The Burden Of Being

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.

shouto wakes up trapped underneath a collapsed building, only to find himself also trapped in your embrace.

warnings: both Shouto and reader are hurt pretty badly </3, blood, immediate threat of death lol?, description of a broken leg, mention of vomiting but it doesn’t happen and isn’t explicitly stated, this is cheesy and unedited

border by @cafekitsune :)

dedicated to andie if they happen to see it because I thought of them while writing my very first Shouto fic 💘

Whenever Shouto awakes, it’s to a pounding headache, intense pain throbbing along the right side of his body, flickering lights, and something soft holding him tightly.

Groggily, he opens his eyes, wincing as the flickering light blinds him for a second. There’s a steady drip drip drip of water falling onto concrete though it’s too dark to make out much of his surroundings as the light flickers off again. The last thing he remembers is coming to an office building, where a villain with an unknown quirk was holding people hostage. A teary sounding gasp makes him look upwards weakly, only now noticing he is laying down.

He sees your face for the first time then. Eyes puffy and red from crying, with a trail of blood dripping from your hairline and down your nose, past your lips to where it becomes smeared as you wipe it away hurriedly.

“You’re awake!”

Your voice is soft, and slightly trembling as you gaze at him with wide, wavering eyes. They’re very pretty, he thinks dazedly. Framed by wet lashes, he also thinks he could look into them forever. Shouto moves to shift only to have his vision flash as pain erupts like molten lava traveling down his side.

“D-don’t try to move! A beam fell on you before you passed out. You were barely able to get out from under it.”

Feeling woozy, Shouto has to close his eyes for a moment to keep the pain from escaping through his mouth. There’s a sickening crack, and he realizes he’s cradled in your arms whenever you whimper and pull him closer, so that his head is resting against your chest and you’re basically hovering over him. He hears rubble begin to hit to ground, and sees you flinch as some small bits of gravel bounce off your head and fall beside him. Your eyes are clenched shut, and a fresh line of blood runs down your face and drips onto his own. No rubble ever hits him.

He’s confused. Why is a civilian, a hurt one at that, putting their life at risk for a pro hero? He’s supposed to be protecting you, yet here you are shielding him with your soft body. He must make a noise, because suddenly you’re looking down at him again, eyes wide with concern, bravely holding back tears now that he is awake.

Softly, you move one of the hands you had cradling his head to wipe at the blood that has dripped onto his cheek. Apologizing quietly, you begin talking again, the almost whispers coming out of your mouth seemingly echoing through the space.

“Your walkie talkie still worked thankfully, for a little while. Deku is here, and so is Red Riot and Uravity. They should have us out of here in no time, so don’t worry ok! Dynamight is also here, but that’s more worrying than anything honestly.”

Shouto can’t help but laugh at your candor, wincing as it makes the pain throbbing through his body flash intensely. You pull him even closer in your lap, now petting his bangs soothingly. Your fingers are soft on his sweaty skin, and he almost purrs whenever you begin to trace the lines of his face in a mesmerizing manner. He doesn’t remember the last time he was comforted like this when he was hurt. Usually it’s himself alone in his untouched apartment, picking up the pieces and taping them back together. He can never quite get them to fit right.

“Are you hurt badly?” His gravely voice seems to surprise you, and quickly you shake your head. He sees you regret it instantly, as you wince harshly afterwards.

“Just my head, and my leg. But not nearly as bad as you are.”

Another crack shoots through the space, and you look up worryingly at the unsteady beams ominously hanging about you. Shouto can see them looming when the light flickers on again. He can also see you. You look a little rough, he’s not going to lie. But at this moment, he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone more beautiful. His own personal angel, sent to comfort him and protect him when he’s been hurt so badly he can’t move.

You make quiet conversation after that, trying to ignore the drips and the cracks. He learns that you’re an ordinary boring office worker, your words not his, but you like your job and your coworkers so it’s not that bad. You learn that Deku has been his best friend since their first year at U.A., and that friendship is still just as strong. He learns that you don’t particularly care for cold soba whenever he brings it up, which makes him look at you in mock horror. It’s funny, seeing the normally stoic hero make such an exaggerated face that you can’t help but giggle.

The conversation dies down after a sickening pop! is heard and suddenly sunlight blinds you both. Looking up, you see shocking red hair and sharp teeth grinning at you and feel relief course through your body. Shouto feels your body relax against his, though you don’t let go. Red Riot reaches for you, but you shake your head again.

“Take Shouto, take Shouto.”

As he is lifted from your arms and into his friends, he sees you smile at him tearfully and give him a little wave. He can see you fully now, and can also see how your leg is bent at such an unnatural angle it had to be agonizing for you, but he never once heard you complain. The last thing he sees before you’re out of sight is Bakugo lifting you into his arms, with a surprising gentleness, saying something that has you nodding before you rest your head on his bare shoulder, relieved tears flooding from your eyes.

A couple days later, as Shouto is scrolling aimlessly through his phone in his hospital bed, he sees a headline that makes him stop.

PRO HERO SHOUTO KEEPS CIVILIAN SAFE WHILE TRAPPED UNDER COLLAPSED BUILDING!

Thinking of your eyes, which so bravely stared into his own, he can’t help but disagree with the article. It was you who kept him safe.

---

ghostly | b. katsuki, k. eijirou

characters bakugou katsuki, kirishima eijirou, slight kaminari denki, mentioned shinsou hitoshi, reader prompt you were never one who believed in ghosts, not until you woke up and watched paramedics wheel out your dead body. tags major character death, minor angst, slowburn(ish), pining, no-quirks!au, slight uni!au, aged up characters (everyone is in their twenties) word count 7.6k author's note that's right !! it's ghostly rewritten hehe just like the old ver., there will be a second part to this :) i've also decided to make it a kiribaku fic instead of just kats bc i've hopped onto the kiribaku brainrot train

You were never one for superstitions. Your roommate and friend, Ochaco, was much the opposite. She’d freeze on the spot when a little black cat, a cat that you’re almost positive belongs to your neighbour, walks your path. You’ve seen her cry after accidentally dropping a hand mirror, bawling about bad luck and curses. Stuff like that just sounded implausible, ridiculous even.

To you, everything had a reasonable explanation. Creaky bedroom doors can be blamed on open windows and cool drafts. Sudden chills down the length of your spine are attributed to nothing more than a little anxiety. You never made fun of Ochaco or any of your other superstitious friends, but you couldn’t help but roll your eyes whenever it came up.

In your head, superstitions and ghost stories were nothing more than make-believe tales you would tell misbehaving children to scare them into being good. In your twenty-something years of living, you were sure that nothing could change your mind.

Well — almost nothing.

Almost nothing would have prepared you for that night. Everything had been normal. You fell asleep to the sounds of some Asian drama that Ochaco liked to watch. Sleep had come to you quickly as if you blinked into slumber. When the sun shone, and the birds outside sang, you weren’t sure what was happening.

You weren’t sure why Ochaco was screaming your name, violent sobs racking her body as she fell to her knees in your doorway. You weren’t sure why two strangers, paramedics, had come in with a gurney in hand. You most definitely weren’t sure why you were watching these paramedics yell at each other for tools as they tried to restart your heart. With the invisible hands of shock pressing against your pounding ears, the world faded away with your lifeless body.

You don’t know how long you stood there in the corner of your now-empty room. Aside from tossed blankets and dirty shoeprints on your carpet, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until Ochaco came back in the dead of night that you moved. You came to her and begged for an explanation for her tear-stained cheeks.

You discovered that she couldn’t hear or see you early on. Though nothing could surpass the shock you felt when she seemed to walk straight through you. You thought to yourself that that had been enough of an explanation.

You stayed in your room. You didn’t have the strength to watch over your best friend, and she cried herself to sleep. It didn’t help. You could still hear the sound of her muffled sobs through thin walls.

It didn’t take long for Ochaco to move out. As much as you wanted her to stay, your begs falling on deaf ears, you knew it was for the best. It hurt you to see her fall into a depressive hole, a mere shadow of your bubbly best friend. If staying here with you, even if she didn’t know it, would help her, it became easier to stomach the sight of the moving truck towing her away.

You wanted to say goodbye. To walk her to the door and give her a hug. To tell her, ‘I wish you the best in life,’ since you weren’t offered that grace. When the day came for Ochaco to leave, you realized something bigger. You hovered behind her as she struggled with one last box and stepped out to follow her. Only — in the blink of an eye — the second your foot passed the threshold of the small apartment, you found yourself staring at your bedroom door instead of the outside.

You couldn’t leave.

Next to the living room window, you watched as the moving truck drove away, Ochaco’s face barely visible in the passenger’s seat. A looming dread pulled you deeper into the vacant apartment. You were stuck in the space where you took your last breath. 

You waved goodbye to no one at all.

...

You didn’t know how many days had passed since Ochaco left. Or how long it had been since you’d seen another living being. With her boxes, Ochaco took the puppy calendar from the wall, so you had no idea what day or month it was. The colourful leaves that fell to the dying grass gave you the indication that autumn was coming, a thought that made your stomach churn.

You had died when cherry blossoms bloomed outside your apartment.

Life as a ghost was empty. Of course, it was. With nothing else to do and no one to talk to, you focused on figuring out what limitations you had. After a while, you figure out how to conjure up enough energy to interact with things, even if for a blissful second. The day you were able to open Ochaco’s old door, you were ecstatic. Glee filled your unused heart and lungs with a warmth you hadn’t felt in a long while.

After a while, you get used to the vacancy. It was boring at first, but not so much after what you assumed was a year. Or maybe you just got used to the silence. You found entertainment in the living room window, finding joy in watching passersby. You even found an old magazine coated in dust and mildew under the sink.

You were in the middle of your third reread when you heard the familiar, yet oh-so-unfamiliar, sound of the front door clicking, and it was unlocked. You held your breath unknowingly, holding nothing in your lungs. You watched as your old landlord crept into the foyer. The crinkle of the magazine’s already wrinkled pages garnered her attention, prompting you to let go of it and hurriedly move into the corner of the room.

She didn’t see you, humming as she pushed up her 80s-style glasses. She came up to the kitchen counter, where you had been reading, and furrowed her brows in confusion at the sight. When she took it, a pout pulled at your lips, mumbling something about throwing it in the trash. There goes your only form of entertainment.

You could only watch in intrigue as she bustled around the tiny apartment, sweeping the floors and wiping dust off surfaces that no one but you has touched in a year. Some of you hoped that someone was moving in, but another felt tepid terror creep up the back of your neck. If someone were moving in, you wouldn’t be alone anymore. You couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not.

Lo and behold, a few days later, the door clicked open again. This time, you stood in the foyer, watching with wide eyes as newcomers bounded into the space as if they owned it. You suppose they do now. There were three of them, one too many for such a cramped space, in your opinion. Something about them seemed familiar, you thought as you inspected them closely.

The first one to come in was tall. Like, very tall. His arms pushed against the confines of his bomber jacket, muscles seemingly aching to be rid of such restrictions. His hair, however, took up most of your attention. Bright ruby red, just like his wandering eyes, and spiked in all directions. If it were anyone else, you might’ve thought them to look stupid. On this man, oddly enough, the bold hairstyle looked good.

The next person to walk through the door was a little shorter than the first, though no less buff. His hair, just like the red one, was tousled. Blond strands stuck up almost at random, spikey and loud. His lips were tugged into a deep scowl as if he were being forced into the apartment. Although you called it cozy, you knew it was pretty fucking tiny, so you couldn’t blame him for the distaste that filled his expression as he gave the foyer a once over.

One more man walked in, all smiles and excitement. He was the shortest of the three, with longer blond hair. His hair was partially dyed, a charcoal lightning bolt sticking out like a sore thumb against his light hair. He pursed his lips as he whistled, dropping his duffle bag on the ground next to his abandoned shoes. “It’s a little small,” he piped as he bounded into the empty space.

You moved away, shivering as he brushed past you.

“But it’s nice, isn’t it, Kiri? I mean, look at that view!” With outstretched arms, he opened the balcony door with sparkling eyes. You stared out with him, eyes quickly growing bored with the sight you’d been forced to look at for god knows how long.

“Not to mention that group of cuties we saw in the lobby. Man — do you think the one with purple hair would agree to go on a date with me?”

The redhead, who you assumed was ‘Kiri,’ rolled his eyes as he kicked off his shoes. The spikey blond one was doing the same behind him. “No,” he smiled, revealing a row of shockingly sharp-looking teeth. “But you can try, dude. You’re right, though,” Kiri grinned as he came closer to the balcony. “Hanta would be downright jealous if he came over. This place is worlds better than his dumpster and at half the price.”

Kiri looked over his shoulder and eyed the grumpy one. “What do you think, Kats? Good enough for ya?”

‘Kats’ looked around, seemingly unimpressed. “Shit looks ancient,” he said, kicking the stove lightly. It groaned at the sudden aggression, only proving his point. You winced, biting your tongue. You and Ochaco had meant to replace that thing years ago, but you never found the spare money to do it between tuition and rent. “But I guess it is real fuckin’ cheap.”

You zoned out as the three of them gathered, talking with the landlord, who had also made an appearance. You stood in the kitchen, watching them curiously. Your eyes drifted over the four of them, the landlord’s back to you, examining their faces closely. When your gaze fell on Kats, who you’ve learned is actually named Katsuki, you gasped quietly. Red eyes bore into you for the briefest moment before he looked away.

Your jaw was left ajar as you stared at him hard. There was no way he could see you. No one had been able to see you thus far, so that little moment had to have been a coincidence. 

Right?

Katsuki didn’t say anything about you, nor did you ever meet his eyes again. You chalked it up to a weird coincidence. You knew it’d be in your throat if your heart could beat.

A week had passed — you counted — when the three boys finally moved in. Katsuki, Eijirou, and Denki, as you learned. You observed as they unpacked and got to know their personalities a bit more in the few moments they stayed in the main living areas. You didn’t dare breach the borders of their rooms, as if they’d catch you if you did. 

The first time Katsuki left his door open for you to peek in, you were shocked. Atop his pristinely clean desk (did he even have anything in the drawers?) was a singular framed photo. It seemed like a graduation photo; the familiar black gowns and gold sashes of Yuuei alumni hung around the necks of each person. You recognized Katsuki, Eijirou, and Denki immediately, but they weren’t the ones that surprised you. There were two more boys in the photo, one of which you knew quite well. Next to Katsuki, who had an arm around his shoulders, was Izuku. Your Izuku, your best friend besides Ochaco.

Your fingers itched to pick up the picture frame and inspect it in better lighting. Perhaps you were imagining things, or maybe the dim light of Katsuki’s room was messing with your vision. You rubbed your eyes once, then twice, but there was no doubt about it. You could hear Katsuki fumbling with his things behind you as you bounded into the room, impelled by the first bit of familiarity you’ve seen since Ochaco left. 

Words died on your tongue as you looked at Izuku’s smiling portrait, unspoken questions lodged deep in your throat. You spun around quickly, wanting to ask useless questions that would fall on deaf ears.

To your surprise, scarlet hues were staring back at you. Unlike before, his gaze was unwavering, looking at you rather than through you. Katsuki’s expression mirrored your own, rounded eyes and dropped jaws as you stared at each other in shock. You stumbled back as if he had punched you straight across the face, phasing through his desk — something you hadn’t done in months.

“You—” he choked out as he watched you appear in and out of his vision. He shut his eyes briefly before peeling them open, just barely catching the sight of you disappearing through the wall.

Appearing in your old bedroom, you held a hand over your heart. Even if it didn’t beat for you anymore, you still felt the nervous tugs at your chest as you gawked at nothing. He saw you. How was that possible? You’ve gone months without being seen, and suddenly you were visible?

As you wracked your brain for possible answers, the thud of a heavy object falling to the floor caught your attention. 

“What the hell…?”

Eijirou’s voice ripped you out of your stupor, his terse voice quickly boggled your mind. A dumbbell sat next to his feet, probably the thing he’d dropped. To your surprise, Eijirou was staring at you with an expression akin to Katsuki’s. You felt the ground spin beneath you as you flickered in and out of Eijirou’s view. Your knees buckled under the stress, and you felt yourself seemingly melting into the carpeted floor. “You…” you stuttered, “you can see me?”

Eijirou’s mouth fell open even wider at the sound of your voice. He turned on the spot and held his palms against his eyes. “I’m losing it,” he mumbled to himself, “truly. Man, I knew I shouldn’t have eaten Sero’s food. That dumbass probably put weed in it, and now I’m seeing people walk through walls. Yeah, that’s it. I’m not crazy. I’m just high.”

You reached out a feeble hand as if to appease his worries, though you were spiralling just as much. Not just one person had seen and talked to you for the first time in over a year, but now two? What’s next, Denki too?

The redhead continued to mutter to himself, eyes wide as his gaze flicked from the ground to you. You opened your mouth to say something, but the slam of Katsuki’s door against the wall interrupted you. It wasn’t long before Katsuki made an appearance in the doorway, a glower in his eyes when they met yours. “You see her too, right?” he presumed, a slight growl to his words as he sneered at you.

Eijirou looked up at his friend before whipping his head back to you, tresses of red falling into his eyes. “Too?!” he repeated. “Dude, are you high too?”

Compelled by the commotion, Denki opened the adjacent door with a frown. “You guys got high without me?” he asked with a pout before his gaze landed on you. “And you have a cute girl over? You guys always do all the fun stuff without me.” You couldn’t move, glued to the floor in astonishment. Denki maneuvered his way around the two and towards you, ignoring Katsuki and Eijirou’s words of caution and disapproval. “Hey, pretty, I’m Kaminari, but you can call me—”

His hand phased through your shoulder, sending him tumbling through you and onto the ground.

There was a pause, the tense air growing thick around your unused lungs.

“What the fuck?!”

Your eyes widened as you hastily moved so Denki wasn’t lying where you stood, feeling the telltale signs of nausea as you moved through him. “Wait! I can explain!” you rushed out, making a noise of terror when Denki’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. “Oh my god, he passed out,” you gaped. You reached for him, flinching when Katsuki barked at you to stay where you were.

As told, you held your hands against your body tightly, shuffling so you were in the furthest corner of the room. You watched with trembling eyes as Katsuki moved to pick up Denki, willing your mouth to stay closed when he hauled him over his shoulder like a bag of rice. Without breaking a sweat, he locked eyes with you. His stare was intimidating, deep reds boring into your very soul deeper and deeper with every passing second. Behind him, Eijirou placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go out into the living room, Kats,” he said, almost breathlessly, as his eyes stayed on you. “We can put Denki on the couch and… and figure out what’s happening here.” He swallowed thickly, ignoring your look of gratitude as he made his way out of the room. Katsuki followed, his sock-clad feet hitting the ground. It was almost deafening in the silence of the room.

When you didn’t move, he scowled over his shoulder at you. “Well, ghosty? You coming or what?”

“Yes,” you stammered, quickly urging your legs to move. You kept your distance, pausing a few meters away from Katsuki. His eyes narrowed at you before he clicked his tongue, exiting the room first.

The three of you sat in the living room, waiting for Denki to wake up. Again, you stood in the far corner of the room, though it was clear that they had made room for you on the loveseat. Your lips were sealed, glancing between the three of them guiltily. Eijirou and Katsuki whispered things to each other, the latter sounding much harsher than the prior. You didn’t need perfect hearing to know what Katsuki was saying.

After what felt like eons, Denki came to his senses and awoke with a stir. Eijirou was quick to check up on the blond, asking if he was okay. When Denki hummed, slowly sitting upright, all attention turned to you. You unknowingly flinched, backing up into the corner further.

Eijirou gestured for you to talk while Katsuki crossed his arms as he stared at you, scrutinizing you. You cleared your throat before briefing them on the fact that you were dead and couldn’t leave the apartment no matter how hard you tried. “Please don’t move out because of me,” you frowned, hugging your middle tightly as you tried to make yourself seem smaller in the corner. “I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. I won’t haunt you or whatever, like in the movies. I’m not out to kill anyone either—”

“Oi,” Katsuki’s harsh voice interrupted your rambles. “Dumbass. You lived here before, didn’t ya? You should know that the old hag has residents sign a shitty two-year lease. We can’t leave either, and we aren’t a bunch of pussies to run away with our tails behind our legs just ‘cause someone can walk through walls or some shit.”

In contrast to his words, Denki still looked a little pale.

“Kats is right,” Eijirou injected, offering you the first smile directed to you in a year. “So long as ya don’t haunt us, I’m okay with you being here! Just… uh, warn us? When you’re going to walk through walls and stuff.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Kinda scared the shit out of me personally when you did it earlier.”

Snapping out of his daze, Denki nodded enthusiastically. “I’d never complain about a cutie like you living with us! Ghost or not!”

You were a bit weary at his enthusiasm but nodded in thanks. “I’m sorry. This probably wasn’t what you expected when you moved here. If I could leave, I’d be out of your hair as soon as possible, really.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, slouching against the back of the couch. He clicked his tongue at you, the ever-present frown on his face remaining steady. “‘S not like you could tell the old hag or anything that you were still here. Stop apologizing and just stay outta the way, got it?”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you nodded.

After that day, you found yourself growing closer to the three. You didn’t have much choice in the predicament; you were practically roommates after all, but you let them come to you first, not wanting to scare them off. You made easy friends with Eijirou after you managed to convince him that you were, in fact, the real deal and not an afterthought from the result of an edible. It took him reaching through you a few times and a couple of waves of nausea, but it got through to him eventually.

Denki was also easier to get close to, eventually warming up to you and growing past his fear. You eventually bonded over his (not so) minor crush on a neighbour a floor above, someone you actually knew.

“No way,” you scoffed in disbelief, an amused grin tugging at your lips as you crossed your arms at Denki. “You like Shinsou? Mr. Eye-bags? Mr. I-haven’t-slept-in-ten-years-and-now-that’s-your-problem?”

Denki’s face had burned redder than Eijirou’s ears as he shushed you as if Shinsou would be able to hear through the walls. You’ve interacted with Shinsou a fair bit since you moved into the apartment building, a result of Ochaco making it a personal mission to befriend everyone in the goddamned building. You knew his type. When you let Denki in on the type of flowers he liked and the music he listened to, Denki tried to hug you. You couldn’t help but laugh at his tossed hair, dumb-faced as he winced away the pain. 

He deemed you the best ‘wingman from another dimension,’ the wordy nickname earning a snort from Katsuki when the blond announced it proudly. On the other hand, Eijirou pouted at getting his spot taken away. “I thought I was your best wingman?” he whined, the kicked-puppy look feeling out of place for a man of his impressive stature.

“‘Course you are! But you’re the best wingman from this dimension,” Denki refuted.

“Yer’ all dumbasses, that’s what.”

Out of the three, Katsuki was difficult. You hadn’t expected any differently, learning very quickly how hard it is to get close to the man. Even as days grew colder and the windows began to frost over, it was clear that Katsuki wasn’t trying to make friends with you. Admittedly, you tried. Seeing him joke around, albeit aggressively, with the others, it was obvious that the hardheaded male was a real softie for his friends beneath all those curse words. But whenever you tried striking up a conversation with him, you’d either get no response, or he’d tell you to ‘shut up and leave him the fuck alone.’

You persisted, though. When he’d get home from university, you’d ask him how his day went, only to get his room door slammed in your face, the lock clicking moments after. It didn’t deter you much, physically anyway, since you could just walk through. However, you respected him enough to leave him be after that, opting to walk away with a pout.

There were days, however, when he was nice to you.

Old Christmas songs vibrated in your throat as you hummed, helping Eijirou and Denki put up lights. Katsuki was in his room, opting out of the festive activities because it was ‘stupid and fuckin’ childish.’ Eijirou’s speaker was propped up against the base of the TV, skipping every now and then with how old the device was.

As you floated higher to the ceiling, a feat you recently discovered you could do due to some curious inquiries Eijirou had, you lined the living room with the glittery gold tinsel with much effort. Interacting with physical objects was still just as tiring.

From below, you heard Denki drawl out a swear. “I forgot to buy gifts,” he whined, clumsily getting off the couch and walking over to where his coat hung in the foyer, digging around the pockets for his wallet. “I’ll be back. I think I saw a scarf I think Shinsou might like…”

Although he rolled his eyes in disbelief, Eijirou got to his feet and sauntered to the blond. “I’ll come with. We ran out of gift wrap, and Mr. Grouch in there didn’t wanna grab some while he was getting groceries,” he huffed, nodding over at Katsuki’s room. He looked over his shoulder at you for a moment, pausing before offering you one of the bright smiles you had grown to love. “We’ll be back. We’re pretty much done anyway. You can leave the lights for us, yeah? You’ve been working hard all day.”

True to his words, you were dead tired — no pun intended. Hanging up all the decorations would’ve tired you when you were still breathing, but mustering up the energy to do it felt like a tonne of bricks on your shoulders. Smiling, you nodded, falling onto the bauble-covered loveseat. “Will do.”

Eijirou laughed quietly at your expression before turning around and leaving with Denki. When you heard the soft click of the door, you turned your attention to the box of lights. You occupied yourself with untangling them — still tiring, but not as bad as hanging them up. As much as you would’ve loved to sleep, the task was out of your reach. While you could feel tired enough to hibernate for a year, you couldn’t fall asleep. Not being able to rest in the arms of slumber was infuriating at first, but you had gotten used to it.

Sucked into the task, you didn’t notice the snow outside falling. In the morning, it had been a light dusting. A thin veil of white covered the ground, enough to tell you that winter had arrived but not enough to raise concern. But now, as the sun set behind clouds of grey and black, it fell to the Earth mercilessly. Raging winds slapped against the old siding of the apartment building. The howls of wind that once had little effect on you made you flinch.

You eyed the blanket of white outside warily, jumping when the windows shook with the vicious gales screaming outside.

“Never thought I’d see a fuckin’ ghost scared of a little wind.”

You jumped. “Katsuki!” you harshly breathed, his sudden presence scaring the shit out of you. “Warn a girl next time, please.” Weakly glaring at him, you moved far away from the window. Small tremors coursed through your body as you willed for them to go away. The last thing you wanted was to look weak in front of Katsuki, the one man who would never let go of the sight of you cowering in fear because of a storm.

He studied your face for a moment longer before scowling. “C’mon, dumbass,” he grumbled, walking away. He reached his bedroom, stilling his hand over the knob as he looked over his shoulder to where you stood. You hadn’t moved. “Are you coming or what?”

Snapping out of your surprised stupor, you dumbly followed, trudging into his room only to jump into him when another round of harsh winds screeched at the apartment. Or rather, you jumped through him. His face turned a little green, waves of nausea seemingly drowning him for a moment before he shook it off. “Careful, dumbass.”

You watched as he grabbed his laptop off of his desk, haphazardly unplugging it before flopping onto his bed, perusing Netflix with a bored expression. Watching you from his peripheral, he clicked his tongue, a habit you noticed he did whenever he was annoyed. “Sit down. It’s fuckin’ creepy when ya just stand there like a ghost.”

“... Katsuki. I am a ghost.”

“Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.”

Giggling, you made your way over to the edge of the bed, watching over his shoulder as he put on some movie you’ve never heard about. “It’s new,” Katsuki mumbled when he caught your intrigued expression. “Shitty Hair kept going on and on ‘bout how good it is. Something about some rich assholes who have a person living in their basement. Bunch’a dumbasses if you ask me. How can you go years without knowing there’s someone in your fuckin’ house?”

You chuckled at his displeasure but eyed the screen with interest. You hadn’t watched a movie in so long.

…

Eijirou and Denki stood before the bed, flabbergasted at the sight before them. End credits music quietly poured out of Katsuki’s laptop, the dark screen dimly lighting the otherwise pitch-black room. Katsuki was under the blankets, pulled up to his chin as he snored quietly. Eijirou’s eyes trained on his friend’s expression; the usual sneer or irritation that twisted his face wasn’t there. Instead, his features relaxed into neutrality. He smiled at the sight before his gaze fell on you. 

You sat up against the wall, looking up at him with warm cheeks. Katsuki’s hand, the only part of him that left the blanket aside from his head, was placed over yours as if he’d fallen asleep like that.

“You like him,” Denki mumbled after a while, tearing his gaze off of your ‘connected’ hands. “You like Katsuki, don’t you?”

Eijirou’s eyes widened as he nudged Denki, a silent way of telling him to shut up, something you quietly thanked him for. The sound of Katsuki groaning awake stopped the three of you, holding your breath as you all watched him shift under the covers. He simply rolled onto his side, his back facing the room to your relief.

Denki rubbed the back of his neck. “Isn’t that kind of pointless, though? You’re dead, and he’s not. ‘S not like you could get together or anything,” he wondered aloud with a shrug as if he hadn’t just pierced your heart. Eijirou was quick to smack his shoulder lightly, scolding him for being rude, but it was too late. The words had already settled into your head.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, staring at your joined hands before moving off the bed. “It is kind of pointless.” You cleared your throat before offering the boys your best smile. “I’m gonna go on the balcony for a second. It’s… nice to see the snow.” Without much else, you left the room by phasing through the wall, something you hadn’t done since they moved in.

Denki blinked at where you used to sit. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked Eijirou, who pinched the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh.

“Maybe a little,” he sighed, pushing his red locks out of his face. “Don’t wake Kats. I’ll go talk to them.” Denki frowned as he watched the redhead leave the room, a slight shake to his head as his shoulders heaved in a sigh. The blond was left to his thoughts, promptly taking a seat on Katsuki’s desk chair as he mulled over his words.

Your name left Eijirou’s mouth in whispers, his eyes searching for your presence when he made it to the living room. He saw you, barely, sitting on a stool out on the balcony. The awning, thankfully, kept the balcony mostly clear of snow. For a moment, he didn’t dare come closer, holding his breath as if interrupting you was sin itself. His garnet eyes bore into the expanse of your back, your shoulders curving as you tried to make yourself smaller. Your legs were up on the stool, your arms dangling over your knees limply. 

The snow fell around you like gently dancing fairies, twisting and twirling as flakes of white made their way to the ground below. The street lamps barely illuminated the scene, leaving you to bask in the dim lighting. Eijirou swallowed thickly, gently tapping on the sliding door with his knuckles. He waited for you to turn your head before he slid it open.

You watched him with an unsteady gaze as he made himself comfortable beside you, leaning his forearms on the railing and staring outwards into the white abyss. A few snowflakes managed to make their way under the awning, landing on his freckled cheeks and melting just as fast as they’d come. 

Your eyes fell, tracing over his arms. The t-shirt he wore did little to protect him from the cold that you were immune to; raised skin gave away how frigid he was. “You don’t have to stay out here with me,” you all but mumbled as you nustled your nose into your crossed arms. “I know you’re cold.”

Eijirou smiled at you over his shoulder almost bashfully. “It’s a little chilly. Nothing I can’t handle, though, so don’t worry about it,” he chuckled at you, closing his eyes as he relished in the silence of winter. You looked at him passively before averting your gaze, picking at your nails that never seemed to grow.

“I’m sorry about Denki. What he said was out of pocket,” Eijirou whispered, his voice just barely carrying over to you. He stayed leaning over the railing for a moment longer before he settled down beside you, sitting on the balcony floor with his back to the door. When you met his eyes once more, you could see the sincerity floating around in those ruby reds.

You frowned, biting at your lip as you stared at the snow. You missed how his eyes followed the movement. “He’s right, though.” You sighed, nestling yourself further into your arms. “I don’t actually have a crush on Katsuki,” you explained, “the way you guys found us was really just a coincidence. I was more… embarrassed, I guess, to be caught like that. Like we were two awkward teenagers dancing around our feelings.”

Eijirou’s fingers twitched as he resisted the urge to reach out to you, instead nodding in an attempt to get you to continue. When you did, his eyes remained on you as you spoke, hanging onto every utterance. “I felt normal,” you laughed. It was an empty laugh, the supposed amusement in your statement gone. “For a moment, I forgot I was, y’know, dead. It was nice. Really nice. What Denki said wasn’t out of pocket at all. He was just reminding me of the truth.”

Eijirou’s frown deepened, his chest tight as he inched closer to you. “You deserve to feel normal.” He mumbled your name once more, making you look at him. Even sitting on the stool with Eijirou on the floor, he was almost at eye level with you. 

“Maybe. But normal hasn’t been an option for me for a while now.” You offered him a weak smile, but it didn’t meet your eyes like it normally did. If Eijirou noticed the unshed tears that lined your eyes, he didn’t comment on them. “What does it feel like? The snow, I mean.”

At that, Eijirou tilted his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed before looking up at the night sky, an endless abyss of obsidian lined with white. “I used to hate the snow. Would dread the thought of going outside whenever it stormed like this. Whenever it started snowing, I’d get really miserable. ‘Chaco would have to deal with my mood swings, but we always made it work. Had a lot of movie nights with hot chocolate and stuff,” you drawled on; the memories of your best friend sent a painful pang to your chest.

“But now… I guess I just wish that I didn’t take feeling for granted. I can interact with things, yeah, but I can’t really feel what I touch. I’ve been trying to remember what snow feels like since it started storming.”

You realized you were rambling on and looked at Eijirou bashfully. “Sorry! You can honestly ignore me. It’s a stupid question anyways—”

“It feels like the night after Christmas. When everyone’s opened their gifts, and they’re full of all the good food. The lights are still up, but you know the day has passed. It feels like that night when you’re curled up in your blankets, but you can still feel the cold from outside,” Eijirou’s voice came out quietly, almost shy, as he reached out with his hand. You watched as each snowflake drifted peacefully onto his fingertips before melting away.

“It feels like holding someone’s hand on a cold day or giving them a hug. It’s cold, but something about it makes you feel all warm inside. Kinda like drinking hot chocolate when it’s storming.”

The two of you sat there for a while as his words lingered in the air. Eijirou avoided your stare, the tips of his ears growing bright red — though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or from the cold. You felt your eyes sting as emotions bubbled in your throat, a look of nostalgia painting over your features as you closed your eyes to imagine the scenes he had described.

When you didn’t speak, Eijirou glanced at you from the corner of his eye, mouth opening when he realized there were tears flowing down your cheeks. He uttered your name as gently as the snowflakes that fell around you. You finally opened your eyes, taking a deep breath as you gave him the first genuine smile since you went onto the balcony.

“Thank you,” you murmured, grinning widely despite your tears. “The snow is really beautiful tonight.”

Eijirou let himself smile at the sight of your joy. He nodded, leaning against the glass as he looked out into the storm with you.

“Yeah. It really is.”

...

After that night, not much else changed. Katsuki was none the wiser about what had happened, and you didn’t plan on letting him in on it either. You still got along with Eijirou and Denki, though it was slightly tense between you and the latter for about a day before he crumbled. He came to you with teary eyes, apologizing on his knees for saying something so insensitive. Even when you assured him it was okay, he promised to make it up to you somehow. Eijirou, who was watching the whole thing, had belly laughed at how much grovelling Denki had done.

You tried to remain the same around Katsuki, who apparently didn’t remember anything about holding your hand when Eijirou teased him about it after the whole thing. “His hand just fell there, and you came in at the same time,” you argued weakly when the redhead brought it up. “We weren’t holding hands. We can’t anyway.” You winced at how you spoke. Bitter feelings you had tried to push away had bubbled to the surface. You didn’t miss how Eijirou and Katsuki eyed you curiously at the comment.

“How was school?” you asked for the nth time when Eijirou and Katsuki got home from their first day of classes after the winter break. They shook off the snow from their hair, reminding you of dogs as you laughed quietly at them. “The apartment is so boring without you guys here,” you pouted. “I’m abandoned every day.” To prove your point, you fell dramatically over the armrest of the couch, covering your eyes with the back of your hand.

Eijirou only laughed at your antics, mumbling something about taking a shower as he dumped his bag against the couch. He sent you a toothy grin before disappearing down the hallway. Katsuki, on the other hand, rolled his eyes at you, throwing his bag against the couch as he made his way to his room. You followed behind, waiting for him to answer your question.

“It’s the same thing every time. Dunno’ why you bother asking,” he grumbled. You paused in the doorway, waiting for the slam of the door in your face that awaited you every day. Without fail, he shut the door behind him. You hummed as you rocked on your heels, waiting for the telltale click of his lock.

When a minute of silence passed, you realized he didn’t lock the door.

He didn’t the day after that, the next day, or the next. Realizing the trend, you grinned ear to ear when Katsuki slammed the door in your face. Easily phasing through the old wood, you smiled at the sight of him hunched over his chair, homework for the night laid out neatly. “You want me here!” you exclaimed, pointing at the door. “You didn’t lock it!”

Katsuki only peered at you, the faintest hint of exasperation on his face, before he clicked his damn tongue again. “You’re so fuckin’ slow, ya know that?”

...

Months passed by, with you getting closer to each of the boys. True to his word, Denki made it up to you by serenading you with his electric guitar. Much to your delight, he sang a song you mentioned liking a few weeks prior. Apparently, he had been sneaking off to a certain purple-haired neighbour’s apartment to practice. He treated you like his little sibling, and you were overjoyed with the new development.

Eijirou, ever the gentleman, always ensured he was spending time with you when he wasn’t busy working out or in class. At some point, you even realized that you had taken some of the classes he was struggling with, and it became routine to tutor him through the content. He was vigilant in making sure you never really felt alone in the apartment, always including you in game nights and movie nights. He had even brought home bouquets from time to time after learning that you liked watching them bloom. It reminded you of spring.

To an outsider, your friendship with Katsuki hadn’t developed at all. He was as aloof as ever, still blowing up over tiny things. It was odd to go a day without one of his outbursts. It was more amusing to you than anything, watching the man lose his mind over Denki’s mismatched socks or Eijirou’s hair. But in truth, you got along in silence. He kept his door unlocked and never argued when you’d spend a couple of hours reading one of his novels on his bed as he studied at his desk. He wasn’t even mad when you interrupted his schoolwork to rant about a drama you had been watching.

They were all out, either in class or bustling about town. Birds sang outside the window as you stared at them longingly. The snow had begun to melt earlier that week, and the sounds of children going outside to play started resonating in the air again. 

It was almost your two-year death anniversary. By your request, the boys had pinned a calendar to the living room wall, and you felt odd knowing the date was soon approaching. Almost two years after your death, you found yourself wanting to go out into the world so desperately for the first time in a while. Throughout the winter, you were content. Old habits rang true as you found no issue in holing up inside. But now, as the snow melted away and flowers began to bloom, you really started to miss being alive.

You missed going for walks to clear your head before exams. You missed going to bars with your friends. You missed studying at the cafe downstairs with Ochaco when you both had days off. You even missed having to run for the bus because the driver was too cranky to wait even after seeing you running to the stop.

There was a brief thought, a flicker of uncertainty and festering insecurity that filled you as your eyes landed on the calendar again.

You lived here before, didn’t ya? You should know that the old hag has residents sign a shitty two-year lease.

You wondered if the boys would leave you alone when spring came around once more.

The front door clicked as it swung open, but you paid no heed to whoever entered, staring out the balcony doors. Your silhouette was outlined by the stark brightness outside, from the shining sun and the remaining kisses of snow. You didn’t even look up when you felt the couch dip beside you.

Your name left Eijirou’s lips, prompting you to finally tear your gaze off of the coming spring. When you looked at him, his expression was pulled taut, as if he had been delivered awful news. Your eyes drifted beyond him, at Katsuki, who stood at the foot of the couch with a similar look.

You frowned, worry easing you out of your reverie. “What’s wrong?” you asked, reaching out to hold Eijirou’s cheek as you glanced at the two. Your hand stopped an inch short of its goal. “Did something happen? Are you hurt? Where’s Denki?”

Katsuki halted your slew of questions with a simple statement. “We ran into Round Face today on the way home.”

You blinked.

“Ochaco,” Eijirou corrected, his low voice ringing in your ear. His warm breath fanned across your cheek. “You said she was your old roommate before.” You felt your mouth go dry as you looked into Eijirou’s eyes, silently willing him to continue. “I… We asked her about… how you died.”

You felt the world stop. You tensed, your hands clenching into fists at your sides as you rose from the couch. You backed away subconsciously. “You what?” your voice barely broke a whisper, your lips curling into a frown. You never explicitly told the three about how you died. You didn’t really know how either — you had been too shocked at the time to hear what the professionals had to say when they found your body. There hadn’t been any blood, and your body hadn’t been injured, so you always assumed you had a stroke in your sleep or suffered from an aneurysm.

Katsuki furrowed his brows as he stared at you, focusing on the fuzzy image of your presence and how he could see through you slightly.

“You aren’t dead,” he spoke clearly, a hint of disbelief behind his crude tone. “You’re at the Musutafu Hospital right now, in a coma.”

---

the hanshin expressway

Sae does not meet you on your wedding day.

You do not even show up.

Instead, he finds you in a cold and brumal hospital room of Sumitomo Hospital. Sitting aimlessly in the waiting area, and still in his tuxedo, its fabric and himself are a mess. Sweat trickles down his brow, mingling with the rain that soaked his clothes. His eyes dart around the sterile white walls, and Sae tries to ignore the incessant pounding and smothering feeling deep in his chest. His left leg refuses to obey, springing in an ever constant motion. He feels people around him, but does not bother to pay them his heed. Except for his mother’s hand gripping his, her thumb painting small circles into his skin, he is not particularly grounded. The face of one of your bridesmaids — or family members, he cannot remember — is etched in his memory like a haunting apparition. It swam before his eyes, her trembling voice echoing in his ears.

“Y/n, she’s—she’s been taken to Sumitomo. They— They’re saying it was a drunk driver.”

Sae leans his neck against the palms of his hands, wrapping his fingers around his back. If he closes his eyes hard enough he can pretend it is your touch.

When he lifts his head again — he does not know how much time has passed — a doctor enters the isolated waiting room. Sae lifts up onto his feet almost instantaneously, meeting him halfway.

“Itoshi-san,” he tips his head, Sae furrows his brow, “Doctor Tachibana, lead surgeon. I oversaw your fiance’s surgery.”

Sae does not let him finish his dialogue, and is a bit perturbed to find his voice so hoarse, “She will be fine?”

Doctor Tachibana stills, and Sae knows it is not the best attestation. The room is too quiet, too suffocating. Sae does not like hospitals as they are, he detests them in an entirely new light now.

"I am sorry to inform you," the doctor begins, his voice a low murmur, "Your fiancée has suffered a severe brain injury in the car accident. While her physical condition is stable, there has been an unforeseen complication.”

“Her CT scans showed intracerebral haemorrhaging. In situations like these, we keep patients under a temporary comatose state, so as to give them time to recover and recuperate.”

Sae suddenly feels small in the cold and barren waiting room. It feels barren despite the gasps he hears. He has forgotten others are here, close friends and family. They do not feel as close as they did seven hours ago.

“How long?” Sae asks, trying to control the shakiness of his voice.

Doctor Tachibana’s face morphs into something solemn. Still, it remains composed, something Sae appreciates, because if he were to look at him with sympathy he would probably lose his head.

“Two weeks at most,” he states, “But you may visit her now if you like.”

Sae feels a heat rush to his stomach, and travels down to his legs. They feel weak, like he has run miles. For the first time since he arrived there, he turns to look behind him. The families of three of your bridesmaids that were with you in the accident are gone, presumably to greet their treated, awakened daughters. A few of your friends remain, staring at him like an anomaly. His mother is closest to him. Her features are morphed into discontent and sorrow. She had urged Sae to take her with him when he learned of the news at the chapel. He feels his resentment grow, fester and bubble inside his cauldron of a head. Why did it have to be you?

He looks back at the doctor, and nods.

.

.

You wake up on the twelfth day since the accident. You had always been more eager than most.

Sae sits next to your bedside, his hand gripping onto yours. His eyes focus on the way your empty ring finger tightens around his skin. The ring had been damaged in the crash. Sae had gone out yesterday to purchase the same design, so a fresh jewel dressed your finger. His lips lay flat in concern, intently watching as your eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. The nurse that had been watching over you stands by your side, observing his actions. Sae does not pay her mind.

“Y/n,” Sae breathes, “come back. Come back to me.”

He finds it easy to plead, because you will probably forget this. You will come back to him and tease him for his uncharacteristic behaviour, his worried conduct. You will call him names and let him hold onto you.

Slowly, your eyes open. Sae holds back a breath as you grunt quietly, eyelashes fluttering open — looking at him, then the nurse. Millions of emotions run through your irises, Sae notices this and tightens his grip around your hand.

“L/n Y/n?” The nurse speaks up softly, grounding your anxious state of mind, “You are alright. You are in a hospital. You were injured in a car accident, but you are alright now.”

You move your head around groggily, eyes narrowed in confusion. You toss your face towards Sae’s side, and the sight of you breathing is enough for water to fill his eyes. He has never felt like this. So relieved.

Your eyes flutter towards the hand holding yours, and Sae follows your line of gaze. He smiles weakly, chuckling even more softly and looks at you. A small scar is etched onto your forehead, a reminder of what you had been through. 

“Hey,” he greets quietly, expecting some snarky remark or teasing laughter.

Yet you do not do anything but stare at him, your eyebrows furrowing deeper into bewilderment. Sae stills at your expression, and turns to the nurse. She is already looking at him, eyes wide with a sort of realisation.

“My head hurts,” your voice is unusually small, “doctor.”

Sae looks back at you. You are still looking at him. His face pales, and he feels a warmth travel to his head.

“Doctor?” You question, still staring at him with confusion.

Sae lets go of your hand. His eyes widened, and his lips lay flat.

“Y/n,” he whispers, “It’s me.”

You tilt your head, making a foreign feeling wash over his body like a restless tsunami. Sae feels himself grow lightheaded when you respond.

“Who?”

.

.

When you were seven and living in Hyogo, your neighbourhood lined nets around your balconies to prevent pigeons and other birds from finding themselves a home in them. You nurtured a small pigeon, safeguarding the nest it had built next to the radish plant your mother had planted, and the detachable bath bed. You would supply her with feed which you purchase with the pocket money you would collect taking the local residents' garbage down to the chute, as the complex you lived in was rather ancient and did not possess one on each floor. Your father had discovered what had been going on, and one day when you came back from school, the pigeon, its nest, and the eggs it had laid were gone. The old man had made you watch it as he discarded them, berating you for your — what you thought to be, and for all intents and purposes, was — a good deed.

Sae remembers when you had told him this story. It had been before he learned how to open up to you — before he knew he liked it when he laid his head in your lap and you ran your fingers through his hair — and it had been one of those moments where Sae had felt utterly vulnerable, even despite the story being more of a direct infliction upon you than him. He remembers sitting next across from you, the doors of your balcony open and you gazing out at the torrential rain’s never-ending onslaught when you told him the pains of your adolescence.

He remembers how sad you had looked — gentle, sweet and kindhearted you. And he remembers feeling the urge to hold you. Because it was the first time he voluntarily felt such a gripping emotion. He recalls the way your nimble fingers trembled around your second mug of jasmine tea, and he looks back on the way you turned to him with a forced smile, as if it was the easiest thing to do — to bear yourself and all of your little idiosyncrasies in front of him, no walls, no windows.

Just you and him. You, reprimanded for your selfless displays of kindness. Him, admonished for his lack of expressing his.

It was hard not to let himself fall into you.

The doctors told him your MRI scans and behaviour showed that you had procured selective amnesia. You had no recollection of the time you had spent with him for the past five years, or anyone for that matter. No memory of the nights spent in the apartment complex you moved into after your parents had passed, no evocation on the first time you met Sae in the laundromat when he moved in a year later after retiring.

Sae feels his hands shake, so he places them on his knees. It was two in the afternoon, visiting hours.

It applied to him despite his title, because you wanted it to.

He waits for you at an isolated bench out in the courtyard at the centre of the hospital. Sae’s eyes are trained on the single entrance, and he perks up when he notices you open the door. You approach him with a tight lipped smile, wrapping your arms around yourself.

Sae notices your hesitation of taking a seat beside him, so he moves to the left to make room. You take a seat next to him, to the far right. He digs his fingers into his palms until it hurts. You do not say anything, neither does he. You both stare at the long leaves of the wisteria tree you are under, moving along with the light wind.

Your voice is stronger than when you had first woken up, but it still carries the familiar gentle tone to it, just in a different octave.

“My parents… they passed away, didn’t they?” 

Sae turns to meet your perturbed gaze. He stills when he realises he has encountered the version of you three years before you met one another. His chest aches at the expression you paint over your visage. How lonely you must have been, and he was not yet there.

“…Yes,” Sae admits, because even before the accident he could never lie to you.

You slump back into the wood of the bench and look down at your lap solemnly. You sigh shakily, eyes trained on the diamond that gleams under the mid-afternoon autumn sunlight of Osaka.

“We… we were engaged?” 

You sound so unsure, yet a day ago you had whined to him about wanting to show your wedding dress to him before anyone else. Sae has to collect himself, to prevent the bitterness and anger in his tone from seeping through his words.

“Yes. We are.” 

When he corrects your tense, you look at him, doubtful. Sae has to break eye contact first because he does not know how to make anything when you look at him like he is foreign — like anything but your beloved. Sae never thought he was particularly indigent of your affections until he was starved of them.

“Who am I staying with?” You inquire, tone growing a bit anxious. 

Sae joins his hands together, not knowing how to answer you. Everything you do tells him you do not want anything to do with him. He cannot hate you, but he cannot help the resentment slowly begin to fester at the situation. 

He tells you the truth, because Sae can never be dishonest with you — even in sickness. 

“Me,” he states, quickly building on when he sees the flash of concern wash over your face, “You, you had moved into a place in Yamagata, but we moved out last month. If you want, you can stay at a hotel.”

Sae irks at the way relief washes over you.  

“Really?” 

“Yeah.”

You look down at your lap once more, lips slightly twitching with a fake sense of amusement at the situation. Sae has no idea what you are feeling. He did not quite know how to handle when you first met, but after spending half a decade together, he taught himself as a sort of expert in his dealings with you. This was an entirely new ballpark. You did not know him. And, for all intents and purposes, he does not know you. 

“Where are my belongings?” You ask after a couple moments of silence. 

“At our place,” Sae answers a bit too fanatically, “I can… I can move them.”

“Is that not a lot of work?”

“I can do it,” Sae speaks to you gently, afraid that if he were to raise his voice it would scare you away. 

“I do not want you to do anything for me, Itoshi-san,” you say and his chest tightens at the way you address him, like an incongruence in your life. Like something that does not belong with you. He has never thought you would feel that way.

You do not say anything else for a while. Sae thinks you notice the clutch you have on him, and the way he falters ever so slightly at your words. Even in your current state you watch over him, and Sae has to catch himself from falling. You were still gentle to him, even when you did not need to be. 

“I… can stay with you. Until, until I can figure everything out. The doctor told me it would be good for regaining my memories… going back to my routine and all.” 

Sae turns to you. A silence falls over both of you. 

You laugh bitterly underneath your breath, “What choice do I have?”

Sae does not think you meant to hurt him with the rhetorical question, but it still stings despite his better judgement. Because this is not fair. Not for him. And definitely not for you. 

“Okay,” Sae swallows the lump in his throat for your sake, “Okay.”

When you are the first one to break your gaze — the one that bore into his, staring at him as though he is a stranger — Sae ponders on whether it would have been better had you simply left him at the altar, rather than face this. He could face the impudence of others, he always has been able to. Sae thought he could have guided himself through your indifference if you were to ever direct it towards him. Perhaps it was because of the tiny foreboding within him, locked deep down and never verbalised to you, reminding him you would never treat him as such. Maybe it was his ego.

Whatever it was — it breaks by one look of your incertitude. 

He stands up. But, before he leaves, your voice rings out.

“What—What about Sonoda-san?”

He turns towards you, lips laid flat. When he does not answer you immediately, he knows that you have realised the situation. Yet he cannot provide you any semblance of comfort.

Sae walks out of the courtyard without a second look, leaving you alone at the bench. 

You do not call for him again.

.

.

.

“A brain injury is like a broken photo album, where cherished memories are lost, scattered, and hard to put back together. It is much more fragile and responds to treatment rather peculiarly. But, with patience and time, it may heal,” Doctor Tachibana had told Sae the day you were discharged from the hospital. Although the sentiment was kind, it did not do much to soothe the growing ache augmenting between both of you. 

The car ride back home was scalding. You do not speak a word and in situations like these Sae does not know where to place himself. He did not want probabilities of your recovery, of the small likelihood of you bothering him with your many stories and tales of your present and past. Sae wanted the guarantee, he wanted it now. 

When he pulls into the driveway of the house he had procured you both, his eyes soften when he sees how yours widens at the sight. You gaze out the window like a newborn fawn not knowing how to operate its legs. 

“We… lived here?” You question quietly, still utilising the past tense. 

“Live,” Sae corrects. You shake your head and nod.

“Right,” you laugh weakly, “right.”

He turns the engine off, going towards the passenger side to open your door. But you do it before him, and Sae steps to the side, taken aback. You look at him hesitantly. 

“Sorry—,” he starts, “force of habit.”

When he thinks of grabbing your hand, he stops himself short. He bends all four of his fingers and tucks them under his thumb. Instead, he reaches for your bag. You watch him carefully, but do not refute his actions, which relieves Sae more than he thought it would.

.

.

.

“Sonoda-san was a fortune teller, did you know?” Your voice carries a childlike enthusiasm, as you converse with Sae. Seated underneath the aforementioned Sonoda-san’s kotatsu, in her living room after you had put the elderly woman to sleep, you peel six potatoes for her. To have them prepared for her when she awakes. 

Sonoda Sumiko for all intents and purposes, was the only true friend you had managed to procure your entire time spent in Yamagata. She was Sonoda-san for you, Sumiko-chan to her school friends, Miko to her late husband, and a gift to many — yourself being the most present in the bunch. You had told Sae many stories — of herself and you. Sonoda-san and Y/n-chan’s adventures, the old hag and the bitter girl, two neighbours with an unbreakable friendship — your words not his. 

“Was she?” Sae murmurs, seated on the low coach behind the kotatsu. The two of you had come over for a hotpot, a regular occurrence after you had met each other nearly half a year ago. Sonoda-san was a sort of mediator between the two of you — mostly you because you had disliked Sae for some time when you had learned that she was sending him three meals a day the first month he had moved into the apartment complex. Three doors down from yours.

“Mmm,” you hum, “I used to force her to read my palms when I was particularly upset.”

“When would those times be?”

“Typically around May,” you start. Sae stills, realising what you implied. 

“I know Sonoda-san told you about my parents. Don’t apologise.”

Sae fists his hands together. The woman had told him of your past, for what purpose he did not particularly know. Perhaps she had seen something in him he had not seen himself. Sae did not think of himself as a sort of expert on grief, he never quite managed his way through it either. 

“Surely you have others,” He says as a way of patching the hole up. You only but laugh. 

“Most of my relationships are acquaintanceships,” you start, “I know that if I disappeared, although perhaps Tachibana-san may be upset, Sonoda-san will cry, and so will the children, they will all eventually move on.”

Turning towards him, Sae stills as your eyes disarm him.

“You’re… an exception. Your parents want you. They have a need for you, I could not have said the same for myself five years ago.”

Sae furrows his eyebrows, and a light scowl lifts onto his lips. “Stop,” he urges. 

“It’s okay,” You smile, truthfully. Your expression does not reek of self-pity, like he has seen on so many others. There is a refined look to you, as though you have worked out every kink within yourself, moulding into a perfect shape to survive.  “Being needed is not that important to me. It is the same way you need to breathe air. It would be rather difficult to replace it, but you will overcome it eventually.” 

“To be needed is to be forgotten,” you look down at the root vegetable in your hand, a fond expression on your visage, “I’d rather be unnecessary than have the ability to be forgotten.” 

Sae stares at your solemn features. The way your hair is parted, draping down your shoulders. The small hands that gripped the back of his shirt when you yanked it cooking for Sonoda-san — had been through quite a lot. They were years younger than he was. There are cuts on your fingers, accidental scars on your palms. You had never taken care to present yourself in a purposely fashionable lens. Sometimes when he looks at you, he wonders what you have been through. What things you have done for the two of you to meet like this. He knows his past, but you are an entirely new anomaly.

“I’ve… come to terms with this. This hunger inside of me, it will never be satisfied. At least, no one would be willing to amuse it,”

You laugh softly. It is raining outside,  and Sae feels a fire in his loins, something he has not felt since he left the field. His chest pulls, but he does not think it is his injury this time.

“I would,” Sae’s voice is weak, childish, and, above all, full of a need. He murmurs your name, for the first time since you met one another half a year ago in the laundromat. “I would.”

When you open your mouth, presumably to refute Sae’s confession, he finds the sudden urge to admonish you, to prevent you from spewing an elaborate argument. Because that would be no good to quell the warmth inside of him, the ever growing want and need. He did not know when it happened. But last Tuesday when he spilled his tea all over himself, and he thought of you teasing his appearance and lack of attention or motor skills, Sae knew he was gone. Far gone from when he was 18, even more so at 34.

Before you can say anything, he presses his lips against yours. 

.

.

.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, but your memories remained elusive. Sae dedicated himself to helping you regain what was lost, you tried your best to cooperate, but as much as you wished to feel the connection he spoke of, it remained an abstract concept, distant and intangible. He tells his family not to visit, because you still feel uncomfortable. He has to often help you walk up and down the stairs, because along with your memory your motor functions refuse to cooperate at times. 

Late in the night, Sae sits alone near the open engawa, gazing out at the sky. He thinks of you, of his love for you. He’s rationed it for nearly half a decade, often taking you for granted because you were his — and he was yours. It had become a commonality in his life, something he did not need to think about constantly. Doubt, persistently, on your end. When the very ground beneath him was crumbling, it was difficult not to lose his footing. It felt like overthinking how to breathe and forgetting for half a second. Undeniably exigent. 

It is raining. He hears a small cough behind him, and turns to see you.

You are wrapped in a throw blanket, donned in one of his shirts. He never told you it was his clothes you preferred to wear. Everything about yourself seemed to make you uncomfortable. It was idiotic and reprehensible, but when Sae sees you in his clothes, it makes him feel like he still is part of you, even without you being aware of it.

“I— I couldn’t sleep,” You whisper soundly into the quiet dressing room. The natural moonlight paints your visage in a beautiful glow. Sae feels the dramatic urge to hold you, but he does not. Instead, he tilts his head to the right of him, urging you to sit. You do listen to him for once. Maybe you started to trust him after a month into this routine procedure between the two of you, or perhaps you were growing bored. 

“Nightmare?” Sae asks, not looking at you. 

“Something like that…” You answer, voice a bit tremulous. Sae turns his head towards your direction. You wrap your arms around yourself.

“I—,” you choke, then you sigh before continuing, “I feel overwhelmed. Like my head is about to implode. I think it’d be best for both of us if it would.”

Sae is quick to lambast your statement, “Don’t say that.”

You lift your legs up and rest your chin on your knees, conforming yourself into a small sphere-like shape, trying not to take up any space. It hurts Sae, only you can hurt him so. You tremble, and there is nothing he can do. You bruise yourself trying to make sense of the past five years by yourself, and he cannot aid you — not when you do not want anything to do with him.

“How… How was I like…, before?” You ask like a petulant child, voice muffled and hoarse. The inquire takes Sae by surprise. You never asked him such a thing before, he has never needed to verbalise his feelings or your character for you. 

One day you woke up beside him, and he had told you to stay — your relationship was founded on the very basis of unspoken affection. Sae found it nonessential. 

Yet, you gaze at him with a want — a need to know. He cannot deprive this of you no matter how confining it may make him feel. He looks away from your heated stare. 

“You always put whipped cream in your coffee, and you never take it warm. You drink it two times a day, most of the time, but have been trying to cut it back to one. You store the china your mother gave you in the left upmost cupboard, out of your reach because it was the last thing she left in your care and you never wanted to lose it.”

Sae feels you stare. He turns to look at you, his tone growing weak.

“You tutored the kids in the apartment building we used to live in. You made them plant chrysanthemums in small pots to give to their mother’s.”

“Why would I do that?” you whisper, voice breaking and Sae wants to hold you — but he cannot.

“You were gentle,” Sae explains, exhaling slowly from his chest. He finds it putrid how weak his voice sounds to him, “sweet.”

He looks down, a bitter smile on his lips as he laughs in the same tone, “Drove me mad. Rin always preferred your company over mine. I would grow angry at times.”

You huff heatedly, not knowing how to articulate Sae’s remarks, he presumes. He sees the way you waver, ever so little. When he turns to look at you he recalls when you had confessed to him many years ago that you were petrified of being unwanted. Sae realises he is very similar to you in that extent,  if you were the cause for it. 

“I was never the gentle type. You were,” Sae murmurs.

You choke a little, “You loved me that much?”

Sae does not say anything: neither confirms or denies your question yet when his throat bobs at the sight of your eyes filling with tears, the answer is clear. He is frightened to find his voice so weak.

“I know you are awake right now because of the storm,” Sae states instead, hoping it would convey his fear and need, “Because it reminds you of him.”

At his remark, you smile. It looks and feels astringent, and though tears fill your eyes you come closer to him for the first time since the accident. Sae holds himself to the wooden floors, feeling a chill run up his spine. He chalks it up to the cold but knows that is a lie when you place your fingers ever so slightly on top of the skin of his hand. They burn through him.  

“It—It is like I have been asleep for five years, like— like I’ve lost something I never had.” You confess, voice weak and afraid. 

“You have me,” Sae confers immediately, disquieted at the lack of control he possesses in front of you, “You have me. You have me until you do not want me anymore.”

“Itoshi-san,” you mumble, “I’m scared. I—I’m terrified. I— My mother was with me last month, now—now she is not. That—That is what I feel. It’s—It’s not fair,” you chastise, losing your breath. Sae notices the familiar trepidation wash over you like waves, and he tries to ground you. His hand falters when he reaches to cup your face. You stare into his eyes mutely, not uttering a word, but nodding.

“Take your time,” He cups your face for the first time in a month, and Sae feels his limbs grow weak at the softness of your skin, “No one needs anything from you.”

You laugh through your tears, and Sae’s touch falters. Sae’s lips twitch at the bitter smile painted on your features. You tremble in his arms and lay there numbly. After a few moments he carries you up to your room, tears that have filled in your eyes falling when your head falls back.

“Sorry, please bear with it.” He mutters beneath his breath, gazing at the way your chest heaves up and down. Walking down towards the vacant guest bedroom, something he never thought would be of any use to either of you, he places you down gently onto the bed. Your eyes never leave his, and he situates himself a fair distance away from you. 

“Sae,” your voice cracks, “I’m sorry.”

He smiles, and in the darkness of the room he allows himself to feel despondent. Watching you fall asleep, he leaves the room without a second thought. Sae looks back out to the widow encompassing the greenery of the forest.

It has stopped raining, and has travelled to his chest. 

---

turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

.

..

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

.

..

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

.

..

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

.

..

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

.

..

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

.

..

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

.

..

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

.

..

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

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🡦  minazuki mini series (COMPLETED) 🡦  F!reader x gojo satoru

genre. mild angst, action, psychological/thriller, mystery, romance, mature themes, enemies-to-lovers, very slow burn, arranged-marriage au (tokyo metropolitan arc to shibuya arc; canon compliant-ish). description. In which Y/N L/N is placed under a union she has no choice but to partake for the sake of her survival.

series warnings.  dark themes, very heavy manga spoilers, paranoia, future sexual themes/smut, violence, blood, heavy objectification of women,  mentions of rape, harassment, heavy themes on misogyny, child abuse, mentions of child destruction, heavy degradation, bride-market, breeding talks, compliance to abuse/harrasement/patriarchal system, false constructs on virginity, murder/man slaughter, blood, anti-hero!Y/N, mentions of suicide, self-harm, not beta-read. MINORS DNI (this story has a lot of questionable stuff)

Playlist + taglist is closed + main jjk masterlist + minazuki extras/omakes + Ao3 version

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