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Japan in July was a sauna.
The time was 20:20 and the temperature 22℃, with little sunshine and 80% relative humidity hanging thick and heavy over the town.
The forecast called for intermittent rain and possible thunderstorms throughout the week in Hyogo Prefecture, but the streets were luckily still dry. Oikawa’s stomach grumbled, the noise clawing at him like an ever-expanding void, threatening to swallow him whole. He continued on, his shirt now plastered uncomfortably to his back.
Tilting his head to the sky, he held up his hands and extended his thumbs and forefingers at right angles. If he squinted hard enough, he could see a small cloud shaped like a fluffy fox behind the wisps and tufts of gray, drowning out the last bit of the sunset. He dropped his arms and watched the larger nimbo-form clouds drifting in steadily, looming overhead like an omen.
“Where is this place?”
He stopped at a small intersection and pulled out his phone. According to the map, the destination was approximately a four-minute walk from where he stood. He had also been four minutes away the last time he checked – which was about seven minutes ago – and had spent a total of 25 minutes searching for a restaurant that should have been no more than a few blocks from Kobe station. It was only getting darker, and soon he’d have trouble reading the street signs.
Oikawa wasn’t the type to go out of his way for onigiri, or other snack foods for that matter. He could have easily picked some up at a local conbini to satisfy his cravings, but Matsukawa and Hanamaki had been raving about this particular brand after trying their onigiri at a tournament and urged him to check out the actual restaurant if he was ever in the Kansai area. “The rice and ingredients are locally sourced from sustainable farms. No GMOs! No additives! 100% organic! Don’t you want to save the world one conscious bite at a time?” He only agreed to go, and grudgingly, just so they’d shut up about it.
In hindsight, he should have gone at a different time. He had just landed in Kansai International Airport that morning and, upon arriving at his hotel, passed out for ten straight hours. His new team had sent him an invitation to join a month ago with a 72-hour window to accept. Once he did, he was given two weeks to send in his notice, get his passport, paperwork and travel plans together whilst also arranging to pack and move six years of life back across the Pacific. In the midst of the chaos, he received a last-minute notification about an upcoming match — which meant that he really only had half those days to ship his boxes, return the keys of his apartment in San Juan and take a twenty-three hour international flight to Osaka. He was so frazzled by the time he arrived that he left his favorite umbrella on the train.
The sudden uprooting, combined with unintentional fasting and terrible jet lag, led Oikawa to this current predicament. He could think of so many better ways to spend his first day back in Japan — like scaling arcade joints, going to the aquarium, or hitting up the local clubs for some less wholesome fun. Instead, he found himself wandering the streets of Kobe like a lost goose looking for its gaggle, hastily clad in a faded and worn out zacco platypus graphic tee that Iwaizumi sent him as a birthday gift his first year abroad, light track jacket and jeans — the only articles of clothing in his luggage that weren’t too wrinkled or in need of a wash.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and removed his jacket, swinging it over his shoulder. Even earth-friendly onigiri wasn’t worth a heat stroke. He was just about ready to give in and grab something from the vending machine when he finally spotted the place.
The restaurant was plain, unassuming, and located on a quiet street between a small cocktail bar and a three-star inn. For a business that prided itself in being new and progressive, the restaurant’s exterior exuded tradition, all the way down to the shoji-style doors and the noren shielding the entrance. He ducked under the curtains and made his way through the sliding doors, feeling the sweet gust of air conditioning against his skin.
“Welcome to Onigiri Miya!”
The inside seemed cozy but not cramped and consisted of nine seats at the bar and three small tables lining the opposite wall. The voice that greeted him came from behind the counter and belonged to a worker and the only individual there: a young man wearing a cap and t-shirt — both black and branded with the shop’s logo. The restaurant looked strangely empty for a place that made onigiri so good it was, according to old buddies, to die for.
“Are you still open?” Oikawa asked. He had forgotten to check the sign at the front.
“Yes. Please have a seat anywhere."
Over the counter, Oikawa noticed stacks of dishes and bowls by the back wall. The containers of ingredients and garnishes were lined up behind the glass display along the bar: a large slice of salmon, cuts of tuna, bowls of roe, salted plum and braised eggplant. He could smell white miso brewing from a large pot on the stove and could feel his belly acting up again. He winced and made his way over to a spot at the counter.
“Is this your first time here?”
Oikawa nodded, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the hook under the counter.
“I’m Miya Osamu, owner of the Onigiri Miya. Just let me know when you’re ready to order,” Miya said, gave a slight bow and proceeded to collect some supplies.
Owner? Oikawa blinked, taking a moment to process that bit as he reached for a menu on the counter. To Oikawa, Miya looked no older than his age. He had hooded eyes, thick dark eyebrows, a boyish face and a relaxed vibe about him. He also seemed to be a regular at the gym if those biceps were anything to go by. His shirt, thin and a size too small, barely accommodated those arms, accentuating the muscles of his broad shoulders and chest every time he —
Oikawa looked away. Focus, Tooru, he told himself, you’re here on a mission. Follow the fool-proof sequence of steps: eat, pay, leave. Proceed with caution, and trust no one. This was not the time to be distracted by young and incredibly fit shop owners in tiny aprons who could easily charm the pants off of respectable customers with no more than a casual smile.
Oikawa forced his attention back to the menu and decided on the three-onigiri meal set: one grilled salmon, one spicy tuna with mayonnaise, and one salted cod roe. He also added a glass of Suntory malt because - why the hell not? He had a long day.
Miya confirmed his order and went fast to work, gathering the rice and with his wet, salted hands, packing the ingredients into the center while molding the outer layer in his palms, making sure to pat everything gently down as neatly and evenly as possible. Like muscle memory, his hands worked smoothly and effortlessly. He went through the same efficient but careful process with the other two, wrapping the seaweed around each with a quick flourish.
Within minutes, Oikawa was presented with a tray of three onigiri, a warm bowl of tofu miso and a dish of pickled daikon. Marveling at the sight, Oikawa said his thanks and took no time emptying the bowl of soup before moving on to the main course.
His first bite of the salmon onigiri was a burst of flavor — the perfect ratio of filling to rice, the grains of which were soft and full and crafted with the right amount of sea salt. He chewed happily, savoring the crunch of the nori and admitting that, okay — so his friends were right about this place. Each bite brought him back to the comforts of his childhood, friends and home.
“How is it?”
Oikawa choked, halfway between swallowing a mouthful of his salmon onigiri, hacking tearily as he gave Miya a thumbs up. “Delicious,” he said, after another few forceful attempts at clearing his airway. He washed the contents down with beer and grimaced as he felt his esophagus burn.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Miya said, clearly amused by his enthusiasm. Then Miya leaned, his face a little too close, eyes squinting intensely. Oikawa noticed that he was staring at his shirt. “What’s that say?”
“Oh this?” Oikawa pointed at the print across his chest. He straightened up proudly, not unfamiliar with the curiosity and intrigue surrounding his current attire. “It’s the scientific name for a type of fish.”
Aside from the pot simmering on the back counter, the room was silent.
“You’re wearing a shirt that says fish?”
Yes, well — it’s more clever than that, Oikawa wanted to say. The fact that Miya didn’t seem to understand the brilliance of him in his shirt without further explanation meant that the joke had already fallen flat; one couldn’t salvage humor once it was lost. Then again, the joke relied heavily on the pretense that Miya knew of him, which he obviously didn't. It was definitely an off day for him.
“It was a gift,” Oikawa said, feeling that because his one article of clothing failed to impress, he did as well. “I like fish,” he added, lamely.
“Fish is good,” Miya said, nodding in agreement, thus aborting what could've been an exciting educational discussion.
Oikawa sighed and returned to the comfort of his meal. He was finishing up the last bits of his tarako onigiri, inwardly cursing himself for his astonishing ability to flub even small talk, when Miya spoke up, startling him for the second time that evening.
“Where’re you from?”
“Miyagi,” Oikawa said. The syllables felt foreign on his tongue. It had been years since he'd had to offer a more specific response to that question. “Near Sendai.”
“I heard it’s scenic there.” Miya said. He was cutting green onion into thin even slices and dropping them in a small bowl on the side.
“I haven’t been back in a while." Oikawa downed the last of his beer. His hometown boasted of wonderful seascapes, lush trees, fields of fruit and flowers, but his younger self only knew the gym, the linoleum floor, the net, the basket of volleyballs and the smell of leather and sweat and salonpas.
Oikawa blinked away the memories, blaming the wetness of his eyes on the waft of fresh onion, and ordered another beer — or two. “For you,” he said, sliding a glass back to Miya. He never drank alone in Argentina, and he didn’t intend to start now.
“Thanks,” Miya said. He went to wash his hands, stooping slightly over the sink, fringe hovering over his eyes, bangs swept left, a few strands plastered to his temple. He retrieved a wet towel to wipe his hands, then took off his hat to wipe his face. A trickle of sweat ran down the stretch of his neck, along the curve of his Adam's apple. Oikawa licked his lips.
“I’m sorry. Have we —” Oikawa paused, then shook his head. “Nevermind.”
“You’re probably confusing me with my brother, Atsumu,” Miya said. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
The name sounded familiar. Though, at this point in his life and career, all the names and faces were starting to blend together. He searched his memory: Atsumu, Atsumu, Tsumu, Tsum…..Tsum — which only brought to mind images of round and colorful soft bears, dogs, ducks, chipmunks and mice — piles and piles of animals, one stacked upon the other. Takeru had a large collection as a kid and knew all their names.
“Um.”
“He’s a volleyball player. Artificially blond. Loud,” Miya said, then shrugged. “It’s okay if you don’t know him. He’s kind of lame.”
The description aptly applied to a lot of the players in the top leagues and did little to help Oikawa narrow down his choices. He was certain he’d never met a Miya Atsumu before since the only other person with that surname to ever grace him with his presence was standing right in front of him. Oikawa looked up at Miya Osamu, who looked back at him.
Then it clicked.
Dyed hair. Textbook perfect setting. Deadly serves. All-Japan Youth Intensive Training Camp invitee. Certified asshole, if his interviews in Monthly Volleyball were anything to go by. Japan’s Best High School Setter. Professional volleyball player in Japan’s V1 League.
His credentials, questionable or not, could fill a long list.
“Miya Atsumu of Black Jackals,” Oikawa said, eyes wide as he gripped the counter in excitement.
“That’s the one.”
So, the person standing in front of him was Miya Atsumu minus the awful yellow hair, jersey and obnoxious personality. He really didn’t know how to express his amusement at this revelation, settling for the obvious: “Genetics is weird.”
Miya took a sip of his beer, sheepishly. “I apologize on his behalf.”
Oikawa sat back in his seat in open astonishment — both at the unlikely chance that he would meet the brother of a potential rival and that perhaps most if not all professional volleyball players knew or knew of each other, to some degree.
“What a small world,” Oikawa said. “We actually have a match scheduled with them next week.”
“You play in the V-League?”
“Tachibana Red Falcons.”
Miya placed his glass down and wiped the foam from his upper lip, eyes now wide and sparked with interest. “So you know Aran then? He’s a childhood friend of mine.”
“Uh - ” Oikawa remembered seeing that name on the roster and automatically assumed that the person was one of the foreign players on the team. “I haven’t properly met everyone yet. I just joined recently, as in….last week.”
“What team were you with before? I still frequent volleyball circles, but I’ve never heard of you.”
Oikawa pretended he didn’t hear that last part. “I played in the foreign league the last few years, in Argentina.”
Miya leaned against the back counter and folded his arms, mildly impressed.
“What position?”
“Setter.” Oikawa said. This, he made sure to say clearly and with feeling.
Miya was staring at him again, his deadpan eyes boring into Oikawa’s, unnerving and cold. For a moment, Oikawa could sense that, underneath all those pleasantries, the lazy smile and calm demeanor, something menacing lay dormant.
“So that makes you my brother’s adversary then.”
Oikawa squared his shoulders defensively and leveled his gaze. “That seems to be the case.”
“What are the odds,” Miya said, quietly. The dangerous gleam lingered in his eyes for a second before disappearing completely. “You’re in for quite a challenge then.”
Oikawa lets out the breath and takes a measured sip of his beer. Intimidation aside, there was something about Miya — something that had been bothering Oikawa since the beginning of the discussion. Atsumu was his brother. Atsumu’s hair was blond. But when Miya took off his cap, the hair underneath was matted and styled short and well — black. The two and two didn’t go together, unless —
“You played volleyball too.”
Miya scooped the last of the rice from the pot and grinned. “Wing spiker for Inarizaki High.”
He should have known — should have remembered. Anyone who had kept up with inter-high or spring nationals, even casually, couldn’t have missed them. The Miya Brothers: dual force of nature on the court, identical in appearance and skill, and the only way to tell them apart was by their hair: blond and gray. Even back then, Oikawa had always thought of them as one unit, performing deadly synchronized combinations with a precision and ease that he never could achieve with his own hands. He had gaped in awe at his mobile that chilly afternoon jog with Iwaizumi, sweating from exertion and wonder, when he saw the twins mimic Karasuno’s freak quick like it was some neat party trick.
“You were at nationals,” Oikawa said, straightening up on his stool. It was all coming back to him — the names and faces and places from years ago. “I saw your match against Karasuno.” He remembered the team’s dominant presence on the court, intimidating but ravishing in their black jerseys.
“The team with the crazy duo?” Miya sighed, a fond expression flitted across his face, as he continued shaping the rice in his palms. “Man, were they wild.”
“Yeah.” Oikawa didn’t elaborate. He could still feel cold sweat every time they attempted that move. “But so were the two of you.”
“We could have been a force to be reckoned with,” Miya said, a hint of pride in his voice. "That was a long time ago, though. I quit after high school.”
The words slipped from Miya’s tongue so casually. It wasn’t as if Oikawa expected everyone to continue playing the sport after high school — he himself almost gave up on volleyball for good — but the logic wasn’t sound in this case because Miya Osamu, unlike himself, was anything but ordinary. “Why did you?”
Miya shrugged. “I like food,” he said, a faint echo of an earlier sentiment, as if some things in life were that simple. “I wanted to work with food.”
He could tell from the way Miya gathered the ingredients in bowls, the way he mixed the contents in firm controlled strokes, or the way his chest heaved under the fitted shirt as he made the next round of onigiri, that beneath it all, Miya was still strong — still built like the solid volleyball player he once was. Those years of training were etched into the creases and fibers of his muscles, imprinted deep in his bones, lingering long after his days on the court and shaping him into who he is today.
He wondered if Miya ever believed the words on that banner that once hung over his side of the court.
“Do you miss it?”
Miya paused, staring down at his hands, which were now wet and covered in salt. “Sometimes,” he said, voice going soft, “when I’m watching my brother’s matches or playing at the gym with my friends. But then, I think about what I’m doing now and how much I enjoy it, and I don’t feel too bad.”
Oikawa thought back to all the different types of people that he’d crossed paths with in his career: there were geniuses like Ushijima or Kageyama, born determined and destined to reach new heights; there were those who were realistic and played only as far as their talent took them, like Yahaba and Kunimi; then, there was Miya Osamu, who could have had it all but instead decided to walk away.
Miya Osamu was like a figure straight out of the epic myths and tales of his childhood -- a demon spirit who had chosen to give up his powers and become mortal. Or, by his namesake, a ruler who abdicated and set aside his crown for love. There was something strangely poetic about it.
He must have spaced out for a few seconds because suddenly, Miya was in front of him, brow furrowed in concern. “You look like you've seen a ghost. More beer?” Miya asked, gesturing towards his empty cup.
“Thanks.” Oikawa accepted another glass shakily. He took a sip and felt the buzz kick in, warmth radiating from his skin.
“It’s too bad,” Oikawa said, throat dry, watching the bubbles in his cup rise and vanish at the surface, “that I never got to play against you.”
“If I kept at it, maybe we would’ve been on the same team.”
“And I’d be able to toss for you.”
“Instead, I had to go off and start my own business,” Miya said. “But hey, life would be kind of dull if we all went pro.”
Oikawa hummed in agreement. “I won’t lie. Sometimes I do wonder if I should have chosen another path.” His mind wandered back to that dim lit room — to Coach Blanco’s larger than life silhouette, whose presence painted the walls of the room with harsh shadows. “My life would have been so different. Easier, maybe.”
“Would you’ve been able to live with yourself?”
Oikawa shook his head. “Probably not."
“Then chances are you’ve made the right choice. But who knows, really? We won’t know until we’re old men looking back at our lives.”
“It’s funny you mention that,” Oikawa said. “My best friend thinks I’m cursed. He says that I'll never be satisfied no matter how far I go in life, and that I won’t be truly happy until I’m on my deathbed.”
“Because by then, you’ll be able to appreciate all that you’ve accomplished?”
Oikawa circled the rim of his glass slowly, condensation at his fingertips. Time and again, a droplet would form on the cold surface of his cup and fall in a gentle cascade, disturbing the foggy exterior with dark streaks.
“Because by then, whether or not I have regrets, I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”
"It’s an insatiable kind of hunger,” Miya said and turned off the stove, the flame flickering out completely, “and if that’s a curse, then we’re all afflicted.”
“You may be right," Oikawa said, slumped over the counter now. “Are you sure you’re not secretly an 80 year-old in a young man’s body?”
"Hmm." Miya gathered together the bowls, piled them up one on top of the other, and carried them over to the sink. He picked up a few spoons, then pointed one at Oikawa with a wry smile. “You’re the one with the philosophical questions, ojisan.”
“I’ll have you know, my libido is still intact.”
Miya chuckled. “I’d hope so.”
In that brief instant, Oikawa wanted nothing more than to ignore his obligations and sit there for the next week or month, eating and drinking and chatting at the counter while Miya made his onigiri. He'd be that clichéd customer: a lonely boy in a big city talking about everything and nothing at all if only to stay a little longer in that shared space. He knew that alcohol was muddling his judgement, loosening his tongue. He also knew that it was time to leave. “It’s getting late.”
He paid the bill and thanked Miya for the meal. He noticed that he wasn’t charged for the extra beer. When he brought it up, Miya waved the matter away and even handed him a neatly wrapped onigiri from the last batch he’d made. “For the road,” he’d said with a wink. Oikawa wondered if he was the same with his other customers.
Miya walked him to the front and flipped the sign by the small window from Open to Closed. Oikawa glanced at his watch; it was almost 22:00. Other restaurants would have kicked him out long ago.
Miya lingered by the door and seemed to be in no hurry to close shop. “We’ve talked for over an hour, and I haven’t even gotten your name."
Oh, right. “It’s Oikawa. Oikawa Tooru.”
Miya gave him a long look, then held out his hand. “Oikawa-san, good luck on your upcoming match. Try and give us a good game, won’t you?”
Standing face to face like this, Oikawa noticed that they were both around the same height. He reached out to shake Miya’s hand, which felt as calloused and hardened as his own. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said with a grin.
Oikawa slid the door open and flinched at the wave of incoming heat. Aside from the few lamp posts and bright store signs, the rest of the street appeared dark and damp. It was raining lightly outside. “Damn.” Oikawa slid his arms out of his sleeves and pulled the jacket around his shoulders, ready to hike it up over his head on the way back to the station.
“Hold on.”
Miya removed his cap and placed it on Oikawa’s head, tilting the brim down until the crown slid on. It was a near perfect fit though a bit snug at the back. But none of that mattered, not when Miya’s face was an inch from his own, his warm breath tickling his ear and leaving him light-headed and lost. Miya stepped back and gave him a look over. “Not quite a hood, but it’ll hold up until you get to the station.”
The cap was warm, worn in to the point where the fabric yielded to his scalp, soft and so comfortable that he could probably sleep with it on. There was a lingering scent of something about it — something unique but not unpleasant — sparking in him a strange sense of longing. Oikawa felt like a young schoolboy again with a stupid crush, confused and flustered because a cute girl in his class had brushed her elbow against his. This was just a guy he met at the restaurant. A guy who had strong arms and thick brows. A guy who quit volleyball to pursue his dream. A guy who didn’t get the humor behind his shirt.
“You okay there? You’re all flushed. Wouldn’t want to get sick before the game.”
“It’s the alcohol.” Oikawa said, still dazed.
Outside, the rain came down harder, and he could now hear thunder in the distance. The pavement was soaked down to the cracks, and large puddles were starting to form along the road. Getting back to the station was going to be a challenge, but Oikawa had somehow found a renewed sense of courage to face the storm. He was about to step out the door when Miya spoke up again.
“If you’re ever in the area,” Miya said, “please come by again.”
Oikawa bit back a smirk. Tachibana Red Falcon’s home turf was located in a nearby prefecture, and he knew that Miya knew. “You’re not tired of me yet?”
“You’re an interesting guy.”
“Coming from you, I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”
Miya smiled and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looked even younger without his cap. “Best not to overthink it.”
They stood no more than a few centimeters apart, close enough that Oikawa only had to reach over and brush those strands to the side. He almost did, raising his arm halfway before hesitating and adjusting his cap instead.
“I’ll see you around, Miya-kun.”
At the station, Oikawa took a seat at a bench by the wall of the platform. The estimated arrival time for the next train flashed on display: 22:32. A ten minute wait. The rain had seeped through the seams of the cap but managed to spare most of his hair. He pulled out the onigiri from his pocket, his fingers leaving easy dents in the rice through the cling wrap, and unwrapped it.
He took a bite and froze, chewing slowly in confusion as he processed the odd but distinct flavor that washed over his palate. He glanced at the plastic wrapping, still scrunched up in his palm, and flipped it over. On the other side was a large label bearing the restaurant name. In the blank space beneath the logo, he could make out the messy scrawl:
Pale chub
オイカワ
Oikawa leaned against the wall and laughed.