maximum five to six minutes.

"If you've got any signs now is the right time to get them up." He announced as the music came to a halt. As he was going down the catwalk he noticed someone fiddling with a sign frantically in the sea of signs which was now the pit. It was a sketch book to be specific. "You alright there?" He asked catching the girls attention in all white and her hair tied up in a sleek bun. Her head shot up to look at him when the girl next to elbowed her. She had red heart glasses on. "You've got a sign for me?"

"Yes!" She said as loudly as she could.

Harry walked to the edge as he waited for her to show him her sign. He chuckled walking away but he walked back to her. "Can I read it out loud?" With her agreement he proceeded to read, "your sign says, 'if your answer was only "Yes" to question, I want to ask you one. Ps. I came all the way from India and worked my arse off for this night'." He giggled again, turning red from nervousness.

"Okay, first of all, What is your name, love?" He asked, his mic rested on his chin as he spoke.

"YN!"

"YN?" He got it wrong.

"YN!" She corrected him.

"Oh, YN." He got it right this time. "Well, I really appreciate you traveling all the way too for the show and working your arse for it, YN. Really appreciate it." He blew her a little kiss making her gasp, "and to your sign again. Can my answer only be yes?"

"Yeah!" She nodded.

"Okay..." He hesitated, bht what can really go wrong from here? "What is your question, YN? But keep in mind this is a family show." He smiled a cheeky dimply smile, "or is it?" And the crowd went feral.

"No, no, it is actually a family show. My mum and sister are here today." He added, "yeah, your sign YN."

Harry waited as she flipped her sign to the next page. He turned red like a tomato as he walked away again, making the crowd scream and laugh. "It says, 'Will you go on a Coffee date with me, please?' and in parentheses it says, 'You choose Romantic or Platonic'."

He couldn't help but blush, "it says please. Please!" He was impressed. "I guess I'm gonna have to say Yes." He shrugged still laughing, "at least I have a choice. Can it be not a coffee date?"

"It can be a Chai date?"

"It can be a Chai date?" He asked just to be sure, "yeah! Yeah, why not!" He agreed.

"It's a date!" She yelled.

"It's a date!" He announced dramatically.

"Pinky promise?" She yelled again (so he can hear her) holding up her pinky finger.

"Pinky promise!" He went along with it.

"Yeah, I'm here in my wedding dress if the date goes well." She said, making Harry blush and laugh hardee.

"Yeah, if it goes well." He giggled, "YN, you stay right there we're gonna get back to you after the show. We have disco medley to dance on!"

And the crowd roared at that as he started singing Cinema. And through the middle interlude he made up new lyrics.

"Everybody put your hands in the air, everybody put your hands in the air, put your hands in the air. Everybody put your in the air, everybody I've got a date after here, put your hands in the air." He joked as he continued on with his show there.

Sometime in the show, Harry walked back to the catwalk towards the girl with the sign. She seemed to be having a great time. But he stopped and handed her a rose he picked up from the front stage thrown at him during Grapejuice.

And sometime ahead in the show when he got back to the same catwalk, he saw she had tucked the rose on her ear as she danced.

Harry had a blast!

And he was smitten like a little kitten whole night!

......................................................................

It was the next day after the show.

Harry still have four days left until his next show. So he was going to stay back in London and spend time with his mum and sister, and even go visit his dad later sometime.

His sister hasn't stopped pulling his leg over the girl with the sign on night two.

But today he got a call from his dear friend Pauli, who was also his band member. Pauli never calls him, but he haven't checked his Instagram DMs yet.

"Mate!" Pauli exclaimed, "check your DMs on Instagram."

"Oh gosh, you scared me." He sighed, "I will check them in a minute, yeah?"

"Yep, yep, yep. Have a great day mate." Pauli said before they hung up the call.

Harry sat down on his bed. He had to anyway to put his shoes on, so he opened up Pauli's DM. It was a reel video he shared. It was a video of a girl's silhouette dancing to an Indian song, it was beautiful least to say. He went back see what his friend had to say. They asked him to check the profile out.

It was the girl from the girl with the sign, her bio said she's a dance teacher and of course a choreographer. Her account was verified with well over seven hundred fifty thousand followers. He picked the first post to check. It was a series of ten photos.

First one was a video of her being dramatic, with her dress scarf over her head. It also gave the full picture of her outfit, it was a pretty traditional outfit. It was very short and cut of after her and her friend started laughing. The second one was a cute picture of her and her friend. Then a short video of their interaction, when he gave her the rose. Then another of her Sarah giving her a one of the drum stick. And then a few from the dance studio session, he believed they were.

The last video was of her being woken up by her friend, jt was hilarious. "YN wake up, you just told Harry Styles you're getting married if the first date goes well." The voice behind the camera said. He believed it was the friend.

The girl woke up in surprise. "What the fuck?" She exclaimed still half asleep.

"You even showed him the wedding dress."

"No, I didn't?"

"Yes you did. You have a date with him."

"Shut up. Why does my head hurt."

"Because you drank straight up vodka last night."

"What? No!" She whined and the video cut off there.

Harry laughed watching that. He saw a bit of the comment she replied to hust underneath her caption which he did not understand. The comment said, "No, I don't drink and I drank about 100-150 ml of straight vodka my friend snuck into the venue in a Fiji fucking water bottle." Harry had a great laugh with that, and he saw another one of her replied. "My sober self would have NEVER let my intricate thoughts win. But yes, I asked him out. I had to have my shot (pun intended)." He laughed even more.

There were a few more replies. He saw a comment which explained why she was replying to comments was because she couldn't get out of her bed. A bad hangover it was.

There was a little translate button which he pressed to see what her caption was about because he saw a few more comments with laughing faces regarding captions. It said, "My husband's house." To which he laughed even more. His fans are crazy and they crazier stuff than this. He rather found this wholesome and adorable.

Harry almost had a heartattack when his phone slipped out of his hand. Not because he thought it broke, because he might accidentally like the post. He doesn't want to look creepy. He didn't liked it so he let out a sigh of relief and closed the app and locked his phone.

He remembered he was hungry and in need of a breakfast. So he headed out.

His chef was on off, because well he's on tour. And he can't cook to even save his life there. Though he might argue he can bake, just because he worked in a bakery.

He went to his favourite breakfast place. It was small and quiet and no one bothered him there. He also wore his cap, and his hoodie with a pair of sweats this time, a little bit of change in outfit so he have a quiet day by himself.

"Can I please have a get a large iced Matcha Latte and one of the Chocolate croissants to go?" The guy in front of him ordered as he checked of the menu on the side wall mean while. It was his turn to order.

Just as he turned around he saw a familiar face with glasses on, sat at a corner table.

Wait, is he hallucinating or something here?

She wore a beige cardigan paired with a white tshirt, and what looked like to be a pair of baggy jeans, black heeled boots with red bottoms. Her hair was left loose behind her back, and Subway sandwich as she sketched in her sketch pad.

"One Mocha Latte for YN!"

It was her!

He waited by the side where she'd go over and pick her drink.

Harry was in awe. He wasn't sure if her hair were real or she wore extentions, but he was smitten all over again. She stood almost as tall as him which sort of intimidated him there. She checked her cup as she picked it up and almost bumped into him there with a hot drink in her hand.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" She gasped. "Oh my god!" And this was a different gasp of emotion.

"Hello there." He smiled sheepishly.

"This is going to be awkward." She chuckled, seemingly more embarrassed than he was. She looked down at her clothes to make sure nothing was split. Her shirt was his merch. "See! I'm so sorry."

"No, it's alright." He shrugged and watched as his order was ready.

"Just... I am sorry about what I said at the concert." Her cheeks have turned red, "that was so stupid of me."

"Yeah?" Harry gathered up all his courage to say, "why don't you tell me this with coffee then?"

Her eyes went wide as behind her glasses, "sur--sure!" And she agreed. They walked upto the table she was sat at. There was a paper bag from Selfridges and her bag which had a scarf spilling out of it by the side, as if it was shoved in theere in hurry. She closed her sketch pad (which thought he saw a glimpse of a pretty sketch of a dancer she was drawing) and kept it aside and her phone.

"I never drink, and I accidentally drank like I don't know how many shots of vodka." She started explaining it anxiously. "Before you ask how I didn't know it was vodka. I am a dancer and you know after you've been working out for so long and you drink some water and tour throat burn a little? Wait, that sounded so wrong but you know what I mean! I literally did not meant to say what I said apart from the sign!"

"Calm down, love calm down." He smirked trying to hold back his his laugh. "It's alright, I promise it's alright."

He's just having a happy and giggly day!

"Thank you." She sighed and sunk into her seat.

"Hope you at least enjoyed the show?"

"Oh yes, I did." She nodded sitting up straight again and reached for her sandwich. "I remember everything, except for after I accidentally got shit faced, as you all say it here."

"Understandable." He commented.

"How's your day going so far?" She asked.

Oh boy how YN hated small talks. But she doesn't want this to be an awkward encounter with the celebrity love of her life!

"It's been amazing." He admitted, "what about you? Are you here on a vacation?"

Okay, he's bringing something along to chat. Okay, YN calm down!

"Oh, no I'm not here on a vacation." She shared, "as I said I'm a dancer so I'm here for the semi finals and finals for this compitition I entered in."

"Oh, that's interesting." He was amused, "did you win? Oh wait, you had your finals yet?"

"Yeah. I got the second place." She smiled proudly. "It was just yesterday."

"That's amazing, congratulations!" He gasped. He's genuinely happy for her.

"Thank you, thank you so much!" She now beamed at him with excitement. Or you can say quiet excitement, as she took a sip from her coffee.

He liked the way she talked and how she carried herself. Especially now she's all sober and not drunk dancing like she was at his concert. Both those situations show her personality. But he liked how she talked. Something about her felt so delicate. Her posture was way too perfect, it made him feel insecure about his as he sat up straight.

"You're in town for longer?" He asked hesitantly.

"No," she let out a sad sigh, "I am going back home this evening actually."

Now he didn't know what to say further and it looked she had nothing to say either. And neither of them had touched their breakfast. Which was going to be awkward to leave. YN took a bite of her sandwich.

"You know what, I am so bad at small talk." She admitted making him giggle.

"So am I." He admitted too, "what's that?" He pointed at her sketch pad. It made her go red again.

"I draw a little." She admitted and picked up her book. She flipped rhe cover to show him a pretty little sketch of a bunch of roses. And she carefully skipped five pages to the one he saw a glimpse of earlier. It was half done sketch of a ballerina, it looked like she was drawing it with her own imagination.

"That's very pretty." He commented, "why'd you skip those five pages?"

Okay, Stage Harry making an appearance with the confidence there!

"Those are not done yet!" She got defensive. And he just squinted his eyes at her, "I'm already so embarrassed Harry, honestly." She held back a sheepish smile.

It was indeed a smiley and giggly and happy day today!

"Are you gonna show me?"

She sighed and turned the page for him. It was a sketch of rhe grumpy bear from his Gucci collection and the next one was his sketch. The one he posted after his San Jose, Live On Tour show. And the next was his Madison Square Garden pose sketch. And next was from the Coachella show with extremely detailed drawing of his tattoos, and a cowboy hat.

"Oh I love this one!" He is really mesmerises by it.

"Thank you." Her cheeks hurt from smiling and blushing so much in that moment. "You can keep it."

"It's alright." He felt bad now. He doesn't want to take what looks to be hours and hours of work. "Looks like it took many hours to draw."

His accent was sending her to heaven, but she managed to keep her cool. "It's alright." She proceeded to tear off the page carefully.

"Thank you." He's going to get it framed and hung up at his home. Yup, that's the first thing he's going to do!

Harry carefully placed the thick paper in the book he was reading. And it got super silent between both of them, as he sipped his coffee and she ate her sandwich. The chatter became just a background noise. It was comfortable and not awkward. Until her phone dinged with five messages back to back.

"Excuse me." She picked up her phone to check the message. She typed a quick message, with a looks of upset and disappointment on her face.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah." She nodded, "it was my friend asking when I have to leave." Her friend was going to drop her off to the airport today. She's got to go back and pack up and all. She placed the last bite of her sandwich down on the wrapper not knowing how to tell him she has to go now. It felt wrong. "I should go now? Have to pack and stuff."

"Mhmm." He nodded.

"I'm really sorry about this." She felt bad, because they didn't get to talk much.

"It's alright, love, you got a flight to catch I understand." He nodded as he watched in awe and she placed her scarf around over her neck and gather her stuff.

"Please take care of that for me, it took me fourteen hours to make." She said as she got up and hung her bag on her shoulder.

"I promise." He smiled a dimply grin as he glanced at the little sketch. "Hey, YN?"

"Hmm?" She looked at him as she picked up the trash to throw it in the bin on her way out.

"I, uhhh, can I have your number?" He asked. It had YN's heart almost burst open in her chest cavity.

Harry Freaking Styles is asking for her number?!

"You want my number?" YN couldn't believe what she heard.

She was only joking when she took that sign with her. She sat back down on her seat giving him her fully undivided attention.

"Mhmm." Harry nodded, with curiosity behind his bight green eyes and lips pursed in a thin line. He pulled out his phone to unlocked it to open the dial pad and placed it on the table facing her.

He noticed how she didn't even pick up the device as she typed her number with shaky number. She typed in her name with her pointer finger as she saved it and slide his phone back towards him. Her cheeks had turned a visible shade of rosy tint. He immediately sent her a dot so she could have his number and not think he's a creep when he decides to text her.

That's when he also noticed she's got an Android. He'll definitely have to download WhatsApp now!

"Okay, Harry I really have to run now." She shared, "I broke my shoes and I can't walk fast in heels."

"Yeah." He nodded a beaming smile, "talk to you soon."

"Hmm." She nodded and sped walked out. As she walked past the glass window she waved at him before she jogging out of his sight.

He spent next hour and half with his earphones in, stalking her page. The reels side. Videos of her dancing with a crowd of people. Effortlessly beautiful. Different studios and different locations.

There was a video of her dancing for who looked to be her grandma and mother. The older lady looked very impressed as she sat there in her chair. And the next video was of her dancing with her mum and the next was her recreating old and black and white pictures of her grandma.

It looked like she comes from family of dancers.

He's obsessing over her now. He stopped and noticed he's run out of coffee and that way too much screen time for him. So he went home grinning like a little boy.

......................................................................

It had been a good few months. Harry felt way too awkward to message her. Nothing about their interaction at the cafe was shared by her or anyone really.

It was nearing December. He's framed the piece of art she gave him and hung it where it is in plain sight. He was also hosting a quiet little surprised birthday party for his elder sister.

He's been in deep conflict and he hasn't shared it with anyone else. His interaction with her at the cafe.

But he saw on her WhatsApp stories that she's back in London for work again. He was in London so he texted her to check on if she's up for a little meet up. But his message unfortunately went unseen for a day and half. But he recieved a call from her instead.

He'd just woken up from his impromptu afternoon nap after his intense workout session, which was supposed to be just half an hour long but it's almost seven in the evening. He hadn't even changed yet.

"Hello?" Her voice rang through the speaker phone which was enough to break his sleep there.

"Hello!" He woke up abruptly, "Hi!"

"Were you off to bed already? I'm so sorry to wake you up." Her voice was full of sympathy thinking she woke him up.

"No, I was, I was taking a nap. What's up?"

"I just called to apologise, I saw your message on my notifications but I literally forgot to reply. I've just been so busy. I don't know how to say this over message..." Her voice trailed off with a hint of sheepishness.

"It's alright, I understand." And he really does understand. "I texted you to see if you're up for a meal, and uhhhh, to catch up...?" And he's nervous now.

"I am sorry, I am really busy tomorrow. I have rehearsals for the tour— fuck!" She cut off herself, "I am not supposed to speak about it. I, I am busy tomorrow as well."

He chuckled, "we can meet up now or whenever you're free today."

"Wouldn't it be too late?" Now she sounds nervous.

"I slept for five hours now, don't think I'll be able to sleep again." He shrugged as if she can see him through a voice call, feeling his cheeks grow warmer and tired with a realisation that he's been grinning like a totally idiot.

"Okay. Uhhh, yeah, okay. I'll just have to go back to my hotel, take a shower, and get ready, and, and, I don't know..." She panicked and talked to herself, "okay, we can meet at around ten...ish... If you're fine with that?"

"Send me your location I'll pick you up at ten-thirty." He chuckled again, her little ramble was so adorable to him.

"Okay!" She squeaked.

Harry heard someone calling her name, that was the queue for him to get off the call and get ready. And so he did. He bid her bye and ran to shower. Get out of his dirty and sweaty clothes. He spent three hours getting ready, as if he's going on an actual date.

At exactly ten he recieved her location. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, his white 'Enjoy your health. Eat your honey' shirt and a black coat to keep himself warm. With a pair of black sneakers he reached first. He didn't had much time so picked the first black pair he saw and ran with it.

With traffic it's take him forty minutes to get to her location. He dropped her a text once he reached to the hotel she was staying that.

It was a luxurious and fancy to say the least.

He saw her getting out of the entrance as she bid her friends bye and walked towards the direction he had told her to. It took a few moments to see him. But he saw her.

She wore exactly same outfit as him, but with a black tshirt and her beige coat and white comfy sneaker. Her heels were missing. Her hair left loose this time. Her staple pair lf priscription glasses were placed on the bridge of her nose. A silver necklace shined over the black fabric of her shirt.

"Harry!" She gasped once she noticed him and sped walked towards him. "I am still going to fangirl, please excuse me!"

He chuckled as he approached for a hug, "no worries." He snaked his arms around her middle pulling her in a tight and warm hug, just to get one right back.

He'd hugged her just a couple lf times but she gives the best hugs.

Yup!

"I have something for you!" She got all giddy and giggly as she pulled away from their hug.

"What is it?" Obviously he's curious.

"Not now," she wiggled her brows cheekily. "Where are we going?"

"Well, if you haven't had your dinner yet, I hope to take you somewhere for dinner." He already opened the car door for her.

"Oh yes please!" She sighed, "I am starving." And got into his car.

"As you say." He closed the door and jogged to the drivers side. "What do you want to eat?"

"Hmm, let me think." She put in a thought into it as she put on her seat belt and he'd already pulled out of the car park, "I want to try fish and chips... Is that too touristy to say?"

"Not at all!" He defended, "we can have fish and chips." He drove to a location just fifteen minutes away. And she followed him in there, it was not very crowded given it was around the closing time. Clearly, it was a pub she saw as she headed upstairs.

"You know I don't drink, right?" She whispered, following him closely behind.

"I know, but this place has the best fish and chips." He led her to an empty table, "you want me to take your coat?"

"No, it's okay I'm cold." She shrugged. They ordered their food and sat in a cosy little corner.

"So you're going on a tour?" He squinted his eyes at her.

"Stop, I wasn't supposed to talk about that. I'll get in serious trouble!" She gasped making him laugh.

"I promise, your secret is safe with me." He pushed for the last time, if she denies he wouldn't talk about jt ever again. But she looked around to see the people already engaged in their own time there as she leaned forward.

"I am going to be a part of The Eras Tour now!" She whispered before she was kicking her feet like a baby in excitement.

"What!? That's amazing!" He was surprised to hear that to say the least.

"Yes!" She grinned, "we start off in Tokyo. You're going to any of the shows?"

"I am definitely going now." He nodded feeling bold, "on one condition."

"What is that?" She looked at him confused.

"Maybe we can call this a date?" He shrugged, trying to be as nonchalant as possible and watched her face go pale.

"You are serious?" She countered instead of answering his query first.

He leaned in closer over the table too, "I think I've made it pretty clear, I like you." A sheepish chuckle left his mouth, "like a lot!"

"Hold on, hold on, hold on. I wasn't expecting this!" She announced with a gasp. "You're pranking me?"

Harry squinted his eyes, " why would I joke about this?"

"You're joking!" Now this was a surprised accusation on him which sent him laughing.

"I am not." He cleared his throat after he was done laughing.

"I, uhhhh," she stuttered, "I need time to think..."

"No worries." He said but before he could say anything further, their food was served.

Harry switched to another topic to make the situation less awkward. She definitely felt awkward and he's rather have her be comfortable than be adamant in getting his way.

"You're not drinking right?" She asked.

"No, I gotta drive." He answered, "why so?"

"No, 'cause I paid like two hundred pound fee for driving without a licence and going over the speed limit here last night." She shared sheepishly, "in my defence all of my friends were drunk their ass off and I had no idea how the uber thing works here. They definitely would have arrested me but they let me go, I don't want to risk that. I still don't know how the uber thing works. That's like my entire month salary gone..."

She's got a job which pays ber better now so she was fine with paying the fine. Or she wouldn't have mind spending a night behind bars. Yeah, she'd do that.

He giggled, "don't worry that won't happen." He understands, it's a new place for her and it can be difficult to figure out addresses and stuff. Especially when it comes to have some stranger drive you around when you don't know the area so well. "You want Icecream?"

"Always down for Icecream!" She announced.

Harry took her to his favourite ice cream place before he drove her back to her hotel. Now, he didn't wanted the night to come to come an end with her. He could spend hours and hours talking and listening her talk. He got put of his car just so he can make the moments linger more. He hugged her but held onto her hand as he wished her a good night.

"Thank you for, uhhhh, taking me out." YN stuttered as she spoke with a sheepish smile, "and about, ummm, your question... I, uhhhh, I don't want things to get you know sour between me and uhhh..." She was trying to find words in language he understands but he already had idea where she was going with this. "With uhhh, me and Taylor. Please don't get me wrong. She's my employer and now she's become a good friend of mine during the rehearsals and stuff. Given you two were together, even though it was a decade ago. I still want to talk to her."

"Mhmm." Harry nodded, because that meant hope was still hanging in there. His heart is still intact in his chest with these new growing feelings.

"But if you're still going to any of the show let me know, okay?" He squeezed his hand slightly.

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise!" He squeezed her hand back.

It just means he get to be fancy and take her out on a proper date!

......................................................................

That was last year.

Harry was in Tokyo for the first show which YN was part of. He was there with his friends and even his sister joined along with her boyfriend.

YN had sent a bouquet of flowers and a card at his place his birthday, which undoubtedly made his entire year. It was a nice gesture given she said she's so bad at gift giving, especially for birthdays. He kept the card safe.

He has also been waiting for her answer eagerly. Even though it should be pretty evident it's a yes, they talk a lot more now given she's so freaking busy, they're both always texting or sending each other snaps of highlights of their days.

Harry bought a bouquet of flowers for her before he was off to see her. They were meeting up at this little cafe he picked out, but it was going to be her treat in celebration of her new project beginning. It was so special because Japan is his most favourite place to be. And YN have also been so excited to show him something in particular she wouldn't tell him over text or their usual phone calls.

Just as he was about to text her to see if she was there as he walked up the street, he saw her jogging looking at her phone screen. Probably at the google maps. Her face framing hair bounced around her features, as she tried to be as fast as she can in a pair of sandals. A baggy hoodie and her favourite paor of jeans. Her usual glasses missing.

Harry remembered her saying she got contact lenses as she can't really perform with her glasses on. And she needs to see the stage for that.

"Harry!" She squealed omce she saw him.

"Hello love!" He greeted her with his usual warm hug, and recieved one right back. YN just squeezed him tight, like her life depends on it. "I got you flowers." He quietly whispered in her ear there.

"I know!" Her face buried in the fabric of his Bode button down shirt.

Now both of them spent their entire day together, had all three meals and snacks out, walked around seeing all they could see in a day, hand in hand. Before Harry was walking her back to her hotel, which was barely five minutes away from hers.

"I'll take you to see more places later, now please take some rest you've got a big day tomorrow." They both stopped just outside her hotel.

"I know!" YN nodded excitedly with her tired eyes moving closer to him. She works for next four days straight then she's got five days off before she's got to go to Australia for next shows. "You'll be there right?"

"Of course, came all the way here for it." He assured her, feeling his heart flutter in his chest.

"If your answer was yes, I want to ask you a question.' She spoke with a subtle cheeky smile on her face.

"Go for it." He said.

"You want today to be a date?" Now he completely forgot about his question he asked months and months ago. He was just pulled back to senses when she moved even closer to him, making his heart thump in his ears.

YN has had plenty of time to think, work on herself and talk to her new friends/ employer about this. Of course, Taylor is not a kid anymore. She was in fact so happy for YN, when she approached her one random day at the dinner after rehearsals. They both sat down seperately and had a nice thoughtful chat.

YN of course told her mother and grandmother, who she is the closest to about this. They obviously support her because she's so happy. Her missed her mum and grandmother, one of them couldn't travel because of their age and the other couldn't come because they had to take care of the other. She misses her family, being away isn't as romantic as she thought it would be.

But today was amazing. She felt like she had someone known with her for the first time in months and months, in flesh next to her.

YN just wanted to kiss him then and there. In the middle of the street. But she didn't know how to approach with it.

"Hands down, it was the best date I've ever been on." He shared with a beaming smile on his face. "We should do this again, yeah?" He snaked his arms around her waist sure that she's figured everything out by now and that she's finally willing to give them a chance.

"Yeah!" She nodded. He went in for a kiss as the same time as her, bumping into her nose they both ended up in a fit of giggle. "I am sorry!" She laughed, "I've never kissed anyone."

Harry giggled again but assured her, "it's okay." He leaned in again, his time taking the charge he placed his mouth on hers in a delicate kiss. Once he pulled away he had her blushing her forehead pressed on his chest. "It's just a kiss, you're gonna get a lot of those now!" He laughed hugging her again. She groaned before lifting her head up to look at him with a red face.

"I was just a fangirl!" She couldn't believe her life in that moment.

"Now I'll be a fangirl tomorrow." He pointed out, "cheering especially for you."

......................................................................

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comicaurora · 2 months

Note

In your asks and other outside-of-comic statements, you seem to draw on parallels to programming a lot when talking about lacrimas.

And this makes me think as a programmer: the primordial rules that are used in Auroras to do magic and lacrimas are part of the primordial language. You are literally telling the primordial's dead bodies what to do, and they obey.

Yet, the difference that comes to my mind is that Primordial was at one point a language actually spoken. Used to communicate in day-to-day life by normal sentient beings. That's quite different from programming languages, which aren't meant to be talked in at all, and are built from the ground up purely to convey a series of precise instructions. They're very formalised and structured. There are no synonyms, no double meanings, no altering of word order, no redundant information etc. It's extremely rigid, much unlike languages people actually talk in, for which a degree of fluidity and ambiguity is essential.

And in Aurora it would seem the latter is being used as the former.

Have you ever thought about this tension/contradiction/conflict? How it affects the world, how it affects your writing, etc?

Or has this distinction never crossed your mind?

Or was this something you have noticed, but never really had the right knowledge to engage with much?

Or any other thoughts on the subject, really

So! This is an interesting thing I have actually thought about.

When the Elder Races were first created, they were born knowing and speaking a language innovatively called the First Language. Every new Young Race is also initially created speaking this language. The language then drifts over the generations, developing into regional dialects and then into separate linguistic descendants if given enough time.

The Ancients spoke a close descendent of the First Language for most of their time in existence, and made a writing system of their own very early on, which has no innate power. But in the early days of the world, the generally accepted story is that a god granted the three elder races knowledge of the written Runic language, which could command the elements. The Ancients acquired it late and used it very sparingly, only for the programming of lacrimas, but for the Elves and Humans living in the depths of the Caves, this was their first and primary writing system. It's even possible that a rare cave-dweller brave enough to venture to the surface was the one who taught the Ancients these runes in the first place.

It's posed an obvious question, of course. Why does this one specific form of writing manifest as a language of magic? Why can it command the dead Primordials? Why is it so well-suited to the phonemes of the First Language that every child of this world is created speaking?

The predominant theory - and, with two living primordials to check with, one which is potentially on the cusp of being proven - is that the First Language and its runic writing system are the language that the Primordials spoke. Its words, written or spoken, can be understood by the remnants of thought that still linger in the sleeping, dead-but-not-entirely-gone primordials that make up the world.

Primordial magic is different from programming in one key way: real computers are entirely unthinking entities. They are not in any way smart - not even smart enough to be stupid. A computer parsing a program cannot observe a missing parentheses and compensate like a human could do in their sleep - it simply fails to parse, because the mathematics don't work out.

Magic in this world is like what every programmer wishes programming could be. Tell the computer what to do, and it might be a little confused, but it'll get the gist. Tell Fire to burn in this direction - Fire, even if it's just running on an echo of a seven-thousand-year-old memory, knows what that means. Tell the wind to printf this statement to this recipient, it'll try to find them and send the message. Tell Life to make this body do what it's doing faster, it can do that. It's simple executions of simple commands, almost reflexive - things that require no complex higher thought from a being that is no longer alive enough to have them. They're not as unthinking as computers, and that means the nuances of language can actually have an effect on them. Some mages think more poetic and emotionally-charged spell invocations can lead to better, more efficient results - an appeal to a long-dead emotion might be easier for the Primordial to execute than an appeal to a half-forgotten complex thought.

When a mage takes direct control of a magical energy and funnels it into an elemental effect, their own higher thought allows the element to do more complicated things - Fire can't transmute on its own like it could when it was alive, but it can when bent to a mortal will. No need to translate a spell into the language of magic when the mage can simply use their own mind to shape the effect. This is the primary advantage mages have over lacrima-users - flexibility, complexity, and speed.

Another interesting factor. Alinua's dynamic with Life demonstrates what a living Primordial's living thought can do when in the hands of a mortal. A normal, simple healing spell cast by anybody but her just accelerates a body's own healing, but with Alinua's guidance steadying Life's hand, they can do much more complicated things of her own free will - things Life knows how to do that no mage knows how to command her to do.

#asks #aurora

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sashimiyas · 1 year

Text

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!

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.

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.

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.”

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?”

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.

#reina.writeshaikyuu!!#haikyuu angst #miya osamu angst #miya osamu x reader #osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #i think i’m going to have a drink now

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