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The door shuts softly behind him as he nudges his elbow to close it.
“Alexa, turn on the lights.”
“Turning on the lights.”
At once, his entire apartment is alit in a yellowish glow. Atsumu blinks, hoping to get the phosphenes in his eyes to cease and only straightens once he regains his vision. He steps forward onto the platform, toeing the Nikes off, before setting foot in the living room.
His gym bag hangs heavy on his shoulder and he gravitates towards the sofa easily, slipping the strap off him before he goes to plop down.
The microfibre plush welcomes him and Atsumu groans at the way his stiff back sinks into the cushioning. He rolls his head backwards till it meets the headrest and lolls it to the side where the tall floor-to-ceiling windows provided him with a generous view of the Osaka skyline.
“Alexa, call my brother.”
Robotically, Alexa obeys, “Calling Samu (dipshit).”
Atsumu waits for four dial tones before his twin picks up his call in frantic haste.
“What’s wrong?” Osamu huffs into the receiver.
Atsumu furrows his brows and goes to collect the smart TV remote atop his sleek ebony coffee table. “Nothing? Why d’ya sound so out of breath? I told ya to keep working out, didn’t I?”
“Ya never call me ‘less yer in trouble.”
“Ass,” Atsumu bites out as he turns his LED thirty-two inch TV on. “I call ya plenty.”
“Lyin’ was never yer strongest trait.”
“Shut up.”
On the other end, there’s the soft whine of a gas stovetop followed by the mechanical clicks of its igniter. He hears closely and finds himself lulled by the burble of tap water hitting the sink then the muffling that came when its journey is stopped midway by a saucepan. It sloshes noisily as Samu drags it near him. Atsumu can almost picture him in his kitchen, gruffly standing behind the fully welded stainless steel wall counter with an array of chopped onions, garlic, spring onions…
“So,” Osamu drawls after he set his saucepan on the stove. The fire hisses quietly in the background as it touched the wetted bottom of the pan. “Why’d ya call me?”
Atsumu hums and kicks one leg onto his knee, drumming his fingers on one thigh. “Nothin’. Just wanted t’see what ya were up to?”
“Liar.”
“It’s true!” Atsumu whines peevishly into his iPhone. He clicks his tongue and settles back into the sofa. There’s some Japanese drama on the TV. He rolls his eyes. “Whatcha cookin’?”
“Right now?”
Atsumu nods then he hums into the receiver in agreement.
Osamu takes a while to answer. The blond worries he wasn’t loud enough, but he hadn’t need to rehash his reaction. “ Nikujaga ,” Osamu replies.
“Beef stew? That’s so nice!”
“I’m not gonna deliver it to yer doorstep like some courier.”
Atsumu huffs as he glances to his kitchen. “Wasn’t gonna ask ya to.”
The female lead cries on his screen, fat tears roll down the sides of her eyes as she watches the male character board his train, not once looking back at the maiden. Atsumu wonders whether people truly enjoyed these soaps or if their lives were just too boring for them to live through and so they exploit external sources of entertainment to spice things up.
“How was practice?” Osamu asks. Atsumu hears him stir the pot and feels the urge to eat something.
“Fine. Left kinda early so I didn’t get a chance to eat at the centre.”
“Oh? But it’s late. Did ya get somethin’ from Lawson?”
“Nah,” Atsumu replies with a shake of his head. He manoeuvres the phone to his other ear as the train on-screen pulls away from the station.
“Didn’t I tell ya to start eatin’ properly? It’s like ya want yer ass to get whooped.”
“Hey! I just got home, okay? And it’s not like I can cook if I wanted to anyway,” Atsumu admits, crossing his arms. He stares begrudgingly as the train halts and the main lead jumps out of his cart to rush back into the lady’s waiting arms.
Osamu scoffs on the other end. “Oh, quit yer yappin’. Ya could’ve asked me to teach ya. Listen ‘ere. Ya got oil right?”
“Yeah. From the last time ya came to visit.”
“Jesus, right. So oil, great. Beef?”
“Should have some. Shoyou-kun came down to cook somethin’ for me. It was Korean… like sushi but not.”
“Bibimbap,” Osamu sighs. “Great. Oil, beef. I know ya got the bare essentials cause I hauled yer ass to the mart when I came down last month. What about potatoes and carrots?”
Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah. What for?”
“Yer makin’ Nikujaga with me. Via phone.”
“What! Yer insane,” Atsumu scowls but he gets up from the sofa and turns his TV off, chucking the remote at the cushions before he makes his way to the kitchen. “If I eat somethin’ and die, it’ll be on yer hands.”
“And what a great day it’ll be. Don’t think yer dyin’ anytime soon, though. My impeccable kitchen skills are out of this world that even an idiot like ya could make a gourmet dish in no time.”
Atsumu skulks behind the kitchen island and shifts so that he was in front of the silver matte fridge. He yanks the door open, a gentle pamper of chilled air blow past him. He eyes the almost deserted racks and picks out the ingredients Osamu lists off with an airiness that makes the blond want to strangle him.
“Now what?” He asks dumbly as he stares at the bulbs of onion, sparsely placed garlic cloves, sticks of carrots covered slightly by the spring onions, and balls of potatoes.
“So, first yer gonna wanna prep. Start by peelin’ the garlic and onion like how I showed ya last time, remember? Crush the clove then peel the red skin.”
“Crush the clove then peel the red skin,” Atsumu mumbles under his breath as he places the garlic clove under the steel knife and forces his body weight on it until he hears it crack. He lifts the knife and finds a deep fracture breaking the red skin down the middle. Atsumu grins triumphantly and goes to pick at the skin, making quick work of deskinning the garlic and moves to the flaxen bulb. He pierces its tip with his knife and cuts both ends off, leaving it flat on his cutting board before he starts paring the onion.
When he’s done, he huffs. “Done. Next?”
“Next, dice them finely. Remember to never hold yer knife towards—”
“My body. Yeah, I know.”
Again, the blond quietens and lets himself fall into the rhythmic rocking motion of slicing the blade back and forth. He stands back to gauge his work—he knows it’s not the best, but it’s miles better than where he started. The onions had been cut into five centimetre long slices while the garlic lay as tiny uneven ivory cubes, a pretty contrast to his wooden board. He finely paysannes, he huffs a little to himself at this, the spring onions and sets them aside.
Immediately after, Osamu directs him to wash and peel the potatoes before cutting them into thick cubes. He ogles them once he’s done, a quick flash to his childhood when his mother would enlist he and his brother to make dinner with her and got knife privileges when they turned nine. He chops the carrots next. “Jagged” like how Osamu told him too. He gets the rustic appeal but finds the triangular, non-conforming shapes a little displeasing.
“Kay. Got ‘em,” Atsumu says with a little nod to himself, he views the spread of vegetables around him and feels pride swell.
“Great. Now, you, uh. Cut the beef. Ya got another chopping board by any chance?”
He looks around and finds the unopened box on top of the fridge. “Yeah. Got that plastic one ma gave for Christmas.”
“It’ll do. Wash it out and then dice ‘em. Nice and thick.”
“Thicker than the potatoes?”
“Yeah. Oh, hang on. Need to stir.”
There’s a clatter in the background followed by rustling which cracked Atsumu’s speakers. He frowns as he moves to get the box, reaching up effortlessly to snatch the gift from its place and unboxes the board in haste. He rinses it a couple of times, scrubbing it with enough soap to have suds cover his wrists, then douses it under the tap until he hears Osamu return.
“Right, so ya wanna get yer board dry then start dicin’ the beef into five-centimetre cubes?”
“Kay,” Atsumu mutters as he reaches to open the cupboard under the sink, unhooking his tea towel, and wipes the best he can of the thin, white chopping board.
When done, he shifts easily to his left to clear counter space, setting the board next to his assortment of vegetables. He swirls to face his fridge, bending only to open the freezer before dislodging the icy meat drawer. There’s one tub left. He quickly eyes the best before date, sagging slightly when he finds it to end next week.
“I gotta defrost, right?” Atsumu inquires, raising his voice slightly so it can reach the receiver. He hears a grunt and that was enough for him to move along the oak worktop, passing his jars of exotic coffee blends and teas, to his microwave. He slips the tub in easily and sets the thing to defrost.
The microwave whines awake, its light flashing on inside to illuminate the oven lumen. Atsumu gazes at the spinning top and moves away, remembering Osamu’s rant about actual microwaves rays. He slides to where he left his phone by the sink.
“Ya done yet?” Osamu’s voice is masked by the sound of stew broiling in his background until it diminishes to a quiet simmer, no doubt after Osamu moves away from the scullery.
“Nah. It’s still got, like, three minutes at best.”
“Didn’t I tell ya not to freeze beef?”
“It saves money!”
Osamu clicks his tongue. It crackles through Atsumu’s speakers. “Yer a whole Olympian and ya complain about beef. In this economy?”
“Especially in this economy, dipshit. How’re things in Tokyo?”
“Smooth sailing. Got the shop opened up and goin’. Workers came quickly to apply, too. Oh, and I met the Fukurodani setter again.”
“Swear he’s just followin’ ya around now,” Atsumu laughs. He shifts his weight to his left side where his hip is leaning against the counter. The microwave buzzes slowly in the background.
“Nah. If he’s followin’ anyone, he’s followin’ yer wing spiker. Told ‘im obsession looks weird on guys with class. He cussed me out.”
The blond blinks before he’s sputtering, choking on laughs and air as he tries to process his brother’s confession. He’s close to keeling, the only saving grace to his downfall being his hand slamming down on the wooden counter.
“Ya said that to ‘im? Seriously?”
“What?” Osamu grumbles with a little whiff at the end. Atsumu can picture him clearly, resting his hands on his waist and scowling at the phone as if his brother could see it. The blond scoffs. And people called him socially inept.
“Yer an actual airhead, y’know that?”
There’s a fizzing from the Osamu's end, Atsumu's rambunctious microwave drowns it easily. He clicks his tongue, pivoting and reaching one toned arm to push the button. The microwave’s door bangs open and there’s a worrying sizzle coming from the tub of beef. Atsumu bites his lip and jerks away when the smell reaches him.
“Ugh!”
“Ya overdid it,” says Osamu, voice nasally from the faraway speaker.
Atsumu hounds on him anyway. “Shut up.”
Gingerly, the man reaches into the oven cavity and takes the sizzling tub of now barely cooked slabs of beef outside and onto the kitchen counter. He assesses when the smells die down and fold his arms across his chest.
“Not that bad,” he reviews.
“Whatever ya say,” his twin drawls. “Dice ‘em then tell me when yer done.”
Atsumu doesn’t answer and gets straight to it. He reaches down under the counter and into the third drawer on the left, takes out an extra cutting board, places it squarely on the countertop and takes a handful of beef.
He then retracts one knife from his knife stand—more decorative than functional but it comes in handy—and starts dicing the meat into cubes.
Five-hundred kilometres away, Osamu does the same.
By the time they’re both done, it’s ten minutes past eight and nightshade blankets the sky above. Atsumu sets his azure Kintsugi bowl (a rather generous birthday present from Kita last year when he found out Atsumu had been recruited for the National team) on his dinner table. Goes back to the kitchen to grab a pair of chopsticks, his bowl of rice, his phone, and a spoon before he sits down.
When he first left Hyogo to Osaka, Osamu used his delivery truck—brand spanking new with a glistening “Onigiri Miya” sticker covering both of its sides, their mother took pictures—to move in all his things.
He didn’t have a lot to begin with, but as he settled in he began to obtain more things (as a consequence of living usually is) and ends up recruiting Osamu and his truck more than he anticipated.
“Just pay the courier, cheapskate,” Osamu had sneered as he moves to push at the rustic, oaken dining table Atsumu purchased just an hour ago. That thing they’ve had to push up three flights of stairs too, Osamu would have him reminded.
Atsumu grunted, heaving as he continues to shove the table along the entryway and finally into the living room. “Shut up and keep pushin’. I wanna have it by the kitchen.”
“Are ya stupid? Yer supposed to have it by the lounge. Yer gonna have a right time eating yer lonely ass dinners with this view.”
Atsumu peers at his windows now, the Osaka skyline glimmering prettily below him and supposes that Osamu, as he usually his (Atsumu defiantly admits,) was right.
“Ya sleepin’ on me?”
Atsumu rolls his eyes. Osamu’s video is on, showing a pocket-sized rendition of his brother sitting at the leather sofa in Onigiri Miya’s backroom—staff and owner exclusive, of course. His head is hat-barren and tired lines pinch the corners of his eyes.
“No,” Atsumu scoffs and then claps to thank the gods for his meal.
Osamu’s repeats the phrase and spends no time in eating.
“Slow down, yer gonna choke.”
“Choke on my dick.”
“That foul mouth of yours,” Atsumu mutters. “Hey, have ya seen Kita-san recently? How is he?”
Osamu’s ramble is as animated as his eating habits. Atsumu laughs, the sores in his muscles melting away as their conversation rolls on into the night.
It’s when he’s in bed, fed and satisfied, did he realise that Osamu was only half right.
He is never truly alone.