Work Text:
At midnight, the lights to the diner flicker on, the only glow emanating from the sleeping neighborhood. The tables are crisp wood, curtains clean but well-worn, the kanji 宮 over it in perfect white strokes.
He begins his day at the start of the hour—literally.
Osamu is fixing the stove gas when the first customer files in, all cheerful wrinkles and well-worn smiles. They ask for the usual—tonjiru with beer on the side—and he nods, disappearing into the kitchen. Over the sizzle of the vegetables in the pot, he hears the sliding door open.
“Welcome,” he puts on his best retail smile, “What can I get for ya?” He regards your unfamiliar figure curiously.
“I, uh-“ you glance from him to the menu tacked on the wall, “I suppose a tonjiru will do?” The wooden board only has three items: tonjiru, shōchu, and sake. The corner of his lip perks up, amused.
“Ya can request somethin’, an’ if it isn’t too complicated i’ll whip it up for ya.” Curiosity flickers behind your expression, and your eyes shift down to the lacquered table, lips pursed in thought.
Eventually you look up. “A hiyayakko please, then, if you’d be so kind.”
“‘Course.” He spares you a lingering glance before turning back, another wave of amusement bubbling at the oddly formal way you carry yourself. Even your posture is somewhat poised, though the frustrated furrow of your brow breaks the serene image.
(Silken tofu served cold, with ginger, green onion, and soy sauce. A classic izakaya dish, and perfect for the summer heat. He remembers it was particularly oppressive today.)
“Order up.” You let him place the dish in front of you, offering a quiet thank you while setting your phone down. The sliding door opens to a regular, and he wipes his hands on his apron, greeting them with the same retail courtesy as always.
You don’t come back the next day, or the day after. He doesn’t think much of it.
It’s more than three months until you return, clad in decidedly warmer clothing to stave off the autumn chill. It’s not as though you had reason to eat somewhere past midnight—not until now, anyway, with the lab work and uncooperative higher-ups becoming more than what you can bear.
A head pokes out from the kitchen, the man himself: crisp uniform, cap on his head, apron tied at the waist. Something flickers in his gaze.
“Welcome.” You pause, tilting your head.
“You probably don’t remember—“
“No, I do.” His eyes are already on you, amber light lending golden flecks to his eyes (you can’t quite discern their color). A weight passes. He turns around without a word, disappearing into the kitchen.
You’re left bewildered at the doorway, a mix of warm and cold, and only partially due to the weather.
“Don’ mind ‘Samu-chan,” the person at the corner—vaguely familiar—says. “We jus’ don’t get new people often, is all.”
“I see.”
He beams, crows’ feet peeking from the corners of his eyes. “I’m Akiyama, by the way.” You nod with a small smile, introducing yourself and sliding out one of the seats: not too close but still a respectful enough distance to be conversational.
“Are you a regular of Izakaya Miya, Akiyama-san?”
Akiyama smiles wider, launching into a spiel—he’s owned the space for years, but it’s much better off an establishment than an empty lot gatherin’ dust. Plus, he’s known the man since was a kid, and couldn’t pass up ‘Samu-chan’s offer—or the food. (He laughs at the last bit, full-bellied and warm.)
“He’s makin’ kitsune udon today. ‘S the only thing on the menu, if that’s fine with ya.”
“Ah, yes, that’s alright.” Your fingers absently pick at the bundled up jacket in your arms. The thread hanging from the sleeve is probably better off cut with scissors at home.
Your fingers continue to fiddle with it. “His name is… Miya Samu?” before he responds, someone else does.
“it’s Miya O-samu.” Akiyama has the grace to look sheepish. You look up, meeting his eyes.
“Ah, I see. Miya-san is still fine, though.” Miya O-samu doesn’t break the gaze, tilting his head. Neither of you let up. The sliding door opens.
His eyes hold yours for a second longer before he’s gone again, moving to greet the newest arrival.
You release a breath—you didn’t even know you were holding it.
As Akiyama engages you in conversation, you discreetly steal glances at Osamu tending to the orders. He catches the third instance, holding your gaze for a moment before a smirk passes his features. Looking down, you scowl over your noodles.
For some reason, you feel like he won some unspoken competition.
(The udon is delicious. You almost forget that you’re mad.)
There’s Akiyama the landowner and freelance photographer, Uchida the divorced accountant, Aya the chatty ceramics artist, and the yakuza boss—his name is a mystery—who likes his tamagoyaki on the sweeter side.
Then there’s you, the haggard-yet-put-together astronomer who speaks a little too formally for a crowd like this. Not that they know that. You don’t speak unless spoken to, and it’s usually only to affirm something as someone’s effort to bring you into conversation.
They all seem to lead such interesting lives, or at least their stories make it seem so. Then again, everyone has their reasons for being awake while the rest of the world is asleep. Yours just happens to not be anything dramatic.
(It’s not so much shyness as it is being at a loss for words; you’re not sure how to communicate the devotion of your life to something as abstract as pursuing the infinite. And it’s not like work lets you focus on anything else.)
“Ya know, ya come here when the place is about ta close. Is it some early mornin’ breakfast or somethin’?” You turn to face him, chopsticks hovering over your usual order of tofu.
A frown crosses your features. “I… no? It’s a work-related circumstance.”
“Hmmm. ya never told anyone much about that.”
“It’s-it’s not that interesting. Wait, it is, i suppose, but not to everyone.” He leans forward over the counter, intrigued.
“Oh? Ya have my attention. I won’ tell anyone if ya don’t want me to, so don’t worry.”
Sensing your hesitance, he’s quick to add, “Yer meal on the house too.” You pause at that, considering the current state of your wallet and the nearing salary.
“Why do you bother?”
“Dunno? Ya seem interesting.”
“I already told you—“
“Yeah yeah. I don’ care. I’ll be the judge of that.”
(Spectrographs and night-long observing runs aren’t struggles of love, loss and betrayal; there’s nothing you can offer unless you want to bore people with what sounds like nonsense to anyone without a degree in astrophysics.)
Eventually you sigh, conceding. You tell him of your job in the observatory: working with equipment and helping record observations, and how runs with varying researchers—from college students to PhD candidates—can sometimes last for the whole night.
He processes it all with hums and nods. Your bowl is empty, but he makes no move to take it, eyes still only focused on you. He tilts his head.
“Next question: Why the job?”
“Sorry Miya-san, my job’s the only thing remotely interesting about me.”
“Again, I’ll be the judge of that.” You purse your lips into a thin line, unwilling to join the impromptu game he’s trying to play.
“You’re out of luck. I have no more reasons to share, the meal is already free, after all.” You stand, motivated by the sudden burst in confidence. “See you soon, Miya-san.”
His eyes widen a fraction before his lips curl upward, as though he’s picked up on something—you don’t know what. He tips his hat as you leave.
“Next time then, L/n-san. For the record, yer pretty interestin’ so far.”
some late night/early morning thoughts:
- Midnight and work fatigue loosen the tongue.
- Miya Osamu has a strange standard of what is interesting. Then again, so do you.
“Why did you open a midnight diner?” Osamu pauses over wiping his dishes, a coy smile beginning to grow on his face.
“Oh? and what do i get for answering honestly?” You shrug.
“My listening ear. My confidence. No judgement. My honesty when i answer the question you posed last time.” Two can play at this game. You add, “And you can’t bribe me with money right after i got my salary.”
“Yer not as timid as ya make yerself to be.”
“I never said I was timid.” You sip on your tea, raising an eyebrow as you set it down. “Well?”
He cocks his head, brow ever so slightly furrowed. You appreciate that he’s taking it seriously, at least. “I like cooking,” he settles on eventually. “and I like listenin’ ta stories.” Silence.
Eventually your shoulders begin to shake, and he frowns, voice accusatory. “Ya said no judgement!”
“No no, I’m sorry,” your laughter fades, and you shoot him a warm smile. “We’re not so different. That’s nice to know.
“I got my job because I like the stars,” you mirror his statement, “and I like stories. I listen to the stories of the stars, and I come here for the stories of people, who were once made of stars.”
After a beat of silence, Osamu, too, begins to laugh. “Shit, are ya sure yer a science gal? how’re ya not a poet?”
“Hey, I can be both!” You laugh too.
More months pass, as do bowls of food.
You scuff your shoes against the rug before ducking your head through the curtain, noting the new chimes Aya had been nagging Osamu to buy. He pokes his head in from the kitchen.
“Yer here pretty often now.” You narrow your eyes at the teasing lilt of his voice. The silence only lasts for a few seconds before both of you break into laughter. He grins at you from behind the counter, all boyish charm and twinkling stars from a distant sky.
On the side, Uchida waves him over to ask for another tea and his opinion on the rising soy sauce prices. Osamu sneaks a wink in your direction as he leaves.
Pink nebulae begin to coalesce in your chest, and you bite the inside of your cheek to swallow the growing smile.
Perhaps you’re beginning to understand the communal adoration everyone has for Miya Osamu.
The summer humidity is making the sky cloudy at night, you’re complaining, not to mention how the nights are shorter. But there’s also some perks to the summer sky—there’s a reason why people set out on vacations to stargaze. Have you tried?
Yeah. He returns it with stories of his hometown, where there are no city lights to choke out the brilliance of the sky. Somewhere he brings atsumu up—wait, you’re a twin?—yeah, he has potato hair and a matching potato brain—you laugh over your tea, and his heart flutters.
Osamu’s practically memorized the scene of you breaking into your bowl of hiyayakko: how you set each condiment on with care, before placing only just the right amount of soy sauce, so reverent for such a simple dish. You take the first bite, lips curling up contentedly.
(He remembers the first dish he made: wetting his hands in water, swiping coarse salt across his palm. Osamu molds the warm rice with small palms, his mother preparing the plates on the table while his grandma stays beside him, guiding his hands ough the process.
Pour yer love into it, ‘Samu dear, she hums, cupping his hands in her fingers. Sunlight streams through the windows, golden laughter abounding. Pour yer love, and they’ll taste it for sure.)
why miya osamu is not the moon (according to miya osamu):
I remember some fangirls back in high school callin’ us the sun and moon twins.
Was it the hair?
Guess so.
You don’t just reflect your twin’s light though.
Aw. Yer gettin’ sappy on me?
You wish. You snort away his tease, but there’s a softer edge to your voice, the same as the one reflected in your eyes. He wonders if he could describe it as fond.
some late night/early morning thoughts, part two:
- Akiyama said something once, a brief remark that sent unexpected warmth flowing through your chest: Nice that you’re here, y’know? ‘Samu-chan likes ya a whole lot. I can tell.
- Perhaps you can add Miya Osamu to the list of things you come back to.
- You probably already have.
The sliding door opens with to the sound of chimes. You blink at the scene before you. The conversation inside halts, two near-identical faces turning to stare. Two Osamu’s?
Wait no. His twin.
“Sorry, uh… Yeah. Sorry.” The blond Osamu—no, Atsumu—is actually here, muted yellow jacket blending with the amber ambience of the room.
“Ah. Yeah, I forgot to lock the door- oh fuck off, ‘Tsumu.” Your—your??—Osamu maneuvers himself from behind the counter, apologetic while somehow simultaneously flipping his brother off. You swallow back a smile and retreat from the space, allowing him to step out.
“I think I came at a bad time. Sorry about that.” The door is still ajar, warmth and light peeking through from inside.
“No no, s’fine. I didn’t expect anyone on a Monday night.” He smiles sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. With a jolt, you realize it’s the first time you’ve seen him without his cap. His hair is shorter than you expected.
You struggle to find your voice, cursing yourself for being so overwhelmed over a simple thing. “So, Atsumu, huh?”
“He’s in the V-League. Setter for the Black Jackals. Also a whiny piece o’ shit.” You laugh softly while trying to place the name: you know scientists, not athletes—it’s a whole different galaxy from where you’re standing.
Shrugging helplessly, you offer, “Maybe I’ve seen him in a cologne commercial once.”
He puffs an amused breath, frosty white appearing in the air for a moment before disappearing. “Have ya eaten?” At the shake of you head, he laughs into his hand. “‘Kay. wait.” Osamu disappears into the restaurant.
You straighten when he reemerges with a small paper bag. Peering inside, you see two negitoro onigiri and a packed bowl of miso soup. “On the house.”
You shake your head. “No, I can’t take this.”
“It’s the only thing I have, and I can’t let ya starve.”
“Yes you can, there’s a konbini near my apartment.”
“I’ll be more up in yer ass if ya refuse my food.”
A pause. You sigh and accept his offer, knowing he’s right. “I’m gonna pay you back. Somehow.”
“Sure. I’ll be waitin’ then.” Osamu waves as he reenters, amber light making the smirk on his face glow golden. you try to convince yourself it’s what makes it look softer too.
some late night/early morning thoughts, part three:
- The name Miya is synonymous to a binary star: Miya Atsumu and Miya Osamu, Miya Osamu and Izakaya Miya. Humans are made of stars, and you’ll see it if you know where to look.
- …where did ‘your Osamu’ even come from?
He brings food and an extra jacket. Thank god for both.
Osamu can’t bring himself to settle down, resorting to moving around to counter the cold. You’re unzipping the clothed bag you carried with you, carefully laying out the components.
You set up the tripod—It’s alright, i don’t need help, enjoy the clear skies, Miya-san—mounting the telescope body and the eyepiece. Even in the dark, your fingers find each knob with ease, securing each part with deft precision.
“I always look at computers nowadays to gather the data,” you confess, breaking the silence. “It’s been a while since i actually used my telescope. Have you tried looking in one before?” He shakes his head.
Your eyes soften in the dark and you smile, beckoning him closer.
“Alright, come then.” Your fingers curl around the puffy cloth of his jacket, gently tugging him down. Osamu peeps into the eyepiece, gasping softly.
“Is that…?”
“Yes, that’s Saturn. The rings are beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, eye still tipped to the eyepiece. You hum, pleased, and maneuver the telescope to other planets, naming them each time—Jupiter, Venus, Mercury, Mars—then the moon. He notes the care in your hands each time, the careful accuracy in maneuvering the telescope to some new location you somehow have memorized.
It’s the first time he sees you in your element.
Your voice is sweet, softer and closer than he anticipated. You smell faintly of bergamot, lemon, and crisp fabric conditioner. He tries not to linger on the thought. “I’ve seen your work and your spaces, and well, I thought I’d repay you by letting you see mine.” Repaid indeed. He sees why you love it so much.
Osamu looks up, only to see that oh, his guess was right, you are close. His breath hitches in his throat, your eyes also widening at the proximity.
The moon lights up your face in a pale glow, so different from the amber lights of Izakaya Miya, but no less beautiful. Moondust hangs suspended in the air between you.
Eventually he coughs, tearing his eyes away. Heat crawls up his neck, the words coming out scratchy and strained.
“Hey, are ya hungry? I… have food.”
“Y-yeah.” You step away from the telescope, not meeting his eyes.
Rummaging in his bag, he brings out the onigiri he brought along, handing one to you. You accept it with a soft thanks, exchanging a glance before murmuring in unison, “thank you for the food.”
He observes you from the corner of his eye, chest gently squeezing at the way you smile after taking your first bite, as you always do. He digs into his own, feeling the salty-sweet of the rice hit his tastebuds.
(Pour yer love into it, ‘Samu dear, and they’ll taste it for sure.)
The silence stretches between you as you eat, an infinity of grains of salt and rice and stars. Your other hand rests on the space between you, tantalizingly close. The ache in his chest deepens.
Osamu’s never thought about what the taste of longing might be, but it just might be this.
why miya osamu is not the moon (according to miya osamu), part two:
The moon would probably be more like you: reflecting the stars you’ve given your heart to while guiding his along the way.
(He wonders when he’ll find his place in your cosmos.)
He told you once that his favorite thing to make is onigiri.
(The base recipe is simple: salt, rice, and nori. Then the possibilities are endless, a blank canvas that is also somehow complete. Brush the salt onto your palms and mold the rice just so, they’ll taste the love that ya pour into it.)
He cups his palms over yours, gently tossing the rice then pressing, the triangle shape forming under his experienced hands. His chest is pressed to your back. “Did ya want to use the mold?”
“No, it’s alright.” You pause. His arms are still around you. The words slip out, barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”
“… You tell me. Yer the smart one, aren’t ya?”
Playing off your nervousness, you frown, eyes still stubbornly glued on the onigiri forming under your hands. (And his.)
“Why do you think I’m asking, I obviously want to know too.”
His breath is warm against the side of your ear. “What do ya want it to be?” Against your better judgement, your head turns to face him.
His face is too close for comfort or propriety. His lips quirk into a grin. Everything is so aggravatingly distracting: his smile, the warmth from his body, the sheer proximity, even the faint whiff of his perfume. Your heart jumps out of your chest, dangerously close to tempt you into doing something you’ll regret.
Like kissing him. Or pulling away.
Eventually he sighs, breaking the eye contact to focus once again on the food. “Tell me when ya figured it out.” There’s a hiss from the pot. You jolt your gaze away. “Shit.”
He swears under his breath.
“Better get that,” you breathe, more intently fixing your gaze on the onigiri in your hands. You don’t dare turn around this time.
“Yeah, I… yeah.” He turns around, arms disappearing from around you. The chill of the spring air is starkly cold against your back.
(Maybe you regret doing nothing at all.)
There’s a complex yet achingly simple domesticity around you and Osamu, one centered around food and stories and the cosmos.
People are so much harder studies than stars—all the substance of the cosmos but without the longevity; millions of years’ worth of evolution condensed into every encounter—yet here you are, in constant pursuit, hand outstretched towards the edge of a new universe. The universe is expanding. The universe is Miya Osamu.
You wonder if you’ll ever get to where you want to be.
Miya Osamu stares at you from across the grocery aisle. “Hi.”
What the fuck. You blurt the most intelligent thing that comes to mind. “You’re awake?”
(There are certain things that far-off stars can’t shed light on, like whatever this is blooming in your chest at the sight of him outside his work uniform. It feels like an intrusion, a side of Osamu no one has yet seen before. Once again, your fingers graze an unknown universe.)
Caught off guard, he a blinks, before a grin pulls at the side of his mouth: the most unhelpful kind, the one that makes your heart race and hands clam up. “Well,” he drawls, “‘m not a bat. And I gotta restock my own house.”
You search his face, looking for any acknowledgement of what had just transpired the other night—the reason why you hadn’t the guts to return to Izakaya Miya for a week since.
There’s none.
He coughs, gesturing to your basket. Tofu, mushrooms, carrots, radish, scallions, and tsuyu broth. “Dinner?”
“Oh. tonight’s dinner, yes.” You shift your weight from side to side, pushing down the disappointment. “Well uh… happy shopping,” you manage, tearing your eyes away. (The universe slips on your fingers.)
“Wait,” he calls, your back halfway turned.
You whip your head around a little too fast, voice breathless. “Yeah?”
“I, uh… there’s a recipe i’ve been testing,” Osamu rubs the back of his neck, betraying his nervousness, “and if yer free later, or, uh, tomorrow…”
You hope your voice doesn’t sound too relieved. “Sure, I’ll come. see you later.” The hopeful smile that blooms on his face gives you a burst of courage.
His cooking is fantastic as always, and you did make a conscious effort to engage in conversation when you could; awkward encounters won’t stop you from being a good friend. For a while, it works.
“Let me ask ya a question.”
You huff, amused. “Not this again.” It’s been a while since you’ve played this game.
“Hey, I’m a simple guy. And ’m bored.”
“You like toeing the line of professionalism, don’t you?” He rests his forearms on the counter, leaning over to meet your gaze.
“Are ya gonna stop me?” Your breath catches. “That’s my question.”
The lights reflected in his irises are distracting—like stars, a part of you whispers unhelpfully, exactly the kinds of things you can never tear away from. It takes several seconds before you can find your words again.
“You’ve never stopped yourself, even when I tried to.” The pointed tone you try to voice comes out weak, a barely sharpened edge in the face of… whatever this is crackling in the space between you. You don’t look away. You can’t—the gravity makes it impossible to do anything but be swallowed whole.
(The nebulae in your heart are well and truly about to be born.)
He’s coming closer and closer, warm breath fanning across your cheeks. Your eyes dart to his lips; his gaze visibly darkens.
Then he pauses; terribly, achingly close.
“If ya want me to, I’ll stop now,” he whispers. Your heart pounds in your chest: a pulsing star, too bright and too hot to be trapped in a human body. But you’ve steeled your resolve.
(This time, you won’t let the universe slip away.)
Sucking in a breath, you grasp his shirt, leaning forward before pulling away equally quickly. It’s barely a brush, not even a taste or a mouthful or a kiss. Your insides are a solar storm of fear and fragility, mind hyperaware of the hand still fisted in his shirt. But you don’t think it’s a mistake.
Tell me when ya figured it out.
“This is where i want us to be.” Now, he’s the one speechless, mouth parted and frozen. The gears turn in his head before he grins breathlessly, remembering.
“Okay,” he whispers, still smiling, lacing the butterflies in your stomach with stardust. He doesn’t bother crossing to the other side of the counter, already closing the distance, mouth ghosting over yours, once, twice, stealing your breath away both times.
You sigh against his lips. “Miya-san—”
“Osamu,” he interrupts. “please.”
“Osamu,” you echo, tasting his name as it leaves your tongue.
Something seems to shift in him then, quiet affection remaining, but with an undercurrent of urgency. He cups your jaw, leaning in for a third time, murmuring against your lips, “Let me kiss ya properly.”
And he does. And does again. You drown in his lips, clutching him by his black uniform, holding on like he’s your lifeline to space—he tastes like salt and stars and whatever infinities are made of.
The equations are adding up, small calculations checking out and checking out until the whole picture lays spread before you, the universe in a midnight diner. You’ve figured it out. the final answer is this.
You’ve found stories in Miya Osamu, an entire universe’s worth that you wouldn’t mind exploring.