Work Text:
To any other person, the day Osamu realized he was in love with you was forgettable.
The sun rose, like always, bright and blinding in the cold winter months, its intensity only amplified by its reflection off the light snow blanketing yards and sidewalks. Osamu’s teeth chattered in the cold, his fingertips, frigid and shaking, turned pink from his lack of gloves.
Like any other day, it was ordinary. Osamu scolded his twin for stealing his hat, and Atsumu lied about taking it in the first place, though it sat snuggly atop his blonde head. The two bickered as they walked to school, steps in sync, like always.
During his lessons, Osamu tried to pay attention. Kept his pencil in his hand, his hand in his notebook, his eyes on the board. But, like always, he drifted away, wandered off into his own little world. He’d rested his chin in his palm, turning to look out the window. Watching the clouds roll by, wispy and thin against a pale blue sky, Osamu noticed a small bird perched outside the window of his class, wings pulled back and and beak pointed delicately up towards the sun. A blue rock thrush, Osamu remembered.
It was an ordinary bird, completely unexceptional. Osamu had learned about it one day from Kita, a small comment when a bird of that species had landed mere feet away from the two of them, pecking at crumbs left by their lunches. They were indigenous to many places in the world, Hyōgo being one them. The bird was common, a little flying, fleeting sight most people saw most days. But, today, it struck something deep within Osamu. The way its slender black beak, curved ever so slightly, pointed towards the sun, as if it was trying to soak in the warmth falling down on it. The light blue gradience—shiny, almost iridescent—that disappeared into a soft black was so striking to Osamu. He could swear right then and there that he’d never seen anything so all-consuming, so breathtaking and intensely captivating, except for, perhaps, you.
HIs lessons dragged on that day, as they always did, his shoulders slumping as his schedule trekked onward with him staggering through it. The only thing helping him through another lesson, another hour of trying hard to focus only to fall victim to indifference, was the promise of seeing you.
The two of you had studied together since childhood, Atsumu occasionally joining in throughout the years—although he more often than not would end up ditching to practice volleyball or goof off. For you and Osamu, though, studying was a ritual. A way to wash off your stress, let the company of each other soak through you and your thoughts, bask in each other’s voices and rhythms.
So, when you appeared on Osamu’s doorstep, club activities done for the day, convenience store bag in one hand, book bag in the other, it was like any other day. You took your shoes off, slipped on the slippers the twins kept just for you, a small smile set upon your lips as you remembered when the twins presented you with the pair—a soft memory, one that should surely be forgotten by any other person, but one you couldn’t seem to shake.
Clear as day, you remembered their beaming smiles, each boy holding a soft, fox-eared slipper out to you. They’d told you that day that you were family now, what with you coming over so often. It would be strange if you’d kept using the guests’ slippers, they’d explained—you were special now, a permanence in their life.
Feet placed in soft slippers, you’d padded across the Miyas’ floors, through the hallways to their living room. You and Osamu spent that afternoon like countless others, books and papers strewn across the coffee table, sitting on the floor with folded legs. Laughs ringing through the air, to be remembered and kept as little trinkets for the both of you to treasure—Osamu made a note that day. Your laugh, he’d thought, was more charming than even the most captivating song that any bird could sing—even his beautiful blue rock thrush was no match for you.
As you’d studied together, shoulders bumping every so often, the soft light of a pink sunset filtering through the windows and scattering across the floors and your faces, you peeled a satsuma—a common occurrence. You’d often pick up little things to eat before visiting the twins, always the gracious guest, gifting them with both your presence and your food. Without so much as even looking up from the page you were studying, you’d split the fruit in two, placing the other half in Osamu’s open palm as the two of you continued reading, no words uttered in the space between you.
And that was when Osamu knew.
To any other person, this day was normal, ordinary, unexceptional. But to Osamu, it was one he would remember for as long as he lived. Every action, every feeling, every which way the peach light glowed against your skin. He was in love.