gremlinsaurus

Latest Posts by gremlinsaurus

i just don’t have the employable spirit

― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

“I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.” 

― Kahlil Gibran, The Madman

― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

“All freedom is relative—you know too well—and sometimes it’s no freedom at all, but simply the cage widening far away from you, the bars abstracted with distance but still there, as when they “free” wild animals into nature preserves only to contain them yet again by larger borders. But I took it anyway, that widening. Because sometimes not seeing the bars is enough”

― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

“Freeing yourself was one thing, claiming ownership of that freed self was another.”

― Toni Morrison, Beloved

― Jean-Paul Sartre

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

― Maya Angelou, The Complete Collected Poems

― Franz Kafka, Amerika

“Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

― Viktor E. Frankl

― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“Freedom is the will to be responsible for ourselves.” 

― Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

― E.B. White, The Trumpet of the Swan

“This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.”

― Kafka Franz, Diaries, 1910-1923

― John Fowles, The French Lieutenant’s Woman

“And I want to be held down. I don’t know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.”

― Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H.

― Franz Kafka

Bothersome beast, comforting friend

Are you an atheist?

When I see a delicious cake on the kitchen table, it's only natural for me to believe that the Baker exists. It seems unimaginable that all the ingredients would come together in the exact quantities needed, then somehow bake themselves at the precise temperature for the exact amount of time.

everything I’ve ever written has been about you

@peaceful-poetry / water lilies — claude monet / this is how you lose the time war — amal el-mortar and max gladstone / vanishing interior — suzanne buffam / water lilies — claude monet / and then i tried — rene ricard / i’m writing another poem about you — mira lightner / water lilies — claude monet

even i was the richest man alive i wouldnt buy tumblr premium because i cannot think of a more embarassing subscription to have

YOU don’t have to be perfect to be loved. but I do

"babysitting"

fluff, crack

Synopsis: that time you were babysitting your niece when sukuna came home...

to sum it up: sukuna is such a dad but doesn't know it yet

WC: 1,218

Warning(s): none

“What the fuck is that?”

You look up to see Sukuna standing in the doorway, a twisted snarl on his face as he glares harshly at the object within your grasp. You raise your brows, momentarily surprised by his arrival, and give him a soft smile. 

“Hi, Kuna,” you greet happily, ignoring his question. “I didn’t know you were gonna be back so soon.”

“Answer my question, woman,” he growls, looking almost disgusted by the sight before him. “What is that?”

He points one of his burly arms to you, and you look down at the cooing seven-month-old in your embrace, bouncing up on your knee as you sit on the floor just before Sukuna’s large bed. The baby gargles, hand stuffed into her mouth as drool dribbles down her fist, a thoughtless smile rising onto her small lips.

“She’s my niece,” you tell him, smoothing your thumb lovingly over the baby’s shirt, inspiring a small giggle and a senseless babble. You smile. “Isn’t she so cute?”

“It’s vile,” Sukuna grimaces and you frown. “Why is that beast in my temple?”

“Sukuna, be nice,” you roll your eyes. “She’s just a baby, and my sister needed some help looking after her for a few hours.”

“And you felt prompted to bring it here?”  he scrunches his nose. 

“Her, and where else would I be?” 

“As long as you’re carrying that creature, you must be anywhere else but here,” he grumbles, turning dismissively to leave the room. “I want it gone.”

“What?!” you exclaim, moving to stand with the baby resting on your hip. You walk over to your boyfriend, touching your soft hand to his large back to keep him from leaving. Sukuna peers over his shoulder angrily, four eyes squinting down at the two of you. “Come on, Sukuna! At least admit how adorable she is. Look at this precious little face.”

You squish gently at the baby’s cheeks and her fist falls from her mouth, big round eyes scrunching as a giddy beam rises to her rosy cheeks. All Sukuna can see, however, is the slobber shining over her chin and on her hand. “I do not understand what you are requesting of me,” he says coldly, eying the child as though she carries the plague. “Is it incapable of keeping its saliva inside of its mouth?”

“She’s teething,” you say flatly.

“What?”

“Her teeth are coming in soon, it stimulates drooling.”

Sukuna’s face of disgust grows more exaggerated, leaning his head back with curled lips. “Like an animal?”

Your face drops as you stare at him boredly. “Yes, Sukuna. Like an animal. All humans did it at one point.”

“Do you mean to inform me that you engaged in such a disgusting act when you were in this stage of life?”

“...Yes?”

He clicks his tongue, now eying you with an air of suspicion. “Good to know,” he says rather judgmentally.

The thought crosses your mind to point at that your boyfriend was at some point a human too, but you decide against it.

“Sukuna,” you groan. “Aside from the drool, she’s such a precious little thing. You have to agree, right?” you coo. You look down at the baby to grin childishly at her, tucking your finger under her chin and tapping her slightly, hardly tickling at her body but arising a few more giggles nonetheless. You babble meaningless sounds, speaking to her in a playful voice that Sukuna has never heard from you before.

Though still thoroughly confounded as to why you want him to take interest in this little animal, his eyes catch the way you soften for the child, how your eyes light and a sense of maternity takes you as you speak to the baby as though you know just what to say, drawing out toothless grins and thrilled gibberish. His brow twitches involuntarily, something within him almost enjoying the sight before him. You’re so good with this creature. Have you always been like this?

“What language are you speaking with it?” he suddenly asks gruffly, causing you to pause and look up at him as your niece reaches her small hands up to your cheek. 

“With her,” you correct again. “And I’m not speaking any language, I’m just playing around,” you chuckle slightly. Sukuna stares harshly now, examining the movements of the half developed human in your arms as she curiously taps against your face.

Suddenly catching wind of his presence, the baby’s head turns to him and her eyes grow bigger. She cries out excitedly, reaching her arms out to Sukuna with grasping tiny fingers. Sukuna falters, confused.

“What is she doing?” he asks urgently, and you laugh.

“She wants you to hold her,” you say softly.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Kuna,” you pout. “Please? Just for two seconds.”

“I said no, you brat.”

“Pleaseeeee? Pretty pretty please, my king?”

You give him the biggest puppy dog eyes you can muster, and when he looks between the two of you, your expressions almost match. Sukuna feels something in his resolve crumble, incapable of truly denying you though he tries his best to still appear as though you give him a hard time. 

With an agitated sigh, he reaches his upper set of arms to grab the child as you lift her up and hand her to him. “Two seconds,” he growls and your eyes sparkle with anticipation.

He holds the baby up before him, watching as her little feet dangle and kick around in her onesie as he grasps her from under her arms. His hands practically consume her entire frame, her fingers still reaching out to him curiously, joyfully.

The king of curses continues to glare, brow cocked while he tries to decide what is so special about it. Perhaps he can understand what you find to be “cute.” The baby’s got big chubby cheeks and huge doe eyes that almost remind him of you, and she’s so comically tiny it makes him want to laugh. 

He grunts softly as he pulls the baby in closer, complying with her unspoken request displayed by her constant reaching. She touches her little slobber-less hand on his forehead, touching softly at the plate structure on the right side of his face. Sukuna imagined himself to be a bit more perturbed by the contact, but finds himself unbothered, allowing the child to trace his features with innocent exploration.

You watch with your hands to your mouth, hiding your bright smile. The sight before you is just so adorable, you wish you could take a picture but you know that Sukuna would be quick to crush your phone in an instant if he caught you.

Sukuna finally pulls the child away, watching her grin happily. He hands her back to you and crosses his arms. “What is her purpose?” he questions, and you give him a strange look, adjusting the baby back on your hip as she plays with your hair. 

“She has no purpose. She’s a baby.”

“She is too young to work? To serve?”

“Wh- yes?!”

“Very well,” he nods. “She may stay for another hour.”

“...But my sister isn’t free for another two hours.”

“Two hours, and if she isn’t gone by then, tell her in her native tongue that I will be eating her fingers for dinner.”

a lot of you have convinced yourselves that jujutsu sorceres are all traditionally good guys who would yell and scream at anyone breaching moral thresholds but gege has always been clear about this rotten from the inside society catalyzing people's metamorphosis into ruthless and cruel beings, or rather, "monsters."

the whole point of including characters like choso and his love for his brothers was to show that "things" the jujutsu sorceres slaughter are not in themselves unfeeling entities. it is to criticize the idea of jujutsu sorceres being tbe unequivocal heroes, the good guys.

they have to eradicate curses but the process of doing so changes them morally and spiritually, often irreversibly. suguru is seen as a pariah, an outcast, because he takes this to its natural conclusion and becomes "evil", but he is by no means a singular anomaly.

sukuna talked about this hypocritical notion of morality in the manga -“THE SORCERERS OF THIS MODERN ERA HAVE AN INTENSE OBSESSION WITH REMAINING "HUMAN". IT IS THAT HUMAN FEAR OF BEING ALONE THAT MAKES THEM WEAK. THEY SO DESPERATELY WANT TO HOLD ON TO THEIR HUMANITY, CONSTANTLY TELLING THEMSELVES TO HOLD BACK FROM DESTROYING WHAT WOULD BE SO EASILY CRUSHED WITH THEIR OVERWHELMING POWER.”

like woah. to defeat the "strongest" they have to achieve his level by any means whatsoever... it is either a pyrrhic victory for the sorcerers or a moral victory for sukuna. Deeply twisted either way.

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff drabble no3. gojo as a cat dad

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ drabble summary. gojo tried to give you a little kitten as an apology, but you weren’t able to take it in, so he ends up becoming a cat dad. (note: for new readers, this is in continuation of my long fic gojo x reader series “kickoff”!! masterlist is linked below)

ᰔ main storyline summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. drabble #3

ᰔ words. 2.3k

a/n. hellooo!! this is such a silly little drabble lol, basically just gojo falling in love w a kitty. kickoff reader does make an appearance tho haha. this will be the last drabble before we move on to ch11 :) hope u enjoy!! <3

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

“Wait what? He’s gotta get his balls chopped off someday?”

Gojo holds the tuxedo kitten, which as of two seconds ago is now officially his and shall be named mr. grand theft auto (mr gta for short) up into the air as he examines him like he’s some novel beast.

“Yes,” Nanami affirms on the other line before releasing a deep exhale, “at around ten weeks old, you’ll have to get him neutered.”

“How do I know how old he is?” Gojo asks, twiddling his thumb back and forth to give mr gta something to chase with his paws in an attempt to distract.

“You’ll have to take the kitten to the vet,” Nanami tells him. “They’ll need to check for fleas, parasites, and give any relevant vaccinations.”

Gojo scratches the back of his head and sets mr gta down on his desk, which the Soot Sprite runs to the edge of and almost knocks over Gojo’s half-finished can of Red Bull. Gojo picks him up again, and he hears a tiny little mew squeak out.

“Did you check with Suguru or Hide or Sota if they would be fine with keeping a cat in the house?” Nanami asks.

“No.”

“That’s the first thing you should do.”

“Ehhh I’m sure they’d be fine with it,” Gojo replies before settling mr. gta into the nook of his elbow and then grabbing his keys. He pets his pocket for his wallet, and then heads out of his room, down the stairs, and outside to the driveway to get inside his car. He plops Fluff Ball onto his dashboard, and then realizes he’s still got Nanami on the line.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” he brings his phone back up to his ear, “did you say something.”

A long pause. “I’ve been giving you instructions this entire time.”

Nanami apparently had three cats growing up, it was one of the first things Gojo learned about him during some Icebreakers for Rush. But his knowledge is wasted on Gojo, who’s more keen on winging most things in life.

“Where did you find this kitten?” Nanami asks.

“In the bushes,” Gojo says as he pulls out of the driveway, “over on Main street. Took the scenic route on my run this morning.”

“And why decide to keep it?”

Gojo pulls his phone from his ear to check the directions on his phone for a brief second, a little too lazy to connect BlueTooth to his car for a seven minute drive. “Uh. Well, I tried to give it to y/n, but she didn’t want it. Er, she couldn’t have it, so, I figured I’d keep it.” He glances between his rearview mirror and mr. gta as he turns onto the street. “The little thing’s homeless and cute, so why not. Also kinda ugly, though. His fur looks like he’s been struck by lightning.”

Nanami sighs, then catches his breath briefly. “You found a dirty flea-covered kitten in the bushes and then tried to abandon it with y/n when she can’t even have it, and then abruptly decided you’ll take care of it? I would encourage some self reflection.”

Gojo gets to the closest veterinarian office he could find, mr gta in hand when he walks through the door with the jingle of a bell at the top, which his kitten becomes instantly intrigued with as it tilts its head up to the noise.

“Hi,” Gojo says as he approaches the receptionist desk, where he sees a girl probably around his age wearing bright blue scrubs sitting there at a catastrophically messy desk cluttered with pens and clipboards and certainly not enough space for the gigantic keyboard underneath the computer.

She looks up from her computer at Gojo, and blinks a few times in surprise before addressing him. Gojo wonders if she’s new to the job. “Hello! Name for the appointment?”

“Oh, I don’t have an appointment,” Gojo says, setting mr gta up on the high raised counter, and he feels the fur of his tiny tail brush against his hand before a tiny rough tongue starts to lick at his knuckle. “I found this kitten in the bushes, so I just wanted someone to take a look at him. Or her? I’m, like, 90% sure it’s a boy, but you guys are the experts.”

Crescents form under her eyes in amusement before she flutters her eyes back to the computer screen. “Sorry, we don’t take walk-ins,” she says as she busies herself with clicking sporadically across pixels that he can’t see.

“Can’t make an exception?” Gojo asks, setting his elbow up on the counter and mr gta instantly starts scratching at his skin. He watches her expression change from business to something else before pushing away from the desk, chair springing when she gets up from it.

“I can check with the doctor for you!” she chirps and disappears into the hallway. Gojo looks down at mr gta, who’s staring off in the direction she went before he starts licking his paw.

The vet makes an exception, but not without a twenty minute wait. Gojo briefly wonders what being a veterinarian would be like, getting to hold tiny cute kittens like mr gta—who, by the way, is indeed a mister—all day. But, he figures there’s probably downsides to it too, since not all their patients are probably as sweet as mr gta is when he gets his shots. Cute thing just winces a little from the needle then chirps a drawled meow before shaking his head and wobbling right back into Gojo’s hands at the edge of the metal table. God, Gojo was attached. It hasn’t even been three hours, and he’d already jump in front of an active shooter just to protect the little Black Ball with Mittens.

Well, some of the love diminishes when he realizes just how damn expensive the vet visit cost as the receptionist from earlier adds up services on her dated calculator with punches of her index finger on worn out buttons. Gojo pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands her his credit card, and even though it’s just the plastic equivalent of cash, he still feels like it’s much lighter somehow when she hands it back to him. She prints out the receipt, licking her thumb to separate the customer copy from the office’s copy and hands the latter to him to sign. The puff ball tied at the end of the pen intrigues mr gta who swats his paw at it while Gojo makes quick work of his signature and hands it over the counter. He’s about to turn on his heel to head out the door in no need of the customer copy, when the receptionist squeaks out a wait and scribbles something onto it before handing it to him. He glances down at the ballpoint blue ink. The total that he paid in written out words, a large circle drawn around a free future check-up coupon, and beneath it, a phone number with a heart next to it. He finally clocks in on the flirting.

His now healthy kitten is captivated by the noise of the bell above the door again when Gojo makes his way through it, and then captivated by the sound of plastic paper crumpling in his hand when he tosses the receipt into a trash can outside of receptionist desk view. It’s not like he needed it, he can’t return vaccines.

“So you’re cool with it?’ Gojo asks, Suguru on the other line since he wasn’t home and he was the last one of his housemates he had to check with if keeping mr gta was alright or not. Not that Gojo would drop the little guy off at a shelter if one of the guys did say they didn’t want a cat in the house. He’d sooner drop one of his housemates off at the shelter than get rid of mr gta.

Suguru sighs through the receiver. “I guess it’s fine as long as you take care of it…but it’s weird, you’ve never cared much for cats?”

Gojo’s eyes flicker across the ceiling of his room as he lays on his bed, swinging his knee back and forth before adjusting his hand under his neck to get more comfortable. His gaze then flits down to mr gta, who is roaming the expanse of his chest and plucking at the fabric of Gojo’s shirt with every step he takes across it. Purring like a maniac where the sound is probably loud enough to interrupt Nanami’s wim hof breathing meditation exercises three houses down from here.

Gojo pulls the phone away from his ear and tucks his chin to look mr gta straight in the eye. “Dude. Could you keep it down? I’m on the phone.”

Electrocuted Puff Ball just stares at him and mews in defiance before using its hind leg to scratch behind its ear, then settles its head down on the center of Gojo’s chest, the rumble of purrs felt on his sternum.

Gojo brings the phone back to his ear. He considers how to answer Suguru, thinking can’t let the gang know I fw cute cats all of a sudden so instead he says— “I don’t know. It’s probably the cat parasite.”

“The what?” Suguru asks.

Gojo scratches the top of mr gta’s head as he puts Suguru on speaker then peruses a WikiHow article on his phone on how to care for babies. Apparently, skin to skin contact is very important, so he shoves mr gta underneath the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, something about a parasite from cats that can infect humans and basically make us fall in love with them as some sort of survival strategy. I read about it on the mews—er, news. Mews? What the fuck. I just said mews instead of news. See?? It’s the fuckin’ cat parasite.”

He hears Suguru sigh. “Aight. Whatever floats your boat, dude.”

Gojo’s phone pings with a text notification, and when he sees your name flash across his screen, his eyes widen. “Uh, gotta go. See ya at home. Don’t forget the cat food.” And then he hangs up. Because he can’t talk to you and concentrate on anything else at the same time.

He sits up, catching mr gta when he falls towards his lap in the motion, and then he perches himself up on an elbow to read your texts.

|| 10:24am You: hi, sorry for kicking you out earlier today

|| 10:24am You: i was just a little sad about the kitty :(

He sees you typing, before the bubble disappears. He holds his breath. And then he sees you typing again.

|| 10:26am You: i’m on my period, so im’ a little emotional

Gojo blinks at his screen. Then his thumbs move to type.

|| 10:28am Gojo Satoru: Oh

He scans his brain for the right thing to say.

|| 10:29am Gojo Satoru: Are you doing okay? Do you need Ibuprofen

He feels mr gta’s warm little body press against his torso.

|| 10:30 Gojo Satoru: Or a heating pad?

Nailed it.

|| 10:32am You: aw no i’m ok!! thanks though :))

|| 10:32am You: did you keep the kitty?

His eyes flicker down to mr gta, who has fully fallen asleep in his lap. Dumb little thing. Doesn’t even know pythagoras’s theorum, or anything about the Roman Empire. Only knows warmth and whiskers. But if anything bad ever happened to mr gta, Gojo would probably end up in jail for the revenge he wreaks havoc on the perpetrators.

|| 10:24am Gojo Satoru: I did, yeah. Victim of the cat parasite

|| 10:26am You: cat parasite??

|| 10:26am You: what’s that

|| 10:28am Gojo Satoru: Some parasite that makes people like cats

|| 10:29am Gojo Satoru: [sent an article]

|| 10:29am Gojo Satoru: Saw it on the news

|| 10:31am You: don’t you mean

|| 10:31am You: the mews

|| 10:31am You: haha get it

|| 10:31am You: because of mew

He blinks at his phone screen, and then his lips purse. The cuteness aggression he has felt today is enough to kill a grown man, and he has to set his phone down to deal with the wide grin that spreads across his face from your messages. He rubs a hand across his mouth and over his jaw, to ease the sore to the cheeks of his muscles from the way he can’t help the stupid way he’s cheesing over you, and it’s almost embarrassing if it didn’t make his heart beat fast in his chest in the same flush way he feels at the end of a good run or an exciting soccer match.

And while he tries to contain his face despite the lack of any witnesses, except for the kitten curled up in his lap, he realizes it’s been minutes since he responded to you.

He falls back onto the bed, head hitting the pillow while he sets his hand holding his phone down on his chest to read your message. Mr gta crawls up from his lap to sit in front of his phone screen, and Gojo has to tilt his head to look past the obstructing view of his wispy floofy tail.

|| 10:35am you: sorry. was that lame :(

Mr gta meows incessantly at the phone as if in response to you. “Yeahhh I know. She’s really cute, isn’t she.” And then Gojo scratches behind his pointy little ear with his index finger. Mr gta entirely leans into the sensation, purring loudly almost on command before he’s meowing again in a tiny voice.

Mr gta reaches his paw out, pressing it against the bright screen of Gojo’s phone, typing nonsensical letters because he doesn’t know the English lexicon, or any lexicon for that matter other than purr and meow and hiss.

Gojo thinks nothing of it, until his paw accidentally presses the blue send button.

|| 10:37am Gojo Satoru: sjhdfhh

|| 10:38am You: huh?

|| 10:39am Gojo Satoru: Sorry

|| 10:39am Gojo Satoru: That was the cat

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyeeddd lol gojo as a cat dad was not in my plans for kickoff at all but this was fun to write alskdjdh i want a lil kitty so baaaaad </3 anywho, like i mentioned, this will be the last drabble from ch10 haha we shall move on to ch11 now 😼 but there will def be more mr gta appearances in kickoff bc that’s gojo’s lil baby now :”) thanks sm for reading!! love u guys

taglist: @megumisdivinedogs @witchbybirth @avatarl0v3r @mwtsxri @asherheed

@erencvlt @delulux3 @higurumapet @zombriesworld @xenop0p

@phoenix-eclipses @mo0nforme @reagan707 @lost-resonance @foulprincesscycle

@luniunia @alekssashka7 @beabadobeee @thexmistress @tsukikourito

@getitsatoru @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @btszn

@izayas-rings @semra4 @ethereally-lyann @bbyxxm @fvsm4x

@sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @horisdope @banenemilk

@nanasukii28 @spindyl @ri-sa20 @thexmistress @mwtsxri

@v4mpieres @teramisuyhin @ritsatoru @megumisthirdog @sakui1

@angelicscribe @bloopsstuff @tetsuski @oh-dude @pickuptruck01

note: please send me an ask if your taglist preferences change at any time!!

blank canvas: the epilogue.

pairings. ryōmen sukuna, fem!reader

genre. past lovers, angst, opposites attract

tags/warnings. mentions of toxic relationships, purple hearts-ish themes, maybe some heartache

notes. 2.4k wc. i said it’ll come in a few days, but i had free time so here it issss!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Two Years Later

Tonight was Yuki and Choso’s going-away party. 

Their decision to migrate to another side of the world was because Yuki had always talked about wanting to abroad, and so when Choso was offered a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity in another country, it became the perfect chance for them to make that dream a reality.

So despite your apprehensions, you couldn’t miss the chance to see Yuki one last time and accepted her invitation to the party.

The evening was alive with laughter and chatter as their families and friends gathered to celebrate their bittersweet departure. Among the crowd, you spotted some familiar faces who exchanged greetings with the couple, as well as some strangers you had never seen before.

But one person was conspicuously absent. 

It had been two years since you had seen Sukuna, and the thought of potentially running into him again filled you with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. However, deep down, you knew he wouldn’t be there. There was no chance of him ever showing up because you hadn’t heard from him since that fateful night. The apartment you once shared together now housed a new tenant, and the tattoo shop across the street had transformed into a record store. Neither Yuki, nor Choso (even Yuuji), had mentioned anything about Sukuna since then, possibly avoiding any mentions of him to you out of his request. He had simply disappeared, evaporated from existence, leaving behind nothing but a fading memory.

As you scanned the room with a forlorn smile, your thoughts were interrupted by Yuki’s cheerful voice. “Y/N! So glad you could make it! I thought you weren’t gonna come, too.”

Your first instinct was to hug her tightly. “Of course, not! You know I can’t not see you before you go.”

“Aww.” She embraced you tighter before pulling away with a sad smile. “I’m gonna miss you so much. You’re like a little sister to me.” 

Indeed, and she was the big sister you never had. Things would feel different without her here, but you supported her decisions and would always wish her the best in her future endeavors. So, despite the distance you two would soon have, you gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “We can still keep in touch. And maybe, I’ll pay you a visit there, too.” 

“Honestly, I would love that!” she enthused, “Please do, even if I have to harass Getou and Gojou about it.” 

You chuckled as she mentioned the duo’s name and spent the next few minutes with you chatting for a bit, catching up with your life, talking about your future plans. It was amazing how much can change in two years, and how some things can also stay the same. Like your friendship. And this bond that you would never find with anyone else.

For now, the night was still young, and you knew Yuki still had many more guests to accommodate, so you didn’t want to take all of her time. Eventually she did excuse herself to greet more guests, and you found yourself standing by the kitchen island, absentmindedly stirring your cocktail.

As you stood in the corner of the room, surrounded by the chatter and laughter of the party, you felt a sudden jolt run through your body as loud voices boomed across the room. They were Yuuji and Choso’s exuberant greetings cutting through the air, drawing everyone’s attention, including yours.

“Nii-san!”

“There he goes, Mr. First Lieutenant!” 

Your eyes widened as you saw the figure they were addressing with playful salute—a man in a crisp military uniform, standing tall and confident. It took you a moment to recognize him, but when you did, your heart skipped a beat.

It was Sukuna.

He looked different, transformed almost, his demeanor more composed, his smile softer yet still retaining the undeniable aura of masculinity. He looked a lot more muscular than the last you remembered. His hair, now dyed back to its natural color, was neatly trimmed. You recognized that the uniform he wore was of the Japan Self-Defense Forces, adorned with badges and insignias that spoke of his achievements. The reckless, wild look in his eyes had been replaced by something steadier, more focused.

It wasn’t just the sight of him that made your heart skip a beat—it was how different he looked. 

“That’s so cool!” Yuuji raved about his older brother’s badges, his starry eyes genuinely intrigued at the sight of Sukuna in a uniform. 

Choso, on the other hand, was pulling him in a hug in an emotional jest. “Dammit. You said you couldn’t make it!” 

“Don’t cry now,” Sukuna teased, patting the younger brother’s back. He seemed to be genuinely having fun teasing his brothers. “Had to pull some strings. I was on duty, but do ‘ya think I’d let you go without seeing you?” 

You felt a pang of nostalgia in their interaction, but also recognized the visible difference in the way your ex-boyfriend spoke to others. He was genuinely happy. He was all smiles. He was the healthiest version of himself, both physically and emotionally.

It was clear to you that Sukuna had turned his life around, and it was evident that he was doing well in his field of work. The man you once knew, who had been consumed by his reckless way of life, was now standing tall and respected as an honorable member of the military.

When you said you had never met Sukuna again in your lifetime, that was true. Because the Sukuna you knew was no longer here. It was an entirely different man, changed for the better, just not for you. 

As if sensing your gaze, Sukuna turned and your eyes mirrored each other’s surprise. For a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away, as if you were characters in a movie screen seeing each other for the very first time. It was as though your eyes were the camera, and he was the actor. You could say you were starstruck, your heart thumping so loud that you could hear it vibrate through your ears. 

Two freaking years, and Sukuna still had that effect on you. 

You didn’t know what to do. You found yourself at a loss, the red cup in your hand now shaking from the sudden surge of anxiety. Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, a kaleidoscope of heavy emotions, a tornado of nostalgic bliss, leaving you feeling adrift in a sea of memories. 

You wondered if Sukuna hated having to see you here. And if so, should you leave to spare yourself—or perhaps him—from any potential discomfort?

Caught in this internal struggle, you felt paralyzed, uncertain of what to do next. But then, you saw a flicker of recognition and regret in his eyes. 

Before you could even contemplate your next move, Sukuna was already excusing himself from his brothers. Their knowing looks exchanged in silence spoke volumes, indicating they were aware of where he was headed. The realization then hit you like a wave. Sukuna, your ex-boyfriend of two years, was coming toward you, and you were suddenly faced with a decision between confronting the past or making a quick escape.

“Y/N,” he greeted with a boyish grin, his voice deeper, more controlled. The bad boy persona he used to carry was completely gone. 

“Sukuna,” you replied, struggling to keep your voice steady, a complete opposite from his confidence.

There was a moment of awkward silence before he spoke again. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” you meekly replied, clearing your throat and gesturing to his uniform, “You, too. Military suits you. I never saw that coming.”

He smiled in agreement, seemingly happy about his current appearance. You had never seen this kind of bliss from him before, like he was filled with content and a sense of self-worth. He was proud, and truth be told, you were, too. 

“It’s been a good change. It gave me structure, purpose,” he paused, taking a red cup from the kitchen island nearby, “I finally got something ‘better’ to do with my life, huh?”

You smiled softly, not missing the implication of his last statement. “I’m happy for you. Really.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

“Mhmm.” 

The minutes that followed were some of the most agonizing of your life, not because of Sukuna, but because of the overwhelming awkwardness that enveloped the two of you. It felt as though you had nothing else to discuss, knowing full well that delving into your shared past was a territory you could never comfortably navigate. However, Sukuna, always the more vocal one in your relationship, had finally broken the silence.

“Do you…” he began, leaving you on edge, anticipating his question, “Do you wanna get some fresh air outside?” 

Right. And with a smile, you nodded. “Sure.” 

— —

You were grateful for the opportunity to escape the stifling atmosphere of the party and find some solace in the cool night air. Both of you were at the front porch, sitting over the pavement talking about anything but your past. 

Sukuna excitedly talked about his time in the military, where you learned that he had enlisted two years ago and joined the army. After enlisting, he quickly excelled in the rigorous training required for the Special Operations Group (SOG). It didn’t surprise you that his physical prowess, sharp intellect, and determination made him a standout candidate.

“I actually completed advanced courses in counter-terrorism, reconnaissance, and combat survival,” he shared, his gaze set on the clear starry night above you. “Oh, and last month, I was deployed on a high-stake mission overseas. We extracted hostages from a conflict zone. Remember the action movies we used to watch? It was exactly like that. It was fun, thrilling.” 

You listened intently, an elbow propped on your leg as you absorbed the enthusiasm in his stories. Pride and joy swelled in your heart as you heard him talk about something he was passionate about, because it was a stark contrast to the old Sukuna who wouldn’t have shown interest in these things. And this time around, you felt like you were infatuated again, but with the new him. 

“I’m really proud of you.” Longingness dripping from your voice. “Very proud. And you’re First Lieutenant, too? Wow.” 

The compliment seemingly made him blush, a sight so rare to see that you haven’t seen it throughout your relationship. “I wanted to become a better man.” 

You felt a squeeze in your heart. You recalled the words he said that night at the parking lot, of him telling you that he had his own insecurities, too. That he knew all along that your uncertainties about him were rooting from his way of life. That he was aware that he couldn’t give you the life you deserved. 

“Y/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue in an affectionate manner. He soon rose from his seat, prompting you to follow suit, before turning to face you. “I forgot to mention.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

His smile was sweet and genuine. “I’m engaged now.”

Oh.

Of course. 

What did you expect?

His words settled in your heart like a suffocating shroud. Despite the ache in your chest, you managed a polite nod, concealing the storm of emotions swirling inside you. But you couldn’t contain it—the damn tears that pooled in your eyes. Please, not now. You turned away, hoping to shield your reaction from him.

But it was all too late. 

He was already pulling you into an embrace, the familiarity in his warmth only making you weaker inside. “You are and will always be my greatest love,” he whispered into your ear, pressing his lips against your temple, “And also my biggest regret.”

Damn it. You covered your face with your hands, feeling ashamed of the tears streaming down your cheeks. What an absurd twist of fate. You could have gone about your day without encountering him again, yet here you were, shedding tears over the same man who had broken your heart two years ago.

“When I say regret,” he continued, cupping your cheeks and smiling at you lovingly. He ran his thumb across your cheeks, wiping your tears away. “I meant regret of not being that man for you. I didn’t treat you the way you deserved, or respected your boundaries like I thought I did.” Sukuna’s charm had you holding your breath still, too enamored by his beauty under the moonlight. He used to be a man of a few words, and now he didn’t shy away from pouring out his raw emotions. “I’m sorry I was two years too late. I’m sorry I had to let you go and be with someone else. But you and I know that it’s for the best.”

You weren’t crying because you wanted to get back together with him. You weren’t crying because he had promised marriage to someone else. You were crying because it felt like he was the one who slipped through your fingers, the one that got away, the one who could have been your forever if circumstances had aligned differently. It was the regret of a lost possibility, the ache of knowing that in another universe, you and him could have shared a lifetime together, untouched by the mistakes of the past.

He had dreams of making you his wife, dreams of having your children, dreams of growing old with you.

But the old Sukuna was dead, replaced by the new Sukuna who was happy and free from love’s toxicity. You realized it was time to let go. Time to bury the past and instead celebrate the future. 

“Congratulations on the engagement,” you offered your well wishes, pulling away slightly to meet his gaze with your tear-filled eyes. “I hope she doesn’t find you a handful.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “No, no. I have to behave or else I’m a dead man,” he joked. “She's in the army, too.”

“Well, I’m glad you met her, Sukuna. You deserve it,” you said, your voice filled with genuine warmth as you wiped your lachrymose eyes. 

Gratitude and comfort shone in his gaze. “And I’m glad you found your peace, Y/N. You always deserved better.”

You smiled in appreciation of his words as he helped you dust off your pants. Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket, briefly taking your attention away from the current scene. “Uh, I think I need to go,” you hesitated, glancing back at the house. “But I think Yuki’s pretty busy.”

“It’s fine,” he assured. “Do you want me to call you a cab or?”

“No, it’s okay,” you replied, shooting him a grateful expression. “Satoru’s on his way to pick me up.”

He nodded, smiling. “Cool.” You were surprised when he offered his hand, a gesture to finally close whatever remained between you two. “It was nice seeing you, Y/N.”

You shook his hand and gave him a playful salute. “Likewise, First Lieutenant Ryomen Sukuna.”

As he returned to the party, immediately attacked by his friends, there was no hint of yearning or longing in him, as if the poignant exchange with his ex-girlfriend had never occurred. He was back in the scene in a fluid motion, laughing, catching up with his loved ones, telling stories about his life. No heartbreaks, no painful memories.

As you stood there, knowing you had shared respect and love for each other, you were happy that there was a sense of closure in seeing Sukuna as the man he had become. You had both grown, both changed, and in that moment, you knew that your story, though painful, had led you two to where you needed to be. 

That your love’s canvas, once blank, now held colors to complete the portrait.

i hate sukuna because you could feel off one day and ask him ‘do you like me?’ as like, playful banter to feel normal again, and he’ll hold your chin and say ‘one of my ribs belongs to you.’ and act like it’s fucking nothing.

just thinking and crying over the way simon would continue to refer to you as “his girl” even after your sudden passing.

he would talk about you as if you were still alive whenever relationships came up in conversation. and he’d be so reluctant to allow anyone, even his respected comrades, to try and comfort him.

“yeah, me n my girl have been together for years now. she’s everything. all i’ve got, ya know?”

he would make sure to always keep your resting place full of life. Whether that was by planting your favorite plant, and naming it after you, or always keeping it filled with bouquets of your favorite flowers. and he’d always take your beloved pet that you left behind to go see you.

“did you miss mommy, p/n? i bet our girl missed you so much.” and he’d smile sadly when your baby showed signs of recognizing your grave. his heavy hand petting it comfortingly “so excited to see her today, yeah?”

cod masterlist

Wrestle Me

Tokyo had reached record temperatures that day. The sun was roasting the city, every street was a mirage from the bending light of its shine. The weather recently had been sending everyone either inside or to the nearest water source.

Yuji had gone to the beach with Megumi and Nobara in a futile attempt to escape the heat that had Japan in the sweaty palm of its hand. They had offered you and Sukuna a spot on the railway car there, but you knew that Sukuna was too exhausted from his recent missions to do any sort of going out. Not to mention the draining effect of the heat stacked on top of that. You were in the mood to just enjoy each other's presence.

The two of you were sheltered away in the darkness of his bedroom, lying sprawled out across the floor in front of his small rotating fan. Sukuna and Yuji never turned the A/C on. Since they had moved into their own apartment, the brothers had become rather stingy when it came to the bills. The air didn't start up until the room felt like a sauna, and it turned off much too soon to give relief.

Sweat continued to drip down the both of your spines, but Sukuna didn't seem to mind it. He was enjoying the peace of his day off, dressed against the heat in nothing but his boxer briefs and a tank top. He had his head resting in the cushion of your lap, his eyes were transfixed on an old leather notebook that he had stolen from one of the professors a few days ago. It was in a language you hadn't taken at the academy yet, but Sukuna tells you it was early notes on jujutsu from the old world.

You had been scrolling through your phone, occasionally showing him something you found amusing or anything that reminded you of him. He only gave you a reaction to maybe 10% of the material, but it was fun to see him roll his eyes, or scoff and wave your phone away.

The longer you remained in the same spot,however, the sweatier you felt and the more frustrated with the heat. You tried not to squirm under Sukuna's head, remaining as still as possible as though he were a sleeping animal taking refuge on your lap. Boredom, however, eventually pulls the last straw that has you stirring.

An idea comes to mind.

Sukuna glances up at you, as though he expects you to show him something else on your phone, but instead his attention is caught by the mischievous glint you feel twinkling in your eye.

"Wrestle me." You beam at him.

It was somewhat of a joke.

Compared to your boyfriend, it was clear who would win in a pinning tournament between the two of you.

 Sukuna, who enjoys kickboxing in his spare time. Sukuna, who has never missed an opportunity for a fight in the decade that you've known him, who could dead-lift your torso with ease if he so desired.

Sukuna, who has never touched you with anything but heart wrenching gentleness.

His eyes widen at your command, the notebook he had previously found so interesting has been completely forgotten. He seems to catch the drift of your lack of entertainment, and quickly plays along. His surprise melts into an amused little smile.

"Oh yeah? Think you got a chance, kid?" He taunts, placing the book beside him. His attention now fully focused on you.

You snort, you were only a year younger than he was, but he loved to emphasize it when he could. Sukuna mistakes your noise as a scoff and cocks a daring brow at you.

You love when he’s in a playful mood.

"I could take you any day." You tease. Part of you is running for the hills inside, but another part is having fun with the big bad wolf. That was the constant state you were in with him. Sukuna didn't even have to try and he always had your heart racing.

Sukuna makes an impressed noise, "That, I'm well aware of. I don't know about in a fight, though."

You groan at his joke, shaking your head in disappointment, but Sukuna grabs onto your chin before you can get even one turn of your head out.

"Let's find out."  

~

Ten minutes later, you're drenched in twice the amount of sweat as you were before, but Sukuna has barely lost a drop. He's got you twisted like a pretzel beneath him, holding your limbs in just the right way so that you're completely incapacitated in his hands.

Your first mistake was thinking Sukuna knew how to play-fight. The only person he had been remotely close with in your childhood was his twin brother, and the two of them had often "wrestled", but it only ended when one of them had blood dripping out of their noses. You learned early on not to question it. Having two boys as your childhood best friends had you turning your gaze from a lot of things, in fact.

The only thing you questioned now, was how you were going to get out of your current predicament. You were sure Sukuna was having a blast practically hogtying you with his hands, and now he knew how easy it was to get you in this position. It was a double whammy that would surely effect you in the future. 

"Did you really think I'd go easy on you?" The weight of his chest presses into your back as he leans over you, sending hot breath over your neck. "How cute."

"Okay, okay! I give!" You whine, trying to wriggle out from beneath him. You had to admit that it was getting slightly painful, but Sukuna was well aware of your pressure points and where to stay away from. You still had one last trick up your sleeve, however.

Satisfied with your surrender, he nips at your ear with his teeth before he slides off of you and relinquishes his effortless grip. Before he can fully turn away, however, you're leaping onto his back like a monkey and tackling him into his mattress. It was a dirty tactic, but you had been wrestling your childhood best friend Yuji since the two of you were in elementary school, so you were no stranger to tricks of the trade. Especially the feign defeat card.

He blinks up at you. It was a difficult task to take Sukuna off guard, but you had accomplished it.

"Sucker." You playfully stick your tongue out at him, blowing a raspberry. Inside your chest, your heart is racing like a hummingbird’s wings. It’s almost like Sukuna knows this, because even though you’re the one on top of him, he’s still looking at you with an amused grin- unaffected by your change of position. 

"You have a higher pain tolerance than I thought you did." He notes, tilting his head to the side like he's considering something. "What can we do with that new information, I wonder?" 

It was another intimidation tactic. A good one. It had chills running down your spine. But, you weren’t going to let him win so easily this time. Suddenly, you were interested in how far you could push him, as well. 

"Come on 'Kuna," You chide, your nose is practically touching his- a rabbit pressing against the snout of a hungry wolf. "Can't take defeat, my love?"

"Oh doll," His voice is a husky drawl, rough hands slide their way from their resting places on your hips to slip under the hem of your shirt and brush the skin of your waist. You try to contain your shiver. "You're playing a very dangerous game."

One last wave of confidence sweeps through you as you lean down, just like he always did, to murmur lowly into his ear. "And you're losing."

That did it.

Sukuna grabs onto your waist so quickly, you barely have time to register it before he loops his leg around your knee and easily flips the two of you back to your original position. You're giggling beneath him as he gathers your face into his hands, pressing calloused fingers into your cheeks. You've gotten under his impenetrable skin. You didn't know it, but you always did.

No matter how strong a man is, he will always lose to the woman he loves.

Sukuna was slowly starting to accept that.

Hey! I love your works! Can I request badboy! Satoru x nerd!fem reader with glasses where she is dared to prank call him (she has a crush on him) and sing some seductive song or something (my mind went to a gangster's wife but you can choose another song too!) and he finds out that's her next time they meet? He corners her in a classroom and things escalate and they have heavy make out session in classroom, Followed by him asking her out on a date!

˗ˏˋcontains: f!reader x fuckboy!gojo, reader wears glasses, suggestive language, use of pet names (pretty/pretty girl), university setting, descriptive make out scene, 18+ only pls MDNI !!!

˗ˏˋwc: 3.4k

˗ˏˋa/n: sorry this is so late, i also hope u dont mind that i took some creative liberties with this prompt :v rather than reader singing i had them play the song ‘careless whisper’ over the phone for a dash of silliness heh.. other than that ive never really written any fuckboy-type characters before so i hope he’s as cocky and annoying as he should be 💔💔 ++ tagging @softgirlgonehaywire for brainrot purposes

“here,” your friend hands you an innocuous slip of paper that she pulled out of her wallet, the smirk she adorned stretching further across her face when you hesitantly grabbed it. “that’s his number, you have to call him tonight when he’s in the middle of his date.”

a heavy sigh leaves your lips as you unfold it. no doubt it’s his handwriting, messily scrawled over a piece of scrap paper he likely ripped out of his own notebook in the midst of a boring university lecture. it’s probably the very same one you saw him handing to her when he leaned over her desk at the end of said lecture, a sly grin on his face as you saw him mouth something along the lines of— “you dropped this earlier.”

it’s not like you were staring, though. obviously not.

“do i really have to do this?” you frowned at your friend, huffing in protest when she only grinned in response. “is it too late to change the terms of the bet we made?”

when she nods with a mischievous grin, you find yourself suppressing another groan. “a bet’s a bet,” she muses, taking another sip of her smoothie before continuing. “i scored 5 points higher than you on our midterm, so now you have to prank call your crush.”

you found the bet itself to be a little juvenile, if you were honest. it’d been an ongoing tradition since you both were in high school — betting on getting a higher score than the other on an important exam motivated the two of you to study your absolute hardest. the terms weren't always the same, and you usually had no problem with this — since you were often the one getting a better score. admittedly, though, you’ve been rather… distracted, as of late.

when your friend caught on to the crush you had on the biggest flirt on campus, satoru gojo — it was immediately over for you.

it’s not your fault that he was insanely good looking; that despite the two of you hanging around entirely different crowds, you couldn’t help feeling drawn to him. he seemed a lot nicer than most made him out to be; his reputation surely preceded him. and he was smart, annoyingly so— the type that never needed to study or pay attention in class, yet somehow got every question right and aced every exam.

even the small interactions you’d had with him plagued your mind. the one time you’d let yourself get dragged out to a party which happened to be hosted by his last girlfriend, you found yourself chatting with him on the porch over drinks. he didn’t seem as happy as he’d been making himself out to be.

it’s funny, how even some of the brightest people can have dark moments.

and so, you fell for him. it was more of a distant, puppy-crush— nothing really serious, since you didn’t actually know him like that, but it still happened.

which is what led to your current predicament: your thumb, hovering over the green call button.

you chewed on your lip anxiously, eyes darting between your phone and your laptop screen, where you had a window opened with the song ‘careless whisper’ by george michael. you even skipped ahead a bit, purely to get to the good part with the saxophone solo you were planning on playing.

this was stupid. this was really fucking stupid.

you called him around the time your friend said you should and the phone rang a bit, making your nerves grow with every additional ring. just as you were considering hanging up and backing out on the bet, he picked up.

“hah— hello?”

the gruff in his voice didn’t go past you, nor did the slight pant he let out as he answered the phone. your cheeks warmed up at the thought of what he could’ve possibly been doing right now with his date for the evening, but you cleared your throat and readied yourself to say the dialogue your friend had prepared for you.

“hey, uh… sexy man,” you cringed as you spoke, hoping the tone of your voice didn’t give away how humiliated you felt right now. you were supposed to be humiliating him, after all. when he didn’t respond you swallowed thickly, hovering your finger over the touchpad of your laptop.

“i thought i’d play some sexy tunes to really get you in the mood.”

before he could say anything, you were pressing play. the famous saxophone bit in the song began playing, and you put your phone down to turn away from your laptop and bury your face in your hands. you can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

you’re unsure how he initially reacted on the other end, but you thought you heard a small snort of a laugh— that is, until the sound of a woman’s voice broke through.

“are you fucking serious?” she sounded annoyed, which made him laugh harder, but then the distinct sound of bedsheets ruffling over the phone speaker made you have to fight back a laugh of your own. the sound was muffled after that — you presumed the phone had fallen under the sheets — but you could hear the woman complaining about the phone call, and satoru trying to convince her to come back to bed. when a door slammed shut on the other end and he went silent, you hung up the call if only to finally let out the laughter that was threatening to burst through you.

it’d been a week since you placed that call, and satoru still had no idea it was you. according to your friend, he’d been trying to ask around and gauge who it was, but he had no luck.

that is, until today— when your professor called on you to answer a question he’d asked. as you spoke up you were sure you’d felt satoru’s eyes on you, and they remained burning holes into your head for the rest of the lecture.

or maybe you were just imagining things, right?

you were usually the last one to leave the room at the end of a lecture, since you always liked to wrap up your notes for the day. your professor knew this, so he usually left you to lock the door on your way out.

yet, as you were finishing up your notes, you heard the sound of a lock clicking behind you.

you spun your head around, only to immediately regret it when you came face-to-face with the very person you’d been dreading speaking to all week. satoru smiled at you; it was a smile that was a little too soft to mean anything good. he walked around you and leaned over your desk, and you fought the urge to stare at the muscles of his arms as he practically caged you in where you sat.

“um—” you stammered, blinking up at him in confusion before slowly closing your notebook. “can i help you?”

he hummed, shrugging before lifting his hands off of your desk and leaning back against the one behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “i believe you can. i’m actually looking for someone…”

you held your breath, feigning your best smile as you tilted your head at him. “i’m not sure i’m the best person for that, i don’t know as many people here as you do.”

he just laughed at your words, waving you off. “trust me, i wouldn’t be asking if i wasn’t sure you were the perfect person for this,” he mused, letting his eyes rake over your demeanor for a moment before meeting your gaze once again. there was a glint in those cerulean eyes that made you feel nervous; a fluttery feeling took hold of your gut and made you swallow thickly.

“well, whatever it is, i’m sure we could talk about it on the way to the dining hall,” you mumbled, breaking eye contact with him as you haphazardly stuffed your belongings in your bag. “i’m a little hungry after this lecture, the professor always goes on and on—”

you were rambling, completely missing the way he pulled out his phone and unlocked it while never taking his eyes off of you. you slung your bag over your shoulder as you spoke, turning around to walk towards the door of the classroom, but right as you reached the doorknob you felt it— a buzzing in your pocket.

your phone was ringing.

satoru hummed again, and you finally looked back at him to realize that he’d been calling your phone number. he twirled his phone in his hands for a few seconds before ending the call, biting his lip to suppress the grin that was currently taking over his facial features.

“you see,” he started, pushing himself off the desk he was leaning on. he started walking towards you, hands in his pockets, and you hadn’t realized you were about to bump into the wall behind you until you did. you gasped softly in surprise, feeling your heart in your throat when he only advanced further. “i was hoping to consult with you, maestro. i’m in need of some more… sexy tunes, to make up for my date walking out on me the other night.”

you closed your eyes and sighed, opening them again after a moment only to find that he was standing much closer to you now. “listen, i can explain—”

“i’m sure you can,” he chuckled softly, tilting his head as he grinned cheekily at you. “i mean, if you wanted me to ask you out last week instead, you should’ve said something.”

“it was just a dare, i— wait, what?” you blinked at him, not having expected him to say that. he just laughed again, shaking his head as he took another step forward.

“it’s not like i don’t think you’re super cute, especially right now… all flustered like this,” he cooed, lifting his hand to lean it against the wall, just beside your head. you gulped, noting how it brought you that much closer to him. “it could’ve been you in my bed last week instead of that other girl, come to think of it.”

“gojo,” you swallowed again, feeling your heart race at his words. “that’s not— i, um… i was only—”

“oh, by all means,” he interrupted you, leaning closer as he did. he lifted his other hand up to your coat, gently tugging on the fabric. by now his face was a mere inches from yours, and you were starting to forget where you were going with your explanation. “tell me what’s on your mind, pretty girl.”

he smoothed his hand over your coat, bringing it up to your shoulder before squeezing it gently. you lowered your head slightly to avoid the intensity of his gaze, but then he brought his hand up to your chin to lift your head again, holding it in place.

“do you want me to ask you out, or no?”

you swallowed, unsure how to respond. “um…”

he chuckled lowly, stretching his hand beside your head to reach the light switch for the classroom before shutting the lights off in one swift flick of his wrist. “there, that should bring that confidence of yours back.”

you let out a shaky breath before relaxing yourself, closing your eyes in the newfound darkness of the room as you leaned further against the wall. “maybe, i… wouldn’t be opposed to it.” you confessed, feeling your cheeks heat up further with your own words.

you heard him chuckle, but you couldn’t see the look on his face and it made you all the more nervous. his thumb, the same one over your chin, then slid up; he swiped it across your lower lip and your mouth parted open instantly.

“i can hear your breathing picking up,” he murmured, his breath fanning across your lips, making you blink in surprise at the fact that he’d leaned in ever closer to you. “are you nervous?”

you didn’t respond, unsure how to. he took the risk of another step forward, pressing into you against the wall. the hand leaning against the surface lifted up, and he brought it down to your face, cupping your cheek and swiping his thumb over your cheekbone. his hand then slid lower, against the side of your neck, and he bent his wrist to tilt your head up further.

you felt the wispy strands of hair on his forehead tickling the space between your eyebrows, just above your glasses. you didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until he pressed his forehead into yours fully, sighing softly.

“you can relax. i won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” he mumbled, his tone almost in a whisper. he rubbed his thumb along your jawline, lightly pressing it against the pulse point in your neck and making you automatically grip the back of his shirt in response.

“w—we shouldn’t—” you stammered, your voice squeaking at the end when he pressed his body weight against you a little further. despite your words, your body was betraying you; at the feeling of his other hand slipping towards your lower back, you arched into his chest, making him chuckle softly.

“but… you want to, don’t you?” he hummed, his voice low enough to send a chill through your spine. he was so close to you now that every syllable he shaped with his lips had them brushing against yours, making your breath hitch with the barely-there contact.

his lips pressed forward a little further, gracing your own in a soft manner. he felt your jaw go slack at the contact, and as you started to try and kiss him back he pulled away, eliciting a small whine to escape you.

“what are you doing?” you groaned softly, feeling your entire being heat up. he merely hummed in response, sliding his hand up and down your back, coaxing you to melt into his embrace more than you already have. he then brought up one hand to your face, removing your glasses for you and setting them down on the nearest surface; the action making you blink up at him with a dazed expression.

“jus’ testing the waters… you’re not like the others, y’know…” he murmured, inhaling through his nose before pressing a short kiss against your lips. he felt you chase his lips as he started to pull back again, which made the corners of his mouth curl up into a cheeky grin. “take it easy, now, pretty.”

you caught on quickly that he was toying with you, testing how far he could push you until you reached your limits. while it’s true you weren’t one to go out on dates all that often, it’s not like you’re completely new to this either. he was trying to find what makes you tick, what could push your patience over the edge and make you crave him more than you already did.

and, unfortunately for you — it was working.

with an impatient huff you slid your hands up his chest and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him in for an actual kiss. he snorted softly in mild surprise but the smirk you felt on his face as he kissed you back told you he got exactly what he wanted from you. he laid out the bait for you to take it, and you did so without another moment’s hesitation.

things moved quickly now; his hands slid down to your waist and gripped it harshly as he pressed into you again, caging you between himself and the wall. you could feel his heart racing in his chest, or maybe it was your own heart — finally beating in tune with his. he deepened the kiss as his fingers dug into the flesh of your love handles which pulled a small gasp out of you. he then used the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth, moaning softly when you reciprocated the action.

his hands slid lower now, gently squeezing your ass before he bent his knees to hook his hands under your thighs. as quickly as he did this he was lifting you up into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing his crotch right up against yours. you could feel the steadily growing tent in his pants and it pulled a moan out of you, which he responded to by sucking your lower lip in between this teeth and biting down gently.

“fuck—” he groaned against your lips, unable to stop kissing you. your hands slipped into his hair, and with a small tug on the white strands you felt his movements falter for a moment, his mouth parting again in a silent gasp. you both made out like this for another moment longer before you couldn’t take anymore; not with the way your heart was beating out of your chest, how he was making you dizzy with the way he kissed you breathless.

you gently pushed on his shoulder and he responded accordingly, pulling away from the kiss with a sharp gasp for air. his eyes were closed and he was panting softly, his adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed thickly before he decided to meet your gaze. even in the dark you could see how the bright blues of his eyes were darkened, clouded with something you could only describe as pure desire.

the fact you were able to make a mess of him like this just by making out with him made something low in your gut curl up, your legs tightening around his waist in a meek attempt to press your thighs together and give yourself a little bit of relief.

he picked up on this and chuckled lowly, his tongue darting out to lick his kiss-swollen lips. “felt good, huh?”

“whatever,” you grumbled, your voice shakier than you’d anticipated. you tapped your finger on his shoulder, a silent request for him to put you down. as your feet landed on the ground your knees buckled slightly, making you instinctively grab his arms.

“i mean, it sure looks like it did if you’re already weak in the knees,” he teased, nosing at your jawline and pressing a ticklish kiss on your neck when you rolled your eyes at him.

you blindly reached around behind you, switching the light back on in the room. once you did, you could finally see how red in the face he was. you could even see how there was a sliver of worry swimming about in darkened ocean eyes.

“so,” he cleared his throat, brows furrowing for a moment before he took a step back to give you your space. his hand came up to the back of his neck and he rubbed it awkwardly, trying to think of what to say before meeting your eyes again. “how about that date?”

you raised an eyebrow, unable to hold back the giggle that bubbled up in your chest. “what, you were serious about that?”

his expression broke out into a sheepish grin and he shrugged, his cheeks tinting a slight shade of pink. “i was, yeah… to be honest, i’d been kinda working up to asking you out for a while now. it’s easier with the others, but you… i could never figure you out,” he mumbled, clearing his throat again.

you hummed, crossing your arms over your chest. “so, what, you just want to figure me out and then toss me aside like the rest? is this still part of your little ‘game’?” you teased, tilting your head to the side in a questioning manner.

despite your words, his demeanor didn’t falter at all. “nah, it's like i said… you seem different. besides, if you keep kissing me like that i’m gonna have a harder time letting you go,” he said coolly, snickering softly when you shoved his arm in response.

“you’re annoying.”

“—annoyingly good at kissing, eh?” he added with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “so, what d’ya say? friday at 7pm?”

you gave him a contemplative look, before biting your lip softly to hold back the grin threatening to break past you. “i guess… we can have the one date.”

he perked up at this like an excited dog, his back straightening out again as he threw his signature smirk at you. he turned around, grabbing your glasses that he set down a few minutes ago and bringing them back up to your face before carefully placing them back on your head.

“trust me, it’ll be a night you won’t forget.” he said with a cheeky grin, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose before booping the tip of your nose in a playful manner.

sukuna who is your self defense instructor and is always rough and mean to make his examples more “realistic.” and he’s got the most sardonic smirk when he stands in front of you and says, “okay, so pretend i’m the bad guy.”

but like meet awful. he’s a terrible teacher and is so taunting and mean you just kick him in the nuts and run out after quickly grabbing your bag. and you meet him again months later on a blind date.

YOU HAVE TO WALK THROUGH THE DOORS YOU BEG TO HAVE OPEN!!!!! THE CHANGE CANNOT HAPPEN SIMPLY BY THE OPPORTUNITY PRESENTING ITSELF!!!! YOU NEED TO BE OPEN TO SEE IT, CHOOSE IT, AND ACTUALLY MOVE!!!!!

tenderness is in the hands ― Carolyn Forché, L’Avventura (1960), Ocean Vuong, The White Ribbon (2009), Hart Crane, Gelatin Silver, Love (2009), Ingeborg Bachmann, Les amants du Pont-Neuf (1991), Sylvia Plath, Psycho (1960), Rod McKuen (stills by @forhandsthatsuffer)

meow

𝐎𝐇 ?

꒰ your egg just hatched, @heresan ! ꒱ — sukuna \ teachers \ blind date.

꒰ 18+ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ! ꒱

sukuna may be the most hated teacher alive, but it doesn’t make him immune to a desire for love. or, two teachers walk into a poetry slam for a blind date.

⊹ f!reader ⊹ no curses, teacher au ⊹ fluff. tiny angst. humor.   kinda enemies to lovers ⊹ sukuna is a jerk as usual. everyone is a highschool teacher. yuuji x todo poetry bromance. satoru n sukuna are friends. i kinda just threw everyone in a role here, so i hope it fits ⊹ 4.3k lol ⊹ footnote. here it is, tina! thank you so much for attending my event! i wasn’t able to fit everything i wanted because the word count got brazy. i hope you enjoy!

ryomen sukuna may just be the most hated teacher on all of campus, absolutely loathed by students and teachers alike. in his mind, it matters not if others find him likeable or intolerable. the result of such a decision is personal; that’s not his concern nor is it his business. he’s intended to enrich the minds of his students, not become their friend. he’s supposed to prepare them for the mercilessness of reality, not coddle them.

sukuna is no gojo satoru; he has no desire to meet the youth where they stand in their childishness just to teach them. he doesn’t want to revel in all their senselessness with them. gojo satoru is the most liked, but he’s hardly the best teacher. sukuna is no nanami kento; he refuses to hold their hands and protect them from their mistakes. in his eyes, their stumbling is a means of development. it gives them individual depth; it helps them determine their own meaning and cultivate their own merit based on what values their subjective experience insists they prioritize. nanami kento is the most entrusted, but he’s still a step below the best teacher. and sukuna is no you, most certainly no you; he’d sooner perish than perform the sheer amount of mental gymnastics you do to ensure all your wording, teaching, and intent is coated in honey and well-received. you’re the most caring and the most cared for, but you don’t even begin to scratch the surface of being the best teacher. but sukuna, even for all his standoffish demeanor and strict boundaries, even for all his intolerance and impatience, even for all his frustration and his dismissal, he’s the best teacher here. you all know it; you all hate it. he knows it; he knew it before any of those standardized test results signaled it. his methods feel cruel and they aren’t ideal; no other teacher would dare implement his rigid grading system that leaves zero wiggle room for noncompliance but plenty for creativity ꒰ despite what you all think and say. ꒱

the results his students yield are an endless testament to sukuna’s success at equipping them with tools and allowing them to develop the skills to adequately use them. he’ll correct their inconsistencies, sure, but he’ll never lie to their faces about what he thinks of their capacity as it stands. he doesn’t care to have them daydreaming about where they could go. he wants them to acknowledge exactly where they’re at. his sole endeavor as a cultivator of minds is to instill the strength and willingness to critically observe literary material, which in turn gives them the capacity and ability to critically observe themselves and the way they’re present in every environment they encounter. contrary to popular belief, he wants his students to be better than him. and so, he can never go easy on them. he can only lead them to the cusps of their potential and shove them over with a borderline menacing smirk. and as he listens to the likes of itadori yuuji and aoi todo recite a joint poem for their reattempt at an assignment, he recalls exactly why he’ll never entertain their foolishness. “jennifer, o jennifer,” yuuji muses dramatically. “your eyes a dazzling reflection of my yearning…” todo’s eyes are squeezed shut as he recites, “jennifer, o jennifer! i see you parade around every corner of my daydreams.” “AND YET!” yuuji yells, slamming his fist onto the surface of the podium that stands at the head of the class. “YOU WILL NEVER KNOW THE LOVE MY HEART CAN HOLD FOR YOU.” in shock, sukuna’s lips part as he stares ahead at the two troublesome boys while they startle the classroom with yet another dramatic recital of a poem that will most assuredly become inappropriate. “jesus christ,” he hears kugisaki grumble. “JENNIFERRRRRRRR,” todo yells, stretching out the end of the name with a passionate fist held high as his voice descends down to a whisper. “my jennifer.” “your chest, your voluptuous bosso—” sukuna holds up a flat palm. “enough,”

confusion befalls yuuji. his head tilts to the side. “why’d you stop us? we were getting to the best part!” “considering you’ve failed for the third time in a row at this assignment, i assure you that you were not.” “WE FAILED?!” the two boys shout in unison. “AGAIN?! HOW?” an exasperated sigh leaves his lips. “not only is this poem the end result of a dumpster fire and highly inappropriate yet again, but you once again did not follow a single instruction.” “untrue!” todo protests. “you said it needed to be a poem about our greatest desire!” a roll of the eyes. “i did not. i said to write a poem that embodies the concept of an emotion; for example, a great desire. not only that, but the poem was to be a quatrain. this is a couplet, at best.” “well how am i supposed to know the difference?” yuuji says, his voice in a light panic. “i worked so hard on this poem.” sukuna evaluates the copy of the poem he holds in his hand. inwardly, he admits that yuuji’s ability to weave imagery and eloquent speech is present, but he doesn’t take his assignments seriously enough. “you earned points for creativity but none for anything else. this was your last chance to correct this, if i recall.” yuuji’s eyes become wide and sad, lips forming into a pout as he stares at his teacher with a silent plea in his eyes, a plea that sukuna will gladly ignore. sukuna firmly believes if these simple-minded brats would follow the very simple directions he lays out, they wouldn’t be struggling to pass his class and devoting all their free time to meaningless busy work that he routinely reminds them they can avoid if they set aside their need for instant gratification and concentrated on their academic efforts instead. todo looks frustrated, angry eyes glued down at his feet as he suffers through his third humiliation. “b-but!” yuuji tries, only to be met with the shake of sukuna’s head. “please, mr. ryomen! if i fail this class, my mom will take away all my games and manga!” a soft snort. “i imagine your grades will improve drastically should that occur. take your seats.” “sir, please!” hard eyes glare into innocence. “do you think i’m running some kind of circus for you to entertain us all in? if so, i should fail you for boring me. i have one hour to teach you something and lately, i spend a quarter of my time bickering with the two of you about using very basic levels of comprehension to execute a simple task. sit. down.” and they do, with all their grief and disillusion in tow. 

when class ends, sukuna revels in the silence of his free period before his next group arrives. he sighs, reading over yuuji’s poem again. a problem child most certainly, but a creative one who excels in writing but fails to pay attention to what it is he’s intended to write. sukuna aims to help him understand the importance of discipline and execute it. sure, he’s disappointed now, but with this failure under his belt, sukuna believes his next assignment will be much closer to what he’s been asked to do. if he knows yuuji, and he does, the boy will still fail to follow a very specific direction, but he’ll get closer, and sukuna will acknowledge the improvement but yuuji won’t receive the reflection of his efforts in points. sukuna is adamant about the boundary of only distributing the points when he executes the task correctly, not for his efforts of doing such a thing. he doesn’t offer participation trophies. a gentle knock at his classroom door pulls him out of his thoughts. sukuna peers up from the top of his glasses noticing you standing in the doorway holding up a pink slip of paper that he’s quite familiar with.

so he’s requesting to be removed. insolent brat.

“and what do i owe the displeasure of seeing you?” he asks, looking back down at the papers he intends to grade. “can i help you?” with a sigh, you enter the room fully and pull up a chair to sit beside his desk. “my classroom is full and it’s breaking my heart to keep turning away all the students who don’t see a future while having you as their teacher.” this is precisely why sukuna can’t stand you. you’re hardly a rival, teaching in the only alternative class for first years to take english, but each time he has the misfortune of making conversation with you, you speak to him as if you are. “get stronger at rejecting them then.” he counters with ease. “it’s character building.” your voice gets quieter. “itadori yuuji came to me crying. your class is giving him a level of anxiety he’s quite literally unable to manage. he’s a child, sukuna.” “mr. ryomen is fine, thank you.” he grumbles. “yuuji’s inability to turn in his assignments on time and follow my very simple directions has little to do with me and everything to do with him. he’s not a child. he’s a teenage boy who we’re expected to prepare for the harsh realities of the real world. do you think his behavior will be accepted in any workplace? no, it won’t. he’ll be terminated. and do you think they’ll care if he comes into their office crying about the consequences of his own shortcomings? they won’t. an average employee is a dime a dozen. he’s not great enough to afford his slacking.” for a moment, you sit there in silence and despite not looking your way even once, not even sparing you a single glance, he can feel the disappointment rolling off of you in thick waves that crash into him. “his grandfather just died. it’s already hard enough for him to come to school, mister unreasonable.”

and my wife left me yet here i am each day, dragging my feet into this rundown building without making excuses for not meeting the mark.

sukuna doesn’t speak it aloud, of course. he has enough empathy to keep some of his hatefulness at bay. “and my condolences are with him and his family. i already suggested to his mother that she withdraw him for the time being but yuuji made the decision to return. if he can exercise the autonomy to choose to stay, then he can exercise the autonomy to do his work adequately. i will not hold him to separate expectations because of his circumstances. i would have to do it for all of my students, and where would that leave those who do not have a soul-crushing event that warrants them room to frolic?” “have you considered that, perhaps, all your students deserve a little room to make mistakes and correct them?” you inquire through gritted teeth. “i swear you have no heart.” he winces, the words slicing through him just as sharply as the memory of his ex-wife uttering identical words as she rallied her loved ones to assist her in leaving him behind with the future they were supposed to share in love. “if having a heart were enough to teach these students in a way that matters, i imagine your test scores would be higher. and yet, they’re one of the lowest. i appreciate your concern for my student, but he will simply have to make peace with his failures and let the shame he feels fuel him into accomplishment.” without another word, you slam the pink slip down onto his desk and huff harshly as you stomp out of the room. he doesn’t understand why you bother time and time again.

you hold their hands and soothe them when they cry. it’s no wonder they have poor self-regulation.

ryomen sukuna has one friend, and it’s the man that he has the least amount of tolerance for: gojo satoru. even after being told repeatedly that he’s disinterested in being friends, disinterested in having him involved in his personal affairs, disinterested in any level of personal connection outside of the work environment they both share, satoru insists. he insisted upon himself until the frightful day came that ryomen sukuna lost the only person he had ever brought himself to love, and in response called satoru to sit beside him at a bar in total silence while he drank. he didn’t need to do anything. sukuna just needed to convince himself that there was another being in this world ꒰ besides the one that walked out on him ꒱ who had a shred of care in their hearts for him. satoru came without question, came without speaking, came without apologizing for his loss when sukuna uttered the words ‘she left me’. satoru offered him a soft ‘oh shit’ and ordered another drink for him when his glass emptied out. since then, at the very least, they’re on a first-name basis but hardly a friendly one, despite what satoru continues to believe. “so guess what i got for my loving best friend who adores me so very much.” satoru sings as he enters the teacher’s lounge and throws an arm haphazardly over his shoulder. sukuna shakes his arm off of him and proceeds to sneer. “don’t touch me.” “well someone’s a grumpy cat today.” satoru mumbles. “so what’s got your panties in a wedgie?” a disgusted scoff and a demand that comes through gritted teeth. “don’t be lewd.” “but it’s part of my charm.” satoru says with an exaggerated pout. sukuna sighs. “what do you want, satoru?” “well,” he sings, sitting in a chair adjacent to where sukuna stands at the coffee machine, legs sprawled out wide. “you have a blind date tonight.” an immediate response. sukuna spins to face him, nostrils flaring. “no, i don’t.” “oh, come on!” satoru groans. “you can’t seriously spend the rest of your life hung up on your ex.” “i don’t plan to.” he seethes. “but i don’t plan to date, either.” satoru shrugs carelessly. “okay, so just show up and give her even a little charm so you can bust a nut before you bust a blood vessel.” “not only am i uninterested in dating, but i would never date anyone you suggested for me.” of course, the snow-haired man is offended, a palm flat against his chest. “excuse me, i have great taste in women. you’re just a prude.” “you don’t have taste in anything, especially women.” sukuna grumbles. satoru ignores him at first, instead redirecting his attention to his phone before mumbling, “i didn’t want to resort to this, but you leave me no choice.” after he speaks, he turns the screen of the phone in sukuna’s direction to which he’s met with a post on facebook of all places where the words ‘ryomen yuki is in a relationship with fushiguro toji’ are in bold letters across the screen with two identical photos side-by-side, both a sporting a matching picture of them together. for a moment, his mouth goes dry. the grip he has on his empty mug tightens until he hears and feels the ceramic starting to crack in his grasp.

she’s already moving on. she’s already found someone to replace me. her love was everything to me and mine was nothing to her, a gift that came with proof of purchase so she could return it at will.

unable to continue staring at his greatest loss to date, he turns his back to satoru, the mug slamming down into pieces on the counter.

so it’s really over then. six months of half-expecting you to return because you never bothered to change your name back. another thing you took from me and ran off with. shamelessly. with no remorse. another display of my fragility that you keep attached to you like a badge of honor. your trophy for murdering a deathless man.

“i’m sorry to spring this on you like this.” satoru says, the sadness evident in his voice. “but i think it’d do you some good to get back out there.” he’s been trying for months to get sukuna to test the waters with someone new, but he admittedly held out for his ex-wife. now, all the rumination and theorizing of returns seems pointless. silly. a wasted effort. his patience becomes another labor of love that she won’t reciprocate or return back to him, either. it’s at that moment that he decides enough is enough and he can’t leave his heart in layover, waiting to be carried to a destination he’ll never see again. with a heavy heart, sukuna mumbles, “fine, i’ll go.” “atta boy,” satoru says, pleased with his results as he stands and grips sukuna’s shoulders. “and i don’t mean this in a kind of way, but don’t scare the poor girl away, okay?” sukuna’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head to gaze at him. “and just what is that supposed to mean?” “it means…” his voice trails as he hums thoughtfully. “be anything but yourself.”

great, another woman to court with only the idea of me and the potential of the man i could become. not the man i already am.

“i can hear the emo engine revving.” satoru sings. “i don’t mean there’s anything wrong with you, but you’re harsh and you know it. actually attempt pleasantries. chivalry. niceties, you know? women like that. they don’t want an unreasonable brute.” a roll of his eyes. “whatever, where am i to meet her? what’s her name? what does she…like?” “i’m not telling you anything about her, but i did suggest a date at that bar you like that does poetry slams on fridays. so, at the very least, you both have that in common. you like to wallow over useless things.” sukuna hums, not entirely opposed to a poetry slam attendance as a first date, a blind meeting. as a man quite passionate about literature in general, this sounds like a safe option. he can speak less and listen intently. that should be enough to conceal what satoru won’t openly call his awful demanor.

sukuna will never trust satoru again, will never let him set a nosy foot into his life’s affairs. he never should have. he should have known he was toying with him, should have known that he wouldn’t set him up on a date without going so far out of his way to make a fool of him. he arrives at the bar with a single, long stem black rose in hand, a gentle symbol of the potential beginning he has to offer, dressed in his favorite deep olive sweater-vest, a white button-up underneath with an elegant black tie tucked into a deep v neckline, and casual but suitable black slacks. for the first time in a long time, he parts his hair and gels it specifically, nanami kento in mind as he does so, a testament to what he believes is the way a respectable man would present himself to a woman he may want to sincerely court, should things go well. he waits outside the establishment, unusually nervous but still simmering in a hushed excitement at the possibility of finally laying the death of his first love to rest. he’s grown sick of being a man made into a mausoleum. he stands right where he tells satoru he’ll be. it doesn’t take long to cling to the notion that all his diligence is a waste of time because now you stand before him staring at him in utter shock and it infuriates him. what’s even worse is how undoubtedly gorgeous you look in the sleeveless white dress clinging to the shape of your body, the semi-deep neckline showing off the prettiness of your smooth skin and highlighting your assets while not blatantly displaying them. it’s alluring modesty that colors him in the most vibrant shade of surprise. he’s never seen you outside of class, never seen you outside of oversized, fuzzy cardigans and dress pants. he’s never seen your ankles outside of black, cotton socks and penny loafers, but now he knows exactly what fiber looks like flowing around the shape of your thighs. if you were to inquire with him regarding the subject of you, he’s never spared you more than passing glances because he finds the weakness in your general demeanor and over-indulgence in decorum to be particularly disgusting. to him, critically evaluating your level of attractiveness would be a truly pointless endeavor, especially considering he only observes you in a work environment. naturally, he keeps all of his curiosities centered around responsibilities that just so happen to involve you both. but now, as you stand before him with widened eyes, shock gazing over shock, sukuna can’t help but memorize you from head to toe. it isn’t to say that you intrigue him; it is simply to consider why on earth satoru would organize a date with you or have the audacity to believe he would want this.

i should surely kill him for this.

“you’re my blind date?” you ask incredulously. sukuna sighs, frustration causing his head to lull back and briefly glance at the clarity of the evening sky. “it appears so.” “why the fuck would shoko think i want to go out with the likes of you?” you ask, an air of offense littering your tone. the expression contorting your features aimed at him causes a dull pang in his chest. not because he cares, but because even sukuna isn’t immune to the consequences of harsh rejection in the face of his own anticipation. the disgust for him is not only evident in the look on your face ꒰ brows raised, eyes full of disdain, nose scrunched, and your lips curved downward ꒱ but it’s indisputable in the tone of your voice. of course, he doesn’t care for you to find him attractive, but the blatant distaste aimed at him when he showed up all the same as you, expecting to engage with someone who could haply lessen the severity of his pain, if even only for a moment, is admittedly disappointing. “gee, thanks,” he grumbles. you whine, a groan ascending into a saddened pout as your foot stomps lightly against concrete. “i wore my best dress for you?” “are you a child?” sukuna snaps at you, taking in your actions with his own observable revulsion. “contain yourself. you act as if we aren’t in public.” your lips tighten into a straight line, eyes dying as you look at him. “don’t act like you’re not disappointed, too.” he snorts. “disappointed is an abysmal understatement. do you think i’m thrilled to see you? i came here under the impression i might end up liking the person i met.” your arms fold over your chest as you grumble, “i highly doubt they’d end up liking you.” “and i highly doubt they’d end up liking you.” he retorts with ease. “it appears this is a fruitless exertion of energy.” as if you don’t hear a single word he says, your eyes fixate on his hand which clutches the stem of a rose now fallen haphazardly at his side. “was that for me?” you ask softly, gesturing to it. a grunt as he realizes he still holds the physical marker of yet another romantic failure. “i guess. here.” he thrusts it towards you spitefully, sneering. he expects you to reject it, to which he plans to let it fall to the ground, abandoned as he makes his way back home to sip his weight in roscato, but you become a peculiar creature before him and reach to take it out of his hand, twirling the stem between your thumb and index finger as the softest smile takes your lips. you don’t look at him as you speak. “a black rose seems like an unorthodox flower to gift for a first date.” sighing, he parts his lips to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance, as you continue on. “but really, it symbolizes tragedy and rebirth.” surprisingly, you’re correct. his intensely irritated expression, unbeknownst to him, subdues and softens then. “yes,” he murmurs. “it was supposed to, at least.” you stay still for a moment, observing the rose carefully before you look up at him again. sukuna’s eyes subtly widen as he notices a tiny shimmer in yours, the littlest spark of curiosity twinkling as you gaze at him. “i spent a lot of time getting ready.” you state tenderly. “i’d…i’d rather not go home empty-handed, you know? and i admit, i was looking forward to this poetry slam.” for the first time in all of the time he’s known you, sukuna’s voice doesn’t carry an undertone of detest when he replies. “as was i. my favorite poet confirmed they’d be performing this evening.” “so is mine.” you admit sheepishly with a wispy sigh. “kenjaku, he’s one of the greatest poets of our time.” now, sukuna’s eyes enlarge with palpable shock. “kenjaku is also your favorite? i thought he was an undiscovered gem, but i wholeheartedly agree. truly one of the best poets of our time. he said he’d be revealing a new work on stage this evening.”

silence passes between the two of you, sukuna’s hands stuffing into the pockets of his slacks as he begins to rock on his heels. he would never admit it, but that shared preference is enough to cultivate his willingness to linger, enough to craft an ache to endure the evening despite his preconceived notions. you eye the entrance, peeking at him from your peripheral vision. “should we…just enjoy the evening? i mean, we’re already here. and there’s a bar, too.” “there is.” “which means i can drink away the extent of how insufferable you are.” a playful grin on your lips as you hold out your hand to him. “shall we?” he stares at your hand before scoffing and leaving it resting without being touched, moving towards the entrance to hold the door open for you as he avoids your gaze. “after you,”

© 2023 elusivemoon. all rights reserved.

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.

anxious girl shocked to discover that doing the thing she was so afraid to do was actually easier than she catastrophically anticipated in her head

the oldest song in history 😭😭😭

𝖲𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗌 ❄️

𝗑 - 𝗑 / 𝗑 - 𝗑 / 𝗑 - 𝗑

"On some quiet comet or distant exoplanet will you find the cold and silence meant for you."

You can't be everything to everyone, but you can be everything to those who crave your kind. - Lady Macabre Beth

Mbti personality test is just zodiac signs for burnt out gifted kids

When the unflappable character sees someone they care about in danger and the mask slips, it's great.

But when the unflappable character sees someone they care about in danger, and the mask DOESN'T slip.

Because they understand they need to be calm and unflappable now more than ever; if it protects them, it will certainly protect the person they care about. So their voice doesn't waver, their hands don't shake. They don't panic. From the outside looking in, they're as calm as could be. They handle it.

But after it's over-when the person they care about is safe, and the unflappable character is alone-they completely shatter. Gasping breaths, sobs, barely holding it together because someone they love almost DIED, and it was far, far too close for comfort.

(Optional: Character that they care about finds them in this state and comforts them.)

it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.

This Alexander McQueen dress is everything