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soranihimawari · 1 year

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Bring me Home

A story of love lost & found

Word count: 4.8+

Pairing: noble!osamu x maid!reader (link to fashion)

2nd pairing: platonicnoble!atsumu x maid!reader

Warnings: angst->fluff//making out//secret relationships

Rating: 🔞—MA themes involved & allusions to sex

Osamu & yn vibes on god fr fr^

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑗𝑒𝑤𝑒𝑙 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒． 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑚 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠．

“And that concludes our history lesson your graces,” The tutor says, closing his book. Around the older gentleman sat two twin royals who were board out of their skull because their mother had to have their lessons earlier in the day. Typically afterwards, the three of them would stroll the market checking on their subjects and the like.

Raising the twins of this noble family did come with a price: they did like to test one’s patience as children often do. However, when the time came for merit formal education to begin at seven, the twins had finally showed their personalities through and through. There was the brash and abrasive Atsumu who wasn’t afraid in challenging the stray dogs to a fight and win (by bringing home a pup or three one afternoon); and his brother who instead of leaving their abode, chose to make rancid concoctions in the kitchen while listening to the housekeepers (and chefs) gossip often blackmailing them in order for them to keep their job.

More times than they can count, their care takers might have dumped them into the knight training grounds to get a moment of peace. Sword fighting and hand to hand combat under the tutelage of the Kitas and Ojiros had exceptional results: those that guard their boys with their lives were the ones most dedicated to attend war council meetings (luckily there has been no true signs of uprisings elsewhere in this part of the country).

This continues until the boys roughly reach age seventeen. By then, a majority of their formal education has been concluded—both knew how the serving class’ wealth added to their own (studies had shown happier homes equates to the boost of morale in those who did work at their estate); those who were charged to care for them s as children were now much older, so whenever someone was amicably relieved, the boys were now wise enough to not only apologize for their misdeeds, but often invited them back for special celebrations… like today.

Today you were running late. It was an accident as you thought you had placed every formal garb upon the back of your wooden chair. Unfortunately, you did not and now here you were with nothing but a chemise, tan boots, and rough textured hair sticking in all different directions.

Your reflection in the oval dresser mirror was a bit dirty due to the dust in the lowly room where you’ve lived since Ms. Arimoto had retired two years ago. An apprentice to the gardeners, you seemed to pick up the work right after she had showed you the ropes. Often you were also tasked with covering for any housekeeping staff as life tends to send certain ones curveballs (like when Ms. Arimoto’s brother had his first child; Ani-chan got married and moved to his in-laws territory; and chef hikaru had recently came back from burying her grandmother).

A knock disturbs your mad rush to fix yourself appropriately to answer the door. On the other side, a squire clears his throat. He calls out your name right as you unlock your door. The status of you being half dressed has the lad in a flustered state.

“Tell those graces of yours I’ll be there in five minutes,” You huff. Your skirt is almost fastened while the chemise still is half untucked.

“Hai,” he salutes you and saunters off.

Slamming your door shut, you do your best to tuck the rest of the chemise into place and with that done, you pull over your peasant top. The bustier, which thankfully is worn enough to your figure, ties in the front. You leave your room, not giving a damn about your hair until you round the corner slamming into a very stiff, but warm wall…

“Oi.”

Walls don’t talk, your brain thinks. Oh, oh no…

“Are ya gonna t’apologize or not?”

You take a step back, draw in a breath, and through a false smile, you bow.

“Whatever do you mean? I honestly thought you were a wall, your grace,” You raise your head as you straighten up. “Forgive me, I was in a bit of a rush sir.”

Honeyed eyes which flared with delight whenever you were around seemed to have softened. You don’t have many friends within the nobles, but being close in age with dukes and certain duchesses did help in situations like this. Atsumu’s befriending of you when you had first arrived was nothing short of a prank. A wager between him and his brother, Osamu, to win the favor of any person outside their ranks would win. How did Atsumu win? He had asked you specifically to serve him tea in the parlor as his brother was about to proclaim his victory—in five minutes you came with four sets of cups and saucers as the aromatic tea fills the room. The first two were poured by your hands and as you stood by, each of the boys bring out a paper. The scribbles and scratches, from what you can tell, had names on them.

“And you, yn,” atsumu’s voice was curious. “What do we call our acquaintanceship?”

Eyes of graying clouds study your figure. Light mustard yellow with burgundy trim was the fashion fabric for the season and somehow it complements you. Your sunkissed skin from working the flower fields in their mother’s garden was proof enough which class you’re in, but though the sun favored you, when your eyes meet and bounce between those of the brothers, you ponder a bit more prior to answering.

“No one has asked me that before your grace,” you bring a thoughtful curled finger to your chin. “But I suppose ‘master and apprentice’ might be more appropriate to describe what I am to either of you.”

Osamu’s first instinct is to laugh hysterically at his brother’s tie breaker, who not to discredit Atsumu’s being kinder to you lately, because with that answer the game continues. You are dismissed and as you leave, you hear Atsumu whine saying he had thought for sure you were going to agree and say perhaps you’d be friends from them on. Your ears also pick up Osamu’s insults at his brother by praising your intellect when giving your answer. For whatever reason, hearing that praise made your steps a little lighter that day.

Presently, you stand face to face with Atsumu who in turn after your apology, asks you where you’re off to in such a hurry.

“Kitchen,” You reply. “Madame is showing us the desserts she’d like to serve this afternoon for tea.”

Feeling your excitement as you are told to scurry off., Atsumu shakes his head chuckling. To his left, his friend who is visiting for the day, Suna, raised an eye brow.

“Yn certainly had grown into her figure,” Suna makes a figure in the air with his hands. “Does your brother still latch on to her whenever he sees her?”

Atsumu turns to his fox-eyed friend. “It’s been two years since that foolish bet. Yet ah am not opposed to having yn around. She is a good friend to him and me, so why should we add more to the rumors they are lovers?”

“Because it’s funny?”

“‘m going to pretend ya didn’t say that, eh Suna? Especially if they’re the blindest dorks on earth.”

Elsewhere, as you make it into the kitchen, you grab the last apron. The madame of the house and head pastry chef didn’t necessarily called you out for your tardiness, so the mini-baking lesson had begun. Honestly baking was fun, yet since you had a not so secret secret, you found you did best when following dictated orders versus reading a recipe.

To be fair, you didn’t know what a library or a book was until you started working in the estate. A lot of the noble women often would bully you just because you pronounced words awkwardly and when word finally reached one of the twins, Osamu was rumored to have stood up for you; Atsumu on the other hand, had defended you as well mentioning you might not have had any formal education, but “yn-san manages ‘er time wisely and doesn’t run ‘er mouth like ya girls do.” And though it might have caused the ladies to be quiet, at least one of them has declined invitations back. That did not sit well at all for the mother who birthed outspoken boys to begin with. Although, after she had called you into her study, you notice Osamu was within earshot of the scolding you received for not defending yourself better.

“Your boys did it for me, majesty,” you stood a bit straighter. “And for that, I have the utmost respect for them.”

Your hands stayed at your side, knuckles white as they gripped the sides of your skirt. You’re first audience in a long time with her excellency had your heart beating outside your chest. Looking to where Osamu stood, you knew he couldn’t say anything at the moment while his mother was still furious.

“You may have respect for them, but what of their reputation?”

This again? Your thoughts circle the word reputation. Isn’t it enough that whoever wanted to rip your clothes was told not to by Atsumu? Or when you claimed you fell on the stairs, Osamu offered you a hand to stand up as the girls who passed by called you clumsy even with the evidence so blatantly seen on their smug faces after asking Osamu to drop you “because why should we be nice to staff members?” At this, Osamu whispers to you to pay them no mind; you straighten yourself out, disappearing without so much as a thanks—it comes a week later in the form of a tea service your mentors had advised you perform for the twins who made it bearable to be around such snobby women.

Their mother sees a thorn in front of her; the dress you wear is a hand-me-down from her girlhood days. The fabric then was heavy and uncomfortable in the summer months, yet alas the tailor who was to throw it out decided to gift it to you. How quaint, her excellency thinks. The sleeves were hemmed and the excess trim were cut away, leaving nothing but a simple gown in need of either a bustier or pea coat in this autumn weather.

“Madame, if reputation is what all noble people care or gossip about, then what makes them any different than those below their status?”

You bow as gracefully as you could manage, then exit the study. Your meals were withheld for a week and replaced with table scraps for verifying a truth so long forgotten. Thankfully when Osamu speaks to his brother about what their mother did, you started receiving messages during their tea breaks when you served them via the teas they drank: green tea meant extra entree, Darjeeling was a spare dessert, citrus was snacks, etc. from then on, when you dined with them, you became friends. The wager didn’t matter anymore.

Back in the present, as the tarts bake in the oven, you lean against the window facing the eastern sea. Knights and swordsmen are conducting their training and you spot a certain twin joining the fray. Others don’t pretend to notice the difference in chemistry your trio brings, yet knowing who recently requests you more over the other has people in the estate gossiping like mad. Those that tend to the Madame are quite bitter none of their trainees had won favor as fast as you did. Perhaps it’s the way the boys look to you for praise, yet you humbly say what needs to be said with an air of honesty which, to be frank, can be too acidic for some.

“Poise and grace can only get you so far,” ms arimoto said on the eve of your seventeen birthday. “So be honest and accept critique with kindness and you’ll do just fine, yn.”

You nod and ever since then, your brain reminds you of that advice. Surely, that Indian summer as the sun rises steadily higher, things were about to change…

A few days later, you’re outside tending to the garden. The night of the celebration had concluded with the twins readily sneaking out to party with the knights and others in your class as well to enjoy a night off of official duties. You’ve rarely seen your peers drunk, but when Ms Morimoto returns for her official retirement party, everyone raises a glass to the sky in her honor. Music and dancing were always encouraged and though your plate was still full, you eventually manage to make your way to the dance floor. Nights and other staff alike watch as you raise your hands up to the sky and wind your body in ways no one thought possible. It was then Ms Arimoto calls you an affectionate term of those who lived in the desert: hōseki (gem).

Maybe fraternizing with you in particular had rubbed the twins’ mother the wrong way, so their lessons were longer and more egregious than before. You were often sought after such lessons for snacks and tea breaks for this last quarter of months.

Three months you had a disruptive sleep schedule because though your priorities included tending the garden, whenever either Osamu or Atsumu refused their butlers or house keepers, those people come banging on your door. Not that they were jealous of you tending to the boys, but they were afraid they’d lose their jobs if one or all of them didn’t send you to the twins’ adjoining rooms. The worse of it was when both Atsumu and Osamu were scheduled exams at six to eight hour intervals because what was sleep then? When that hellish week was over, the boys found you passed out on the floor, the ceramic tray with the sandwiches shattered to your left as you just knocked out from exhaustion. You did give them quite a scare, so imagine your surprise when you wake up on the ottoman with your head resting against a pillow on Osamu’s thighs and your legs curled like a kitten against Atsumu, both were reading novel’s at the times silently as to not disturb you. Those who did come into the room to drop off food claimed to have seen nothing of the ordinary—just two brothers fretting over their friend’s well being.

Eventually, Atsumu was called for an abroad trip to the south for a summit while Osamu stayed behind to run the estate. Their parent was blissfully away conducting and reporting merchant routes with her council. As for you? You used this time to tend to your specialities: making sure your duties were completed at sundown everyday…even if it includes literacy lessons with Osamu.

You don’t speak a word of how he reads novels aloud to you and he teaches you how to pronounce the words from the picture books when he and his brother were four years old. He doesn’t mind the awkward way your lips, teeth, and tongue roll over difficult words like, “exuberant” or “dreary,” because he gets to squish your cheeks together to at least let your mouth remember the movements of such sounds.

You see the frustration dissipating when you said “extraordinary” back to him one morning. His hands don’t squish your cheeks then, he’s too busy trying to control the flustered look his agape mouth makes. You tilt your head to one side when you ask him to define what it means. He blinks at your question before making a blind bold choice of words.

“You,” Osamu’s voice is barely a whisper. “You’re extraordinary.”

“I am?”

You lean in to study those swirling gray orbs of his, almost teasing him with how close you actually are.Osamu replies with his lips against yours, not shying away from whatever needs tried to suppress for however long ago you first served him and his brother tea.

It’s over in an instant, and your eyes remained closed a smidge longer than his.

“Yes,” his lips press against the corner of your mouth again. “You are.”

You take the compliment to the grave but it’s only when his hands keep you in a lover’s embrace, does your heart sway. You warn him, dressed in the blues and whites he comes to adore, of the consequences if either you or him were to pursue this.

“We just have to be careful,” Osamu’s heart is not one to be deterred, yet he knows you have so much more to lose. He can’t defend you well if his mother chooses to throw you out; hell Atsumu would try to sneak you back in, but would the guards follow a kill or capture on sight plan like Kita is trained to do? Osamu sees the apprehension as your breathing pattern changes slightly. Chewing on your bottom lip, you bump your forehead against his. He smirks at you.

“Teach me a little more,” is all you add to this conversation before the books remain scattered and you let yourselves be tied by the fates design.

His hands raise yours to hold him securely by the shoulder and like those books filled with young lovers, you do just that. Those same lips that read to you stories borne of the imaginations of authors now presses eloquently against yours, your heart leaves the worries of the mind behind. It’s more desperate in the ways you grip each other’s clothing, he sighs angrily and curses the way women dress in this era, nearly tearing your collar apart to have his lips reach your décolleté and your palms support the back of his head as you push him impossibly closer. Your breathing is ragged as you let this continue.

“S-sir?”

Your promptly picked up and affixed to sitting on the desk, the books pushed back by the act. Osamu looms over you, a pained expression on his features.

“Don’t call me that,” his fingers brush stray strands of your hair behind your ears. “No titles when you’re with me..”

Your eyes are wide with apparent shock at first, but your hands seize the nape of his neck and you find the courage to violently kiss him back. He hears how you hesitate to say his name, but by gods is it a glorious whimper when you do the second before you smash his lips with yours.

Hands accentuate the greed your type of love fulfills—the unfastening of fancier tunics on him and the unlacing of your bustier is as far as this lesson intends to reach. Your lover and teacher of such things supports your back with his hands as he guides you backwards a bit as your legs are compliant in making enough room for his body to fit between; you skirt rustles as it bunches higher and now Osamu’s almost as horizontal with you as you are with the desk.

Together, you taste the finesse of his rank, his hands feel the callouses you earned toiling the days away (making snacks, brewing teas, assisting in the gardens, etc), so he tends to them as lovers do. Your breathing together is ragged and though you relish in his touch as his fingers dance over the scars and little scrapes here and there. He presses short chaste kisses to the tips of your fingers, catching the way the sun glimmers in your eyes.

“Is this how we start?”

Such an innocent question to a compromising state of undress, Osamu thinks. He helps you rest comfortably on his arms, as he chuckles lightly.

“Yes,” he tilts your chin up, grazing your lips with his own. He feels you smile beneath him before he kisses you tastefully there. The room is a complete disarray, however, when he laces your bustier back and you assist in fastening his charcoal colored rank cloak on his shoulder, you realize after today, you both must tread lightly. Whether you are called in the dead of night to make a pot of tea or for him to explicitly relieve you of your duties and have your second take over your chores so you could enjoy the lake house with him, no one suspects the sudden blossoming kinship you form. Even if the noble ladies who try their luck at once again forming amicable bonds with Osamu, it is soon rumored they first have to pass your judgment. Typically you would have been compensated the honor of being his assistant, yet with such a trivial formality and practice forgotten, however when Osamu is forced to participate in these meetings, one notices how the aloof twin seems to be enamored by your presence.

Come nightfall on one such day, when the last guests leave, Osamu finds you in a hall by the armory and promptly pushes you into the nearest room. His lips greet you first, your hands are pinned above your head. It’s warm here and he’s impossibly burning his love everywhere you’re exposed skin can be reached. Your hands,when released, start their perfected rehearsed dance to rid him of his clothes—the stays are loose enough that when the bustier falls, it joins the cape and tunic from earlier.

Here, when you open your eyes, you’re stunned by how strong he is; muscles formed and conditioned to raise broadswords and shields now are used to lift and carry you. There is a cot and you find yourself in mere seconds straddling the thighs of the man who taught you words and their meanings; how eloquent your voice is when you quietly say his name. He says yours when he brings your knuckles to his lips. Languid kisses expresses his need to have you, all of you, if you’ll allow it. You fall into a steady rhythm as your hands explore his tensed back, accidentally scratching his shoulder blades and his hips buck up to warn you. Raising a brow, you ask him to do it again, and this time, as you let a chortle slip, your other hand cups his lightly stubbled cheek.

“Don’t be shy now,” you murmur.

The hand that hand snuck to rest against his shoulders now travels and wraps around where he holds the small of your back. Your skirt is bunched just above mid thigh here. Testing the waters, you lay his palm there. It’s as close to where you might need him later, but for now hearing him inhale and exhale a nervous laugh gets you to lazily smile at him.

“It’s going to be ok,” you lean down to ghost your own lips over his. “I trust you.”

Though Osamu believes every word you said, his body is pulsating in ways he didn’t think it could; rarely when he was off age did a person vex him so. His hand as your lips keep distracting seeks refuge s as it disappears almost completely under what little fabric is left. You whimper at the sensation, but when this a soft mewl falls from your mouth when you rest your head against his chest, he’s curious just how many more times he could hear you like this. Hands aside, Osamu asks with a tug of your under shirt, right before the lace of the chemise is exposed to him. You in your flustered state, create enough space for him to lift the thickest fabric (it was prospected to be cooler at night) he had felt on a commoner, up and over your head. You cross your arms over your chest the chemise doesn’t do much to stop the diver traveling up your spine, so what does your lover do? He takes his last layer of upper clothing off and drapes it over your shoulder. Osamu’s a little broader than Atsumu, and you realize this first hand. You uncross your arms, he gently smiles down when you carefully trace over the healed wounds of hood childhood. You’re asked if you’re afraid knowing how violent he could be, some of the scars looked severe; “why would I be when I’m with you?”

“Yer gonna be the death of me,” he deftly says. Osamu’s answer came attached with a confession sayings numerical value of how long he had wanted to have you like this. Holding you close and even closer still if you’d allow it. You recall having been educated as best you could by the doctors who frequent the estate on matters in the bedroom when you turned of age. Surely satisfying a prospective husband was loosely implied, but seeing as this may be the second time someone had you (the first happened when you found out the baker’s son was to marry the second daughter of a banker; he wanted to learn and unfortunately at the time, you were the only person his age. You don’t mind you gave into him so easily, because he did treat you with care and with his earnings, he even went to apothecary who was able to provide birth control potions for both of you.)

That was then, this time with Osamu, you’re changing the notion in your head of what constitutes as an act of love. You were foolish and naive to think whatever had transpired between the baker and you was an educative transaction. Yet in the way Osamu’s eyes are clouded with the thoughts of you above him, you see and feel his anguish push against your body where you sit. So, you gently push him on his back and undo the top of his trousers. His hands are at his side, but his eyes are enamored with lust blown pupils. Are you seriously going to undress him here? Not even in his own bed, but here? Your hands are deft and lightly tracing over the area he needs the most attention, yet as the crickets outside become louder, Osamu is frozen in place with the way you test an angle that has his head spinning. Your fingers loop around the button and with the drag of the zipper, the man’s breathing stutters. He groans at such a simple act, but for what it’s worth, you lean down you and against his Cupid’s bow breathe a command for him to sit still.

“I’ll go slow, so treat me kindly ‘samu,” were probably the last coherent words you say before the heat is too much. Waking up next to each other half a day later, with bruises from the day before starting to blossom across your bodies, you both jolt awake. He’s tossing you your clothes and vice versa; how could either of you forget your duties that morning? Truthfully, you’re just glad you received a light warning and even medium tempered punishment. Osamu, on the other hand, had to at the very least, invite and host more women much to his dismay. Why would he want to if he knew he wanted you, especially after how you made him fall even harder on that stiff cot in the armory. Although, the butler and his fellow man in arms, Gin, days later asked him why his master seems so fond of you. Osamu shrugs making a mention of how you’re preferred company over his brother sometimes. Gin laughs, uttering an encouraging word or two about how you’re rumored among the working servants to be object of Osamu’s current desire. (“Who knew it was the other way around,” was all he said after being dismissed. Sworn to secrecy that one was, Gin wouldn’t dream to be disloyal to either twin, so he thought should he see you, he’d tell you in case you didn’t already know).

Two months into this endeavor and although there have been many rumors as to who brought out a gentle side of the once aloof fox, the answer is never traced back to you. Surely if asked, you amicably say you’re friends, but that is all there is to it. There elderly keepers of the estate turn a blind eye to the ever rising collar of your formal clothing, alas they keep their mouths shut as best they can when their Madame summons them to act as spies to see if they heard the name of her son’s lover. You were questioned once, yet how you lied through your teeth was worthy of the highest acting award, hell even when Osamu was called, he tells his mother he’s been fond of the daughters who frequently fawn over Atsumu. The more these mixers and parties with the other noble families occur, the more cloud cover you and Osamu’s relationship will have.

No one catches on until Atsumu returns surprisingly early. He’s making his rounds searching for Osamu to gossip about who he met, what he did, etc over the time he was away only to open the doors of the library to see your back and his brother looming over you. Poetry, words even Atsumu wouldn’t dare dream of saying aloud just to any person lest he loved them dearly, were spilling forth from his brother’s lips and on to yours. Atsumu closes the door as quietly as he can, his mind goes still at the thought. Then, the golden boy truly smirks as he walks down the hall. He says nothing, at the very least, not until he summons his brother to his chambers in the middle of the day. Tea wasn’t necessarily served, but the truth of how he knows his twin lies in the smug look he gives. Osamu’s dress shirt is slightly askew no thanks in part to you, yet when he sits across his brother, the grayed toned boy braces himself.

“Is yer heart true?” Atsumu’s question is the only one needed to ask. “‘Samu, I’m only asking this once.”

Osamu gives pause to read his brothers face—the seriousness in time could have meant he caught him with you this morning, right? Instead of an answer, Atsumu reads the way his younger by minutes sibling’s head hanging down in utter defeat, a plea on the brink of slipping out. It’s enough for Atsumu to clear the air.

“The old hag wouldn’t find out, yer secret is safe,” he says, then leaned back in his chair. “Who else knows?”

“…no one,” osamu replied, sheepish canine teeth puncture through his bottom lip.

Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief before asking how long his brother had begun to feel this way toward you. Usually they’d fight over things like toys and lately as they had begun to carve their own path, women seemed to be a touchy subject because when it came to you, it’s like a switch flipped. They were vying for your attention in the most obtuse of ways: Atsumu came to you with a tear in his formal cape, then Osamu wanted your opinion on festival flower arrangements, after that Atsumu asked if he could have you accompany him into town (just to see which gifts he’d bestow upon you when your birthday came up), Osamu though asked if you could meet him in the library to study maps for a while…

“Don’t let yn go,” Atsumu warns his brother as Osamu was about to leave his room. “I think we both know where I’d stand if you do.”

The door closes with a decadent thud and by the time Osamu returns to where he had last seen you, you were already gone. The books from earlier remained scattered in a sort of perplexing disarray. On the one hand, as he begins to tidy the room a bit, he realizes something is amiss the second the change of shift house keepers come in asking him if he’s seen you.

“What do you mean you haven’t seen yn? She was with you an hour or so ago, was she not?” your friend who covers your nightly route asks. Their voice elevates in a calm manner as if to hint you’ve definitely been gone a little longer than the hour mentioned. Osamu hands the novels over, thanking your friend with a nod, as he exits into the hallway.

Kita was enjoying a cup of tea in the parlor closest to the resting quarters when both Atsumu and Osamu barge in. The captain stares blankly at them as the boys each describe you in great and not so great detail. As he sips his tea, his face is unchanged as he says you were summoned elsewhere at the request of their mother. Atsumu stares at his brother and though his callused hands punches Osamu’s chest, his eyes are glazed in an angry, “you said you were careful,” stare.

Osamu exhales sharply the moment Atsumu turns in his heels.

“My men followed their orders, we cannot disobey direct ones,” Kita informs the younger sibling. The tea cup clinks against the table. “I advise you inform your mother, your grace, before yn-san is lost to you both.”

Osamu catches his breath only to run to locate the yells echoing through the doors of his parents’ bedroom. Atsumu is having a tantrum over losing you as quickly as a child who misplaced their favorite golden toy. Bracing himself as he walks in, Atsumu huffs as his brother stands shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Mother,” Osamu tries kindness this time. “Where did you send her?”

“Away from you two, obviously,” their mother turns over the papers she has in her hand. It was a trade offer too good to pass up. Perhaps this was what her trip was for: arranging a match. Or several potential ones for her unruly boys. “It’s about time you two relearn your place… especially you, Osamu.”

“Yer wrong for this, you know that?” Atsumu seethes. “Who’s to say Osamu wasn’t the only one who loved them? Hmm?”

Their mother slams her fist on the end table.

“The bitch seduced both of you?” Their mother scoffs. “Of course she did.”

Atsumu observes his brother’s fight or flight response manifest in the way his pupils dilate. The storm blessed sibling stands taller as he bows to cushion the blow of turning on his heels as he begins his journey in finding you.

His mother calls out to him one final time, “You leave this place Miya Osamu no longer my son, but an orphan to these lands!” She turns to face her eldest, stopping him before he to follows his brother’s lead: “You follow him, you too are orphaned and the line ends here.”

Those who linger outside the room overhearing this family matter stand aside as Atsumu walks past them. He heads in the direction of the westernmost stables where he knew his brother would be. In the stables, the brothers share a final conversation.

“Take this,” Atsumu presses a medallion of sorts which grants the owner safe refuge. “Don’t let what the old hag says get to you; you bring yn back. Whether as mah sister in law or as yer lover, do not rest until she is found, d’ya hear me?”

Osamu’s angered hands shake as his horse whinnies brusquely. Atsumu notices the house keeper he had passed on the way to his mother’s room—the cousin of the one cleaning the library right now—they bow prior to being called forth.

“Yn is important to us too,” they sniffle. “She taught us how to mend clothes just yesterday. Please, if any one can bring her back I know it’s one of you… Time is of the essence. Last I heard, they were headed to the port of call with her.”

And by the time Osamu gallops towards the docks, he sees a flash of lightning race through the clouds and he sees the shadow of someone who was dressed like you; when you reach the starboard side of the vessel you were taken to, your ears pick up your name in the wind. You gasp when you see the outline of a familiar figure by a horse. You raise your hand above to wave and you force a smile as you watch him drift further away.

Rewind to when you part ways with Osamu that morning: you were invited to attend an estate dinner with Osamu only to find out that perhaps Atsumu might have returned early. You hear the compatriots of those who were chosen by the elder master of the house return talking with their peers about what they saw or rather what goods the other territories had to offer. Atsumu, as you excuse yourself to pass through to the next area where your chores list would take you, welcoming them all back as one does, only to be snatched in a hallway. You tried to force yourself out of the binds your captors had used, but alas when you hear the familiar voices of several guards, you stop resisting. The blindfold didn’t really help in way shape or form to identify the assailants, yet all you could decipher was who gave the order to have to boarded on the next ship wherever far their coins could take you. You knew following your heart would be difficult, yet was the price worth it? Was earning his love worth this divide?

“Absolutely,” you mutter to yourself as your homeland drifts further behind you.

So the years went by. Within that time, you had grown into your new role as the assistant owner of a bouquet florist. You had received word over the last three months a certain golden son was seeking an arrangement signifying his rise to power. Your manager was out on a delivery run when the chime at the door rings.

“Be right with ya!” you instruct another apprentice how to finish wrapping the last bouquet for a wedding order.

Wiping your hands on the apron you wear, you pop around the corner to see an old face. You recognize the stature of the man whom you used to make rose tea for. Whether you cry or not, you try to keep your emotions in check as you attempt to greet your prosperous client.

“Atsumu?...”

The man embraces you like he would an old friend, perhaps even a sibling. He releases you and cups your cheek.

“Finally found ya,” he says, his tone is one of relief. “‘Samu an’ ah have been looking for ya fer ages.”

You furrow your brows and you raise your hands to remove Atsumu’s hands away gently. He nods in understanding your eagerness to ask the question which he was unsure how to answer just yet.

“Where is he?”

Atsumu inhales a shakey breath. How can he answer that question knowing his brother has not returned any of the letters he had sent over the course of their time apart. It’s been roughly six? Maybe seven years at best since everyone had last seen each other. There were always these rumors about a knave who would wander into towns searching for a girl he had loved, but when there was no sign of such a lady, he’d drown his sorrows until he had his fill then move on.

“Nursing a broken heart,” Atsumu has a sour face. “No thanks to that woman.”

Their mother had since relinquished her title the moment Atsumu had signed over the appropriate documents for robbing her of her power; the people and even the merchant factions were all in favor of this choice. Those in authoritative service offices often updated the newer leader of where his brother might have been spotted and as you hear these stories in the mid-afternoon sun, you wring your hands together in apprehensiveness waiting for the thrilling conclusion of this tale.

“W-why would he–Atsumu, where is he? If you know, please,” your voice is chillingly calm. You don’t demand anything less and as Atsumu hands you a paper when he leaves, he pauses to turn to give you a hopeful stare.

“His only crime was loving you, so it’s your turn, yn. Bring him home. Both of you, come home when you find each other. I’ll be waiting.”

The shop closes when the bells from the temple begin their hourly night chime. You lock the door after bidding your apprentice goodnight along with your fellow manager; casually walking the streets, those who frequent the shop greet you as you make way to the local pub. Paying the price of a pint of pear cider, you empty it just as quickly as it was poured. The barkeep hums a familiar tune as you stare at your reflection at the bottom of the light froth remants.

Glancing up, your lips stretch into a thin smile.

“Your brother stopped by today,” you push the glass back toward the bar keep. “Said when I find you I ought to bring you home with me.”

Arching an eyebrow at you, the same eyes from your youth sparkles in amusement. He leans over to kiss your lips (the other patrons whoop in the background); you laugh as you raise your pint glass in the air. You admire the moonlight streaks in your lover’s hair as he shakes his head at the noise. The years have been kind and not all of what Atsumu had said was a lie; it was factual to a degree. Only reason why the letters when unanswered for so long was because his brother and you were too busy establishing yourself in the town under the guise of newlyweds seeking a more stable home. The locals here were the most constant and eager to see you both succeed, so whether or not the reach of the estate would follow only time would tell.

You wave at the nightly regulars before rounding the back of the stairs to your shared flat. Before you take your leave, you feel a strong set of hands grip your waist and pull you back into a tight hug. A voice strong and gentle like the day you met him formally in the halls of his estate tickles against your ear. You bite back a grin when his lips graze your temple. Your fingers lace over his as his words leave you with dreams of a sepia hued montage; the disgraced master runs to the docks that night and as his destiny leaves the shores, she waits in the same citadel until her former master crosses her path en route to a market; behind the closed doors of the inn do both let their hearts’ passions free.

Even now, when you wear his colors in the threads you dress yourself with and perhaps the reason why Atsumu chose to speak as if his brother is lost in a public area; the pattern of your apron from the shop was the same as the inside tone of his brother’s riding cloak. Atsumu knows his brother is alive just by that alone, your apprehensiveness earlier was out of concern Osamu would be imprisoned for being an exiled son, yet Atsumu reassures you he just wants to reinstate all the titles that was lost to him since their mother’s ego was tarnished. Atsumu sighs before he leaves saying that all he wants was his family to be happy and you didn’t refuse his invitation to come home. After all, with the slight slump in Atsumu’s shoulders you could tell he misses you both dearly, so you tell him you’ll talk to his brother. The note reinstating what title and land deed would be bestowed upon their return was laid out in full, however you were still learning how to read ledgers at the age of twenty-four, so you thought it best to leave it on the bedside table.

For now though, you lean back to glance up at the sky gray eyes you’ve often found refuge in. Your lips curve into a curious grin.

“Hmm? Wanted me to stay a little while longer?”

You feel your lover shake his head before formulating a proper answer to your question from earlier:

“Say the word wife and we’ll leave at dawn to see this brother of mine... I heard the peonies are in full bloom this time o’year.”

#🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora after hours #sora scribbles 2022 #nobility au #noble!osamu x maid!reader #platonic noble!atsumu x maid!reader

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haikyuuwife220 · 1 year

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Main blog @sassyplaylistanimepersona

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narumi-gens · 10 months

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Platonic

Miya Osamu x f!Reader

summary: Osamu knows that there’s nothing going on between you and his brother. And yet, he still can’t help but be jealous.

warnings: minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, don't let the summary fool you – this is basically just 4k words of fluff, jealous!osamu, slightly insecure!osamu, married!osamu, dad!osamu, very normal relationship problems, the importance of communication, kita is always the voice of wisdom, osamu is really just a simp for you, reader and osamu are #CoupleGoals

notes: whenever I’m trying to get back into writing, stealing plots from sitcoms is always a guarantee so everything from the title to the banner to the plot is at least 80% lifted from platonic (which is such a wonderful show).

words: 4k

part of the Meet the Miyas series

Osamu is jealous. And he hates it. He hates the word. He hates the feeling. He hates what it says about him. He really hates how irrational it is.

But what he hates most is that the person that he's jealous of is his own brother (that scrub).

But maybe he's the scrub. Because it's dumb. You've been together for years. You trust him. You love him. You're committed to him. You're married to him. You’re the mother of his child. You're happy with the life that you've built together.

And he knows that Atsumu is your best friend. You were Atsumu's friend before he even met you. Atsumu is the one who introduced the two of you, who set you up — which he'll never stop taking credit for if his speech at your wedding was anything to go by. So of course you spend a significant amount of time with his twin.

It’s never really bothered him before. If anything, he’s typically relieved that you’re so close with Atsumu. The more you occupy the setter’s time, the less time he has to annoy Osamu.

And you’re allowed to have friends and a life outside of being a wife and mother. He wants you to have fun and to be your own person outside of your relationship with him. He doesn’t expect you to go from home to work and back to repeat the cycle all over again the next day. Not that you would ever allow it.

It wasn’t easy and it took a lot of hard work, but over the years, the two of you have built a happy balance between him running the restaurant, you pursuing your own thriving career, being doting parents to a three-year-old son, and still managing to keep your marriage healthy. So this gross feeling of jealousy has no place in his life, especially where Atsumu is concerned.

But it creeps up on him slowly, needling its way into him before he even has a chance to stop it. He first feels it over something so small that it embarrasses him.

He asks you if you want to go see a new movie that’s been advertised for months. His mom and yours are always eager to babysit — sometimes eager to the point of forcing you both out of the house for what’s declared “much-needed grandparent time.”

“Oh, I promised Atsumu that I’d see it with him,” you reply with a slight tilt of your head before picking up your phone. “Let me check with him about us all going together.”

It’s a simple and obvious solution. You’ve already sent your message to Atsumu and are looking up showtimes for that weekend. But there’s a small voice in the back of Osamu’s head insisting that you should be asking him if Atsumu can come with the two of you, not the other way around. The unfamiliar thought makes him feel uncomfortable and he quickly shoves it away.

But just that small, intrusive voice is like a spark and it isn’t long before he finds himself hearing it again, fanning the pathetic, weak flame into something stronger.

One morning, he’s pulled from sleep by the blankets lifting and the mattress dipping. When he cracks open a bleary eye, he sees you doing your best to slip into bed without disturbing him. He can’t check the time on his phone without giving away that you’ve already woken him up. But from the pale grey light of early morning that’s already beginning to brighten the bedroom and the fact that Reiji isn’t already awake, Osamu guesses that it’s between five and six.

He knows that you had plans with Atsumu last night. You told him that you would probably be back late. But “back late” feels like an understatement considering the joys of parenthood usually have both of you up in about an hour whether it’s a workday or not.

When you come down a few hours later, the bags under your eyes and unkempt hair point to your inability to sleep in even after what he can only assume was an all-night rager. You pepper your son’s cheeks with exaggerated kisses that have him giggling over his breakfast as Osamu pours you a cup of what he’s sure is much-needed coffee.

“Ya got home late last night,” he comments as you take the mug that he passes you.

“Ah, yeah. Just ended up going a little harder than I meant to,” you reply and something close to embarrassment seems to cross your features. You glance at Reiji, making sure his attention is on his food before you lower to voice to a furtive whisper. “I threw up in a karaoke room and had to sleep it off at Atsumu’s.”

His immediate instinct is to laugh in your face and he has to bite his lips and quickly look away from you to keep from doing so. You weakly punch his shoulder in response before sitting down at the table.

But the amusement at your misfortune slowly starts to fade, replaced instead by that same voice, which is growing steadily more familiar. He can’t remember the last time that the two of you had a night like that together. He tries to think back on if it was before or after Reiji was born. And while you certainly don’t make vomiting in karaoke rooms a habit, it’s not at all rare for you and his brother to have a wild night out.

When the voice asks why you’re having them with Atsumu but not with him, the only thing he can focus on is the knot in the pit of his stomach and how it only seems to grow tighter.

He hears it again when he’s with Atsumu one day and he asks Osamu what he thinks about you rejecting a new job offer. The question is offhanded — he’s looking at his phone when asks it, barely even giving Osamu a fraction of his attention.

But Osamu freezes. This is the first that he’s heard about any job offer. He didn’t even know that you were interviewing somewhere else.

“What job offer?” His voice sounds thin and Atsumu seems to realize that he’s unintentionally stumbled into something much bigger because his thumb stops scrolling and there’s a line of tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there only moments ago.

“Uh, it’s nothin’ big,” he quickly tries to assure his brother as he puts down his phone and turns to face him fully. “It just happened this week. Some new place made her an offer and she turned it down.”

Osamu merely hums, his expression betraying nothing, but his twin brother knows him too well.

“Look, I’m sure she just hasn’t gotten ‘round to telling ya,” he offers and Osamu can see the slight panic in his eyes. “She had that big meeting. And she’s been lookin’ after Reiji-kun since he’s been sick, right? Things’ve probably just been too crazy fer her to even think about it.”

Every excuse only digs the hole deeper. It’s not just this apparent job that you’ve been pursuing only to turn down that Atsumu knows about. It’s also your hectic work week and how you’ve been taking care of Reiji since the restaurant’s been too shorthanded for Osamu to stay home.

What’s next? Is he going to mention that you’ve also been so busy the two of you haven’t had sex in almost three weeks? From the guilty look in his twin’s eyes, Osamu would bet good money that he’s already aware.

On his way home, he tries to think about the best way to raise the subject with you and ultimately decides that there’s no good way to ask, “Hey. Why are ya tellin’ Tsumu things but not yer husband?”

(He knows that’s definitely the wrong way to phrase it, but that little voice won’t say it any other way.)

But when he enters your bedroom he finds you slouched against the headboard, fully passed out with Reiji sprawled on top of you as he clings to you even in his sleep. The light and tv are both still on. You’re obviously exhausted and stretched thin, while Osamu is looking to pick a fight. The guilt he feels is almost crippling.

It probably hasn’t even occurred to you to mention the job offer with everything else going on. Atsumu is right, which only makes him feel worse.

He comes toward the both of you and carefully tries to pick Reiji up out of your arms without waking either of you. But he’s only just managed to pry the sick toddler loose when your eyelids flutter open.

It takes you a moment to register what’s happening, still feeling the dregs of sleep, but when you do, you give him the softest smile and it makes him feel like an even bigger piece of shit.

“Did you just get home?” you whisper as you help him lift Reiji off of you. But before he can take your son too far away, you shift over and gesture for Osamu to place him in the middle of the bed. “He’ll cry if he wakes up in his room alone.”

“He doin’ any better?” Osamu quietly asks and does as you ask, gently putting him down before sitting down on your other side on the edge of the mattress.

“His fever broke a couple of hours ago, so he should be back to normal in a day or two.” The news is a visible relief to you. It’s not just the amount of effort a sick child takes, but also the worry that’s been weighing you down.

“Wish I coulda been ‘round more to help ya,” he tells you, his guilt about both doubting you and leaving you to take care of Reiji by yourself beginning to peek through.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” you assure him, lifting a hand to run your fingers through his hat hair. “I know that you’re in a bind since Kimura-san quit. I’m the one with the flexible hours and schedule. I really don’t mind. We’re a team.”

He doesn’t deserve you.

“Well, the new part-timer starts next week so things’ll finally calm down,” he offers and something mischievous sparkles in your tired eyes.

“Good. Because when you can finally take some time off, we’re gonna pawn Reiji off on the grandparents. Then you’re gonna make it up to me by spending the entire night making me cum so hard I see stars,” you tell him, your tone leaving no room for argument, as if he would ever want to.

“I can do that,” he agrees with a grin.

“We haven’t fucked in weeks,” you pout and Osamu can’t hold in his laughter, only for you to slap a hand over his mouth to keep him from waking up Reiji.

Your own quiet giggles are able to momentarily drown out the small voice reminding him about the job offer that you’ve yet to tell him about.

But a few weeks later, even after having the house to yourselves for an entire weekend and spending it fucking on every surface that you could like you used to do before Reiji came along, those embarrassing feelings of jealousy are still as present as ever.

You post a series of photos of you and Atsumu at a restaurant. The first picture is of your happy, smiling faces and the matching pair of five-pound gyoza on the table, one in front of each of you. As he swipes through the series, you both look worse and worse as you try to finish your gyoza. When he gets to the final one, you’re proudly holding a certificate from the restaurant for having finished yours in an hour, while Atsumu looks like he’s on death’s doorstep.

He’s so preoccupied swiping back and forth through the photos that when the restaurant door slides open, it startles him so badly that he almost drops his phone entirely. He doesn��t know whether or not to be relieved that it’s Kita coming to drop off a new order of rice rather than a customer who didn’t read the closed sign.

On one hand, he doesn’t want to deal with a customer while he’s in the midst of indulging that voice that’s slowly becoming a companion. But on the other, dealing with Kita when he’s in a jealousy spiral is even worse.

“Is everything alright? Ya look like ya just got some bad news,” Kita observes with a small frown of concern.

As Osamu assures him that nothing’s wrong, he tries to hurriedly shove his phone into the pocket of his apron. However, it slips from his sweaty hands and skids across the floor of the restaurant where it comes face-up to a perfect stop right in front of Kita’s feet.

He picks it up and when he sees the final picture of you and Atsumu on the screen, he shakes his head in amusement.

“Atsumu only sent me the picture of them at the start of the challenge,” he wryly says as he slides the restaurant door shut behind him and joins Osamu at the counter. He takes a moment to swipe through the rest of the photos in your post before passing the phone back. “I’m surprised ya didn’t go with ‘em.”

“I wasn’t invited,” he mumbled, vocalizing the bitter thought that’s been taking up so much space in his mind ever since you and Atsumu originally made the plans. But as soon as the words leave his lips, he knows he’s given himself away because he can feel Kita’s heavy gaze on him.

“Did ya ask if ya could join ‘em?” is Kita’s annoyingly reasonable response. After a few moments, Osamu gives the smallest shake of his head, confirming that no, he didn’t ask if he could go with you and his brother.

“Y’know, yer wife is an amazing woman,” he finally says when it’s clear Osamu has nothing else to offer. “But fer all of her talents, she’s not a mind reader. Just talk to her.”

Osamu groans loudly at how rational Kita is being. He drops his head down to rest his forehead on the countertop, his Onigiri Miya hat flopping off in the process. While he agrees that it’s good advice, there’s still one problem.

“Kita-san…it’s embarrassing,” he protests childishly and he turns his head to the side to look up at his old team captain. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Stop spendin’ so much time with that scrub!’ I’ll sound like an idiot.”

“Just talk to her,” Kita repeats calmly and Osamu can only sigh. “Why don’t ya tell me how Reiji-kun’s been?”

For the rest of the day, Osamu finds himself trapped in an internal debate over whether or not he should take Kita’s advice. The ugly voice in his head insists that he shouldn’t have to say anything at all. If you really love him then you should already know. The more self-conscious part of him keeps warning him of how embarrassed he’ll be when he tells his wife, the mother of his child, the love of his life, that he’s jealous of how much time she spends with his brother.

But a new voice, one that sounds exactly like Kita, simply asks him if he’s tired of feeling like this. Does he really want to keep harboring this resentment? It’ll only continue to fester and grow until it explodes, hurting everyone he loves.

So that night, after he’s put Reiji to bed and the dishes are done and the laundry is folded and he has no more excuses left to procrastinate, he collapses next to you on the couch with an exaggerated sigh. You look up at him from your phone with an amused smile, only for it to slightly fall when you see how troubled he looks.

“What’s going on? Did something happen at work?” you ask, turning to give him your full attention and scooting closer to him so that you can rest a gentle hand on his thigh.

He shuts his eyes and gives himself a single moment to steel himself before finally letting out the poison that’s slowly been building inside of him for the last few months.

“I have somethin’ to tell ya and it’s gonna make it seem like I’m fifteen or somethin’,” he says and he knows that if he didn’t sound so serious then you would be making a joke about him having some sort of wet dream and ruining the sheets. Instead, you give his thigh a reassuring squeeze.

“Lately…fer the last few months…I’ve been feelin’ kinda…jealous.”

There. The words are out there in the world. You’ve heard them. He can go crawl into a hole and wait for the embarrassment to kill him.

“Jealous? Of what?”

He hates how concerned you sound. You’re not making light of his admission. You’re not confused. You’re being patient. You’re gentle. You’re so much better than him and his childish pettiness and resentment and jealousy.

“You and stupid Tsumu,” he grumbles, slouching down even further into the couch. He glances over at you from the corner of his eye and sees the look of surprise on your face. He shuts his eyes again, balling his hands into fists, and tells himself to man the fuck up.

With his nerves now steeled, he takes a deep breath, sits up straight, and turns to fully face you.

“Look, I know that ya got this weird friendship with Tsumu and that he’s yer best friend. And it’s never been a big deal before, but lately, I dunno…,” he trails off, his gaze darting down before he forces it back up to meet yours. “I’ve just been feelin’ a little…cut out.”

“Osamu,” you murmur, lifting a hand to his face but he quickly takes it between both of his so that he can hold it tight and keep himself steady.

“I love you and our family and the life we’ve built together. I wouldn’t change any of it fer anything,” he’s quick to assure you, needing you to know that you make him happier than he ever thought he could be. “But sometimes I see ya hangin’ out with Tsumu and havin’ fun and it sounds dumb but, I wish I could see more of that part of yer life.”

You softly repeat his name before you climb into his lap. You wrap an arm around his shoulders to hold him close and pull your other hand from his grasp so that you can cup his cheek with a loving touch.

“I’m so sorry that I’ve made you feel that way,” you tell him. “You’re always gonna come first. I don’t ever want you to feel excluded or like I’m trying to keep the different pieces of my life compartmentalized.”

Just hearing your apology and acknowledgment of the irrational jealousy that’s been plaguing him soothes his insecurities and embarrassment.

“I want ya to be able to go do things on yer own and do things with Tsumu without feelin’ like ya gotta bring me along every time. But ya just look like yer havin’ fun when yer gettin’ up to stupid things together and I guess, I just wanna have fun with ya too,” he shrugs. Despite how true it is, he hates how cheesy he sounds. But from the way that you’re looking at him with so much affection, you clearly find it touching.

“I love having fun with you, Osamu,” you smile back at him and his cheeks start to feel warm. “I’d love to do more stupid things with you.”

“Even if that stupid thing is spendin’ 20,000 yen at an arcade to beat a bunch of teens for the high score?” he asks and it comes out shyer than he intended. “Or buyin’ out every flavor of chips and every type of snack from the konbini just to rank ‘em?”

“Even then,” you nod with a grin. “Even if it’s needing to make a cab pull over to throw up after a night of drinking.”

“I thought it was the karaoke room?” he frowns in confusion.

“It was the karaoke room for me. The cab was Atsumu,” you tell him with a laugh and he snorts in response.

But then, since this is a time for honesty, he decides to bring up the question that’s been weighing heavily on his mind for the last few weeks.

“Why didn’t ya tell me about the job offer?” he gently asks, the question curious rather than accusatory.

“Job offer?” The line of your mouth twists down and your eyebrows knit together as you try to understand what he’s referring to.

“Tsumu said ya turned down a job offer. It was around when Reiji was sick,” he explains and his tone turns slightly hesitant. “Did ya feel like ya couldn’t tell me?”

Your eyes spark with recognition before you roll them in annoyance.

“Atsumu’s an idiot. He never listens,” you begin to rant and he’s not too proud to admit that hearing your irritation directed towards his twin extinguishes the last remaining embers of his jealousy. “It wasn’t a job offer. A recruiter reached out about a job opening for a position that involves more work for less pay. I didn’t even reply.”

He feels an odd mixture of relief, guilt, and frustration. He’s relieved that this was just some misunderstanding, but he feels just as guilty for jumping to the worst conclusion and thinking that you were something big from him. The frustration will be dealt with when he next sees his twin and gives him an earful and delivers a slap to the back of his head.

“I’m sorry fer not just askin’ ya ‘bout it sooner,” he says and you just give him a look of understanding.

“You and me, we’re only human. There are just gonna be times when I forget to tell you something or just don’t think to bother with it. But I’ll always do my best to make sure you know when there’s something going on. We’re a team, remember?” You run your fingers caringly through his hair with a soft smile and he leans eagerly into your touch.

“We’re a team,” he repeats quietly, finding the words comforting. He then gives you a slightly embarrassed look. “Hey, don’t tell Tsumu, okay? He’ll just call me a scrub.”

You place a reassuring kiss on his lips before nodding.

“Don’t worry. You’re a scrub, but you’re my scrub and I love you.” He can’t help but laugh as he wraps his arms around your middle and hugs you close. “But, you wanna do something crazy, huh?”

When he looks up at you, it’s to find a hint of wildness creeping into your expression. It’s the same wildness he used to see when you first started dating — before you both became adults and spouses and parents with real responsibilities.

The next day, Atsumu stops by the restaurant in the late afternoon during a lull. His appearance is unannounced, meaning that Osamu hasn’t had a chance to prepare himself for what he knows is to come. It’s as bad as he imagined because as soon as the setter walks in, he freezes, his expression going slack in shock at the sight of Osamu.

Or more correctly, at the sight of Osamu’s hair, which has been amateurishly dyed to be the same shade of grey that he used to wear in high school.

“Don’t even start,” he warns but doing so is pointless because Atsumu immediately bursts into laughter, finding it so funny that he has to clutch his stomach as he bends over.

“Who’s idea was this?” he manages to ask in between his gasps for air and his cackles. “Ya look so stupid!”

Osamu just stares at him blankly, not bringing up the fact that Atsumu is the one who’s been wearing the exact same hairstyle since they were sixteen, and isn’t that even more pathetic?

Because for all of the mocking that he receives, he knows it was worth it for the time he spent joking and laughing with you into the late hours of the night in your tiny bathroom as you did your best to dye his hair without burning his scalp.

#first thing I've written in months 🙀#miya osamu x reader #miya osamu #osamu miya x reader #osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #miya osamu fluff #osamu fluff #platonic #mel writes

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sashimiyas · 1 year

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The Burden of Being

Summary: There was an Osamu who loved you once. Who loved Onigiri Miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of Hyogo Ward. A fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we don’t need the memories. Now they’re gone and memories are all you have. So as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.

Pairings: miya osamu x reader (romantic); miya atsumu x reader (familial); akaashi keiji x reader (platonic)

Content: angst; fluff; inaccurate portrayal of how amnesia works; there is a hospital scene; fem reader; reader eats meat; reader has depressive symptoms that are, for the most part, amateurly addressed; reader attends therapy; alcohol as a coping method; undiagnosed alcoholism; unhealthy coping mechanisms; cigarette smoker Akaashi; cigarette smoker Osamu; amnesiac Osamu; pro volleyball player Osamu; the characters are all in their mid to late twenties bc this fic covers the time span of 2+ years; long passages written within parentheses are memories; there is a mentionable size difference between Osamu and reader where reader can wear his clothes and it be too big for them

Word count: 22k+

A/n: the premise for this fic was born after binging The Bear; she's gone through 4 drafts, 2 of which were completely scrapped and rewritten, and strayed much further from the initial plot than I imagined, but she's here! Thank you The 1975 for writing About You which I binged just as hard and would rec listening to it while you read! Sets the vibe, you know? Anyways, I've talked too much (obviously) but if you read, know that I love you!

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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a-kaash-me-outside · 1 year

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the walls are thin // masterlist

in which atsumu is your college neighbor with whom you share a wall.

~ ᴀᴛsᴜᴍᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ~ total wc: 75368 ᴡᴏʀᴅs status (as of apr23): complete! ~ 9 / 9 chapters posted

oh but ofc she's got a playlist (♡) "what a shame it would be if you left her now"

the general vibe: incessant fluff, 18+ eventual smut (with small nsfw desc & bits in the meantime), small bits of angst (it's an 8 chapter story there's going to be some conflict) what you're getting yourself into: atsumu is very sexually active, complicated feelings (but no miscommunication trope), a LOT of flirting, hanamaki takahiro side piece ♡ , seijoh 4 & msby besties, slow burn (ish?), seriously so much fluff, tiny bit of angst, afab reader she/her pronouns, will provide tags for each chapter!! ~~

tori loves polls. (which of my self indulgences did you vibe with the most in the epilogue?)

ch1. your annoying, stupid, inconsiderate, really fucking hot neighbor

ch2. stupid, annoying, really attractive, super funny, ravishingly charming atsumu

ch3. perfectly inconsiderate, maybe cluelessly oblivious

ch4. incredibly heart-warming, stupidly romantic

ch5. overly attentive and completely different than you ever expected him to be

ch6. flirty, surprisingly sweet, now super close neighbor

ch7. really pretty, honest to god made for you

ch7.5. passionate, silently perfect romantic, unwavering platonic

ch8. gorgeously genuine, absolutely beaming (aka atsumu ending)

ch8.5. carefully attentive, the same person he’s always been (aka maki ending)

epilogue. proudly unpredictable and awestrukenly trusting

♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡

#atsumu x reader #hq x reader #hq fanfic #hq fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fics #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fluff #toriwritesshit #just blog stuff #tori’s masterlist #twrt!#masterlist!

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mik0rin · 2 months

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are we still friends? status: yes, but only friends...

kuroo tetsuro x black fem reader genre: college au, smut, childhood best friends to strangers to best friends to lovers warnings: cussing, men hitting on you, alcohol consumption, NSFW 18+ MDNI, there's a plot, slight begging, nipple play, oral (f. receiving), kuroo is like a soft dom (?), penetration, overstimulation, whiny kuroo, praise, slight size kink, good girl/angel/pretty girl is used word count: 5,388

<- prev m.list next -> taglist open sign up -> here !! a/n: this is my first time writing smut pls be nice 🧍🏿‍♀️

Condensation drips onto the table and the sound of other’s conversation carries into your booth. You sip on your drink, half-listening to the conversation of three men at your table.

“Are you single, y/n?”

“Why?” You tilt your head, a flirty smile on your face, “Are you finally gonna confess your love to me, Kotaro?”

“Actually, he has a crush right now.” Akaashi chimes in.

Your spine instantly straightens and your eyes narrow in on him. Bokuto refuses to look at anyone, instead, he turns his head to the side and you get a good view of his ears which are now flaming a bright red.

“Who?” Both you and Kuroo question.

“A figure skater that practices in the rink below their gym.”

“Akaashi….” Bokuto whines.

“You have to show me a picture.”

Akaashi mouths a “later” and you nod in understanding.

The pro-athlete clears his throat, “Moving on, are you single or not?”

“Of course she’s single,” Kuroo answers for you.

You glare at him, “You’re acting like I didn’t have a boyfriend two months ago.”

Tetsuro snorts, “That loser?”

His tone is one you’re familiar with, it’s how he says something without actually saying it.

“I just feel like you’re trying to say I'm a loser by association.”

“Why would I go through all that trouble? If I wanted to call you a loser, I would just call you one, loser.”

You flick him in the forehead and the boy lets out a high-pitched “ow” and you turn your attention back to your other friend.

“I am Taro, but why?”

“Atsumu likes you and won’t stop begging me to set you guys up.”

You’ve met Atsumu on several occasions and you get along with him well enough, but you only ever saw him as Kotaro’s teammate. When you were around him, you couldn’t fathom having anything other than platonic feelings for him and if you were being honest: sometimes he gave you a headache.

“Oh. Then I’m not single.”

The three boys erupt into loud laughter and you wait for them to calm down before continuing.

“He’s incredibly fine, don't get me wrong, but Atsumu is so….”

“Atsumu.” Everyone fills in the blank, knowing smiles on their faces.

“Yeah, exactly. Whoever ends up dealing with that personality of his, bless their heart.”

The conversation shifts from love interests to something else, and a small smile bends your lips. You were so happy that you could hang out like this again; that you and Kuroo are back to what you used to be and you’ll make sure it never ends up any different.

The talking dies down a bit, everyone's focus is on the food in front of them, that’s until Bokuto and Akaashi share a look before leaning towards you.

“We want to know more about your ex-boyfriend.”

Men are so incredibly nosy and will never admit it.

“There’s nothing to really say. We were together and now we’re not.” You shrug.

Kuroo waves around his skewer like a gavel, “I never liked him.”

You roll your eyes, “You never like anyone I date.”

“They aren’t likable people.”

“But I like them?”

“And there’s something wrong with you, I keep telling you.” He puts a hand on your shoulder in fake pity, and you slap it off.

Akaashi sighs, knowing that the two of you will be at this back and forth for a while.

You point at yourself, “Something wrong with me?” and then you poke him in the chest “Yet I’m not the one who is perpetually single or when I do date, I don’t get dumped.”

Bokuto laughs and Kuroo shoots him a hard look. Since high school, everyone has quickly learned that trying to argue with you was futile, but Kuroo was the only one who could kind of keep up with you.

Kotaro’s eyes light up and he first points at you, “If Tetsuro doesn’t like anyone you date,” he then uses his other hand to point to the boy next to you “and you always get dumped.”

“Hey!”

“Why don’t you date each other?” Bokuto looks so pleased with himself like he found the answer to everything wrong in the world. But you two? You almost knock a drink over in shock and Kuroo chokes on the piece of chicken he’s chewing on.

“Excuse me?” You say, incredulously. You really cannot believe your ears, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve heard this before, but it is surprising to hear it from someone that you were both close with.

Keiji’s eyes widen a fraction and he looks at the two of you in slight disbelief, “Wait, the thought has never crossed your minds?”

You look at each other, mutual agreement in your eyes as you both shake your heads and go, “No.”

“Tetsuu has always been just my best friend.” You add.

The man’s voice is a bit hoarse due to his previous choking spell, but he coughs out a “Yeah, same.”

The blue-eyed man raises an eyebrow at you, “You’ve never had feelings for each other?”

You put a hand over your heart, “I haven’t. As for Testuu…. I don’t know, we all know he’s weak to a pretty girl. Poor thing is so easily swayed.”

Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest, “And who told you were pretty?”

“Your father.”

This descends into another argument between the two of you; and Bokuto counts the amount of times Kuroo makes an indication he’s offended and Akaashi counts how many times you tell him to “Shut up talking to me.” It’s a little game the two of them play when they know they can't stop you from verbally attacking each other. You finally calm down and dismiss Tetsuro with a “Whatever, don’t talk to me.”

“Are you guys coming to my friend’s pre-grad party? It’s next next Friday.”

Akasshi and Bokuto look at you with sorry expressions, telling you that they have important tests or a game that weekend. Your lips start to fall into a pout and your eyes begin to widen, and they immediately look away because they’ll crack at your puppy-dog expression and you weaponize it so well.

Kuroo raises his hand, “I’m going.”

“Well, you’re not important.” You wave him off.

“Oh, really? Have fun going by yourself.”

Your arms wrap around him and he tries to escape, “You know I love you the most. I was just playing.”

The music is so loud you can feel the bass in your bones. You readjust your mini skirt and touch up your lipgloss before the door swings open and Mika pulls you into a tight hug. The words exchanged between you two are so fast, and Kuroo can only catch a few compliments on each other’s outfits and asking if that person is here. You turn to the man next to you and introduce him, explaining that Mika was your best friend in Osaka and you’re so excited that you finally get to meet each other.

The three of you talk a little bit more before you send Kuroo to the kitchen to grab drinks. Your curly-haired friend instantly hooks her arm with yours and looks at you with a proud smile.

“This is the best-looking boyfriend you’ve had,” She tells you.

“What?”

Mika lists the attributes she thinks are working in Kuroo’s favor, “He’s tall, has a nice voice, and knows how to listen.”

You wave your hands and shake your head, “Mika, wait. He’s my best friend.”

“Sure..” She puts her hands up, making air quotations as she speaks, “Best friend.”

“Why are you doing that? I’m dead serious right now.’” You lean into your right hip, your arms crossing over your chest.

Your friend mirrors your pose, “Okay, so how come I haven’t heard about him before?”

“Well, we fought and then didn’t talk for two years. And you have, remember when I said I made up with my friend a few months back?”

“Oh, that’s him? Ahh, I see what’s going on here.” Mika has a dreamy look in her eyes and she brings her clasped hands up to her cheek, “You decided to take your relationship to the next level because you’re scared to lose each other again.”

Your friend is such a hopeless romantic, you both are, but she’s one in a fairytale way.

“What? No, we’re just friends.”

She looks at you with a sly smile, “Okay~”

You sigh, what is up with everyone lately? “Mika, seriously.”

Kuroo returns, placing the ice-cold bottle on your exposed midsection and you yelp in surprise. He laughs, eyes sparkling with mischief as he hands your friend her drink. She looks at the two of you with a knowing smile, and you give her a light slap on the arm with a warning: “Behave.”

The three of you move to the dancefloor and dance for what feels like hours, there’s a thin layer of sweat that coats your body and your limbs start to ache from the constant movement. Mika was whisked away by someone she’s been talking to. You and Kuroo continue on in her absence, screaming lyrics to one of your favorite songs and as it ends, he tells you that he has to piss and you scold him for being so vulgar.

You exit the crowd and Kuroo makes his way to the bathroom, you take this as an opportunity to lean against the cool wall. Your eyes flutter close as your breath starts to even out and then suddenly, you feel someone stand directly in front of you. Your eyes open and you’re met with a man you’ve never seen before.

You don’t let him get one word in and hit him with, “I have a boyfriend, he’s in the bathroom.”

He puts his hands up, “I haven’t even said anything.”

“And? I’m letting you know.”

“Let your boyfriend know that he shouldn’t be leaving such a beautiful girl on her own.”

You roll your eyes at him, men never know when to quit. You don’t say anything else and wait for him to leave but when he doesn’t, you let out an annoyed sigh.

“I’m waiting for your boyfriend, making sure you’re safe. Plus I know how you girls are, playing hard to get by saying you're taken.”

You scoff and your head starts to pound from his stupidity. You glance over your shoulder, praying Tetsuro comes back soon. You spot his tall frame and almost yell out in relief. When he makes his way over to you, he doesn’t even acknowledge the man who is hellbent on lingering.

Your hand curls around his bicep, “Babe, you took too long.” You pout and Kuroo feels his heart begin to speed up. Why are you looking at him like that?

And why did he like it?

His face is clouded with confusion and the other man can tell, and you really hope you can put on a convincing show. Your eyes dart between your best friend and the unidentified man who is a few steps away. Tetsuro catches on and presses a quick apology kiss to your temple like a real boyfriend would do. It’s a routine he’s used to; always fending off men who couldn’t get the hint and usually, they would run off after one look at his tall stature and hard gaze that borders murderous. But this one is particularly stubborn.

“Sorry, angel. There was a long line.” The raven-haired man finally turns his attention to the other boy, “Can I help you?” Kuroo’s voice is harsh and he steps in front of you protectively.

“Do you really think I’m going to believe this lie? He didn’t even seem sure you were talking to him.” His words are aimed towards you but you don’t offer him the luxury of a reply.

Tetsuro’s jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists- he looks so angry. And your brain is going haywire because why does he look so sexy? His voice drops an octave and your heart speeds up, “I don’t give a fuck what you think. We don’t have to prove anything to you.”

The other man says something but you’re getting tired of this fast. You grab Tetsuro by the collar of his shirt, your faces level with each other and your lips at his ear, “We’re gonna kiss. Is that okay?”

His voice is too quiet for anyone other than you to hear, “Okay.”

Then you smash your lips against his, and you forget all about whoever was bothering you. Kuroo is an amazing kisser, his lips are soft against yours and you can taste the berry chapstick you lent him. He kisses you like a prayer desperate to be answered and his body is pressing you flush against the wall, while his arms are caging you in.

Tetsuro knows this is for show, he knows this is to prove that asshole wrong but the way your plush lips are moving in perfect sync with his is enough to send him to an early grave. You taste like bubblegum and the best time of his life. He wants to devour you with each kiss, he wants to hear what sounds you make, and when he bites your bottom lip; he gets a preview of the sweetest moan he has ever heard.

When your lungs can no longer survive without a new breath, you pull away for air. The stupid man had left with an angry grumble the second your lips touched.

“Thanks.” You breathe out.

Kuroo’s cheeks are a soft pink, “No problem.”

The two of you separate and you tell him you’re going to look for Mika, skipping off like nothing ever happened. But his hands touch his swollen lips as he watches the way your hips sway as you walk away.

You push your apartment door open and when Kuroo steps in, you let it slam behind you with a loud bam. You’re glad your roommate took a couple’s trip with her girlfriend because the amount of noise you’re making right now is disrespectful. You’re beyond tired and not physically, mentally. The kiss still has your head spinning and as for the rest of the night? You spent it putting a considerable distance between you and Tetsu, and you hope he didn’t take offense to it but even being able to feel his body heat or catch a whiff of his cologne was driving you insane.

You walk into your room, turning on the lamp and it envelopes the room in warm light. With your back towards him you ask, “Do you want to shower first?”

Kuroo sighs quietly, his heart racing at the thought of mustering up the courage to take this step. “We’re still friends, right?”

You turn around so fast, thinking that your actions during the latter half of the night hurt his feelings.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

The man’s eyes meet yours in the dim lighting, his pupils are dilated and his gaze flickers to your lips.

“I want to kiss you again but as friends…”

You want to ask him to repeat it but you hear him loud and clear, and your response rings even clearer in your mind.

“If it’s as friends then that should be fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Then his hands on your waist pulling you in and his lips on yours, kissing you like a man starved. Your arms wrap around his neck and somehow you feel like he’s kissing you even better than before. Your fingers toy with hair at the nape of his neck; Kuroo moans into the kiss and you smile, and he just about loses it.

He needs to touch you more.

Tetsuro’s hands climb up your waist, passing over your chest, and grazing your hardened nipples before they settle on your face. The action causes you to gasp and he takes it as a chance to slip his tongue into your mouth. He groans at the feeling of being even closer to you; his knee slips in between your thighs, pressing against your clothed core.

You pull away for air and a soft “fuck” falls from your swollen lips. Kuroo doesn’t stop, he just moves on to your neck, sucking and biting. You tilt your head to give him more access and he’s whispering your name into the marks he leaves behind and you’re damn near melting in his arms.

And right now you’re not thinking about the implications of kissing your best friend.

No.

You’re thinking about fucking him.

Tetsuro knows you’re crossing over into dangerous territory, and he knows himself. If he kept going like this he wouldn’t stop and he doesn’t want to push towards a boundary you might not want to cross. So, he pulls away and you whimper at the loss of contact. You try to pull him back in by his belt loops but he takes a small step back, and your hands lightly dust over the tent in his pants and he hisses at the contact.

He’s about to give in to your silent demand for more but he wants to mess with you, he couldn’t help it. It was the dynamic the two of you have and it’s hard not to give into it.

“You know I always tell you to use your words. So, tell me what you want, angel.”

He’s just teasing, he’s always just teasing.

But, your brain is foggy with lust and need, and you need him in ways you never thought possible.

“I want you to fuck me, please Tetsuu.”

Never in a million years did you think you would be begging for Kuroo Tetsuro but here you are, eyes boring into his and your heart hammering against your ribcage.

Tetsuro’s face flushes a bright red and his cock strains against his pants; he didn’t expect this. He wants to tear his gaze away but your eyes are sinful and you’re looking at him like he's the only man in the world. And god, you don’t know what it does to him. Kuroo wants to ruin you, he wants to make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, he wants you to be so lost in the pleasure he brings you- all you ever think about is him.

“Only ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

The first thing to go is his shirt and your hand trails down chest and stomach, the muscles flexing under your fingers. Kuroo wants to comment on how you��ve seen it before but a few open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone steals the words right out of his mouth. His hands drop down to your mini skirt but they falter and you give him a nod to tell him it’s okay but his hands still don’t move.

“What’s wrong?” Your tone is a bit impatient but still concerned nonetheless.

He smirks, “Kinda wanna fuck you in it.” You want to tell him to do it but he’s already yanking it down with a “But it’s too pretty to ruin, just wear it for me another time.”

Another time?

He’s getting caught up in the act, don’t think too much of it.

The rest of your clothes follow and Kuroo leads you to the bed with a kiss as he expertly removes your bra. Your back is now flat against the mattress and he takes no time to leave a trail of kisses from your lips to your sternum. Your breath is heavy and everywhere he touches feels like it’s on fire. And when his mouth wraps around your nipple, his name tumbles from your lips in a whine.

Kuroo looks up at you, his tongue swirling around the bud and his fingers playing with the other one. You're a mess- he’s making you a mess, and he’s loving every second of it. His dick is painfully hard but you have to get off first before he even thinks about himself.

“So pretty.” He mumbles against your skin, his mouth switching over to the other side. You clench around nothing and you can feel your arousal slide down your thigh, you’re aching for him in one place and you’re growing impatient.

“Tetsuro,” You grab one of his hands and trail it down your body until it’s right where you want it. “Here, need you here.”

A string of curses leaves his mouth, you’re going to kill him.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” He uses his thumb to rub slow circles on your clit and pleasure shoots through your every nerve. Your eyes flutter close and you don’t even see him move down, but you do feel his tongue lick one languid stripe along your slit.

“Oh god.” You moan out and your hands fly to his hair, tugging at the ends. The boy continues his ministrations, switching between slowly licking your folds and sucking your clit. Cries, moans, and curses fall from your lips and they only egg him on. You taste so good and he only wishes he could’ve done this sooner, he could eat you out until daybreak or until his last breath: whichever came first.

“Need you to cum on my tongue, pretty girl. Can you do that?” His voice vibrates throughout your core and your hips grind against his face on their accord.

You nod furiously and Tetsuro chuckles at your enthusiasm, the vibration pulls another sweet sound out of you and it sets him off. His mouth is moving like its one purpose is to help you reach bliss and he’s doing a damn good job.

Kuroo’s long fingers prod your entrance and when your eyes open again, you find him staring at you, the question burning in his gaze and you don’t trust yourself to form a coherent answer, so you nod and he pushes them in.

He pumps his digits at a slow pace, making sure you can feel all of it and you feel the familiar knot start to tighten in the pit of your stomach. And Kuroo can feel it, in the way your walls clench around him. So, he speeds up and curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot over and over.

“So close, Tetsuu. I’m so close, please.” You don’t even know what you’re begging for but Kuroo’s tongue applies just the right amount of pressure on your sensitive bud and it sends you over the edge.

Your vision goes white and euphoria takes over every single one of your senses, your body shakes and your best friend’s face is drenched in your juices. Tetsuro doesn’t stop, he helps you ride it out, enjoying the view of you coming completely undone at his hand.

“You look so pretty when you cum on my face.” He’s lapping up all evidence of your orgasm and you start to push him away, the feeling is overwhelming.

“Too much,” You whine.

“Give me one more, please? You taste so good, angel. I don’t wanna stop.”

Your mind is fuzzy with pleasure and though the overstimulation is a bit painful, it hurts so good.

“Okay.” And his tongue is on you once more, and it doesn’t take much for you to hit that high again and you do it with a scream of his name.

Tetsuro comes up and meets you with a kiss, and you can taste yourself on his lips. The kiss is messy, full of wanton need that puts the sin, Lust, to shame. And you can feel Kuroo’s hard cock in between your thighs and it brushes against your wet slit, he whimpers into your mouth and you realize he’s been holding back the whole time.

You pull away and sit up on your elbows, there’s a sex-drunk smile on your face and Kuroo almost cums on the spot at the sight.

“Are you gonna make me wait all night?”

That’s all he needs to hear and he’s pulling open your nightstand drawer and grabbing a condom. He rips open the foil packaging with his teeth and slides it on, his eyes never leave your frame even when yours drop down and widen at the size.

You can never tease him again.

Kuroo hooks one of your legs around his waist and places the other on his shoulder. He lines himself up with your entrance and slowly starts to push in. Your moans mix together like a forbidden melody as his tip makes it past.

The stretch burns and tears prick the back of your eyes, the pain is burning pleasure but god, you don’t know if you can take all of him. Tetsuro is trying his hardest not to lose control, but you feel so good around him, your walls soft and fluttering against him as they try to adjust.

“F-fuck, you feel like h-heaven.” His words come out in a whine and you love the way he sounds.

He’s barely halfway and you’re already feeling so full. “Tetsuu, it’s so big. I don’t thin-”

He cuts you off, “I know, I know but you’re taking me so well, pretty girl. Just relax.”

And you do as he says, and he bottoms out with a hiss and you cry out.

He moves with slow strokes and soft moans fall from your lips. His dark eyes are full of passion and his voice is breathy, “Such a good girl when you listen to me. Where is this usually, hmm?”

You turn your head in embarrassment, you’re usually quick to say something smart and shut him down. But, right now? You’re hanging on to his every word and doing as he says.

Kuroo stops moving and you mewl out, “Keep going.” Your head is still turned and your eyes are closed.

“Look at me.”

You refuse, still trying to get him to continue fucking you without giving in to his demand. He starts to pull out and you sob at the feeling of emptiness.

“Look at me or I won’t do anything.”

Your head turns and your eyes open, and he smirks like he’s won a gold prize. “Good girl.”

And he’s slamming back into you, his pace is fast and unforgiving. Sweat gives his skin a light sheen and the sound of skin hitting skin and how wet you are, echo throughout the room. You can’t even form words because Tetsuro is fucking them out of you and every time he compliments you, you clench around him and he groans.

“You feel so good, baby.” He pulls you even closer to him, angling himself and he hits that sweet spot that has your walls spasming around him.

“Tetsuu” You whimper out.

“You like when I fuck you like this, angel?” You’re so full of him, you can feel him in your stomach. He’s relentless, hitting that spot over and over again. You can’t even answer him because he’s slowly pulling out and then reentering just as slowly, making you feel every inch of him.

Your pussy is so warm around him and he stutters, you’re milking him and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going.

“C-can’t answer? Am I- fuck.”

Kuroo can’t even finish his own sentences, the way your face expresses pure bliss and how you squeeze around him, is driving him insane.

“S’good.” You slur, “You’re so good to me.”

“Yeah? You treat me even better, pretty girl.” That name makes you tighten around him and his strokes start to turn sloppy, “Letting me taste you, letting me inside you.”

He’s so close and you are too, and his hand snakes its way in between your bodies. He rubs your clit with the pad of his thumb.

“Tetsu, gonna cum if you-” The combination of his thumb and his cock hitting that spongy spot has your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

You pulse around him, and Kuroo lets out a whiny, “Shit, I’m cumming,” and he’s spilling into the condom.

And just like earlier he doesn’t stop, he continues drilling into you even if he’s sensitive to the point it hurts. He’s repeating your name over and over again in the form of whimpers and you’re clawing at his back; your fourth orgasm of the night taking over your entire body until you’re seeing stars and Tetsuro follows right behind you, filling up the rubber once more.

The man gently places your legs back on the bed and his head falls onto your shoulder, your breaths are heavy and uneven. He pulls out and you make a quiet noise at the feeling.

“Sorry.” He mutters, placing a soft kiss on your collarbone. Kuroo gets up, takes off the condom, and ties it before dumping it in the trash. He also picks up his boxers, putting them on as he walks over to your bathroom. You hear the sound of the shower and while your body is spent, the thought of a hot shower gives you just enough energy. Your best friend comes back out and picks you up bridal-style, helping you get to the bathroom. He sets you down and your feet come in contact with the cold tile.

“Can you stand? Or do I need to help you shower?” His voice conveys his concern but his eyes also tell you he’s being cheeky.

You shoot him a look, “I think I’ll be fine, thank you.” You brush past him, legs a bit wobbly and you hear him stifle laughter. You throw him a glare over your shoulder and he only smiles.

Tetsuro exits the bathroom after you step into the shower, he picks up all of your abandoned clothing and tosses it into the hamper. He changes your sheets and collects his thoughts; this isn’t very platonic of you and he starts to worry that it’s gonna change everything between you two.

And he can’t handle it if your friendship is ruined, again. But, he quells his negative thoughts and tells himself you’ll cross that bridge when you get there, even though you’re only a few steps away from it. For now, he won’t act as if nothing happened but he won't let it change anything either.

Even if there is a tiny voice in his heart hoping that it will.

You step out of the bathroom, your pajamas hanging loosely on your body and your face fresh and glowy. You look around your bedroom, admiring the new sheets and clean floor. Kuroo looks at you, his face full of emotions you can’t name and you desperately want to know what he’s thinking. But, you couldn’t even figure out what was going on in your own mind. You only stare right back at him, and you wonder if the two of you are communicating with your expressions. Assuring the other that it was okay and the conversation would be had at another time.

Tetsuro breaks eye contact first and walks into the bathroom, smiling at the scent of your body wash that still lingers in the air. He steps into the shower, letting the water carry away his worries and relax his muscles. His mind is replaying how you looked at him earlier, he couldn’t decipher what emotions your eyes held but he knows that everything is okay.

Sleep is starting to tempt his senses and he knows you’re probably making your way to dreamland. He steps out of the shower and quickly finishes up, and to his surprise, you’re still up. Your phone is shining on your face and when you feel the bed dip on the opposite side, you look at him and place your phone down. Kuroo lays right next to you, wrapping his arms around you and it’s not like you’ve never slept like this before, but it feels much more intimate this time. But you find comfort in his warmth and the smell of his skin, and your eyelids start to feel heavy.

You tell Tetsuro to turn off the lamp and soon the room is completely dark. You can already feel the dull throb in your muscles and you mumble to yourself, “I’m going to be so fucking sore.”

Tetsuro lets out an airy chuckle, “I told you it was big.”

You kick him and he grunts in pain, your voice is quiet but still as sharp as ever,

“Shut the hell up and go to sleep.”

a/n: this is my first time writing out a full smut like PLS give me constructive criticism because i would like to write more in the future but i also wanna be better and more comfortable,,, okay hope you enjoyed !! <333 (also someone wanted to be tagged but i wont tag u if you're an ageless blog !!)

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