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In all honesty, Osamu should have listened to his mother. Mama Miya had always taught him and Atsumu that there’s no such thing as a free meal in the world — yet, how is Osamu to resist when there’s a table full of food laid out in front of him, creaking with the weight of the delicious dishes?
Sitting next to him, around this bountiful banquet table, are complete strangers. It should have been a sign that he can’t quite remember how he’s gotten here, especially if his last memory is of lying in a hospital bed, with his foot in a cast. And even if Osamu likes to pride himself as the smarter Miya twin, he has to admit that he does think with his stomach at times; and his stomach is telling him, food looks delicious, ya should just dig in.
He’s starving and he sees food, it’s a simple matter of 1+1 = Osamu eats first, and asks questions later.
So, there is little hesitation when he picks up his chop-sticks and dives into the feast.
He should have known, though, as he’s sucking the meat out of a particularly sweet crab leg, that food like this can’t exist in the human world. The taste is other-worldly, flavours only worthy for the gods. Still, Osamu isn’t going to question it; it’s only fair trade, he rationalises, after his terrible luck earlier today when he’d narrowly missed getting hit by a car, only to have been body-slammed by a swerving motor-bike and feeling his leg crumple beneath him. Ya win some and ya lose some, and then yer eat some more.
The bill for the meal arrives in the form of a very pleasant-looking young man, with jet black hair and gun-metal blue eyes. He’s wearing a white blouse that allows for the smallest peek of his collar-bones and a lush cloak, that’s a deep midnight blue. It’s all rather grand for someone who looks younger than Osamu is.
The stranger says, blank-faced but apologetic, “Miya-san, I’m afraid there may have been some kind of mistake.”
Osamu pauses, mid-bite, wondering how many onigiris he’d have to sell to make up for the unwise decision he’s just scoffed down. Totally worth it, is what he thinks, as he swallows down his mouthful of food. It slides gently down his gullet into his already bulging stomach. He tries to squirrel his features into something contrite, but he can’t help the way his lips curve upwards, too pleased from the meal, “I know I didn’t receive an invite. Just lemme know how much it all costs, I can cover it. I promise.”
“That may be a little difficult,” the stranger says, and Osamu could drown in the brilliant blue of his eyes. “You see, this meal is only for the recently departed.”
It takes a second for Osamu to formulate his response. He comes back with a very intelligent, “‘Ey?”
“For the dead,” the stranger says, patiently. “This feast is to welcome the dead. You’re in the Underworld, Miya-san.”
“I see,” Osamu says, nodding his head sagely, like it all makes sense. He looks down at the empty plate in front of him, streaked with the remnants of left-over sauces and bits of bone, looks up at the stranger, and then promptly passes out.
⸻
“So am I in trouble or something?” Osamu asks, when he finally comes to. “Am I -” he pauses, unsure, “Dead?”
“Don’t worry Miya-san, you’re still alive,” the stranger at the banquet says. Osamu notices the flecks of silver in the stranger’s eyes, glittering in the dark blue, like constellations waiting to be named. Pretty, he notices, because of course that’s what his brain fixates on in this mess of a situation. “I’d like to formally welcome you to the Underworld.”
Osamu looks around at where he is: he’s in a rather comfortable plush arm-chair, so encompassing that he thinks he could sink in and never come out. Death has its ways of claimin’ ya, is what he thinks to himself, and makes an effort to sit upright, in order to resist the sultry siren song of the chair.
There is a sturdy study desk dividing him and the stranger, papers neatly arranged on top, like he’s some sort of white-collar worker. The room they are in is no bigger than the cramped back-office he has at Onigiri Miya. Despite the small space, bookshelves heaving with books and folders line the walls. It should feel claustrophobic, but there’s nothing threatening about the room.
“Can I just say, if ya really have to take someone, you could have my twin instead.”
“If this were heaven, trading your brother’s life for yours wouldn’t put you in any good books,” the stranger says. “But I will extend an apology on behalf of my staff, it seems that they've mixed you up with someone else in the hospital. There had been another Osamu, two rooms from you.”
“Great, so I’mma make my leave then.”
“Unfortunately, you also ate a large amount of our food here which complicates the situation a little.”
“Look, if it’s just about payin’, just send me the tab —”
The stranger’s smile is thin, slightly pained, “It would be easier if it were that simple.”
“Y’know maybe I could speak with yer manager or somethin’?”
“Once again, I must apologise. I am what you would call the manager.”
“Yer the boss ‘round here?” asks Osamu, his eyes going wide.
Time may work funny in the Underworld, but the stranger standing in front of him doesn’t look any older than he is. It’s cruel the way life works, honestly, Osamu had just been starting to feel good about being a young and upcoming twenty-eight year old as the neighbourhood newspaper called him, about to open his second branch of Onigiri Miya (at Tokyo, no less!). Yet, he’s faced with the fact that there are people his age already running some nameless part of after life. Talk about a competitive world.
“You could say that,” the stranger’s eyes twinkle with a joke that Osamu knows he isn’t getting.
It takes a second for frustration and curiosity to battle themselves out within him, but curiosity wins out. There is a rather muted sense of self-satisfaction hanging around the stranger. Osamu jokes, “So you’re like — the God of the Underworld or something?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” the stranger says. “Administrator is another way of putting it.”
“Damn,” Osamu lets out a low whistle, leaning back into his chair, like it’s an everyday occurrence to meet with a God. Another thing that Mama Miya had always taught them: Never be afraid of people in power, they’re just regular human beings like you and me. Well, he supposes the stranger standing in front of him is less human than Mama Miya had meant, but he’s sure her aphorism still applies. “Y’all mustn’t have much to do if God is comin’ down to talk to me.”
That actually triggers laughter from the stranger — the God(?)—, all melodious and warm, discordant with the cool tones of the Underworld. “ A God not God,” he corrects, gently, even as the sound of his laughter lingers in Osamu’s ears.
“So, what’s gonna happen then?”
The stranger’s lips fall back into a straight line, much to Osamu’s disappointment. He pulls out a slim blue notebook seemingly out of nowhere, a minor magic trick for actual Gods, Osamu’s sure. He flips the book open, runs a slender finger down a page, murmuring quietly to himself. It’s all very dramatic, almost like a scene out of a movie.
A few minutes pass, with Osamu sitting in silence and the God doing whatever a God does, before he shuts the book with a quiet snap that rings in the air for several moments. It would seem very contrived if not for the fact that this seems to be an actual part of Osamu’s life.
“Based on the amount you’d consumed at our Welcome Feast, you’ll have to stay down here for two weeks and a half, at least.” He turns his blue eyes onto Osamu, looks at him, all assessing. “Maybe even three.”
Osamu almost falls out of his chair, “I hafta what?”
The God doesn’t look very apologetic at all when he apologises once again, “If you go up into the Overworld with our food in your stomach, I’m afraid you may burst into flames. We need to make sure it’s completely digested before you return.”
“Yer joking.”
“I’m really not,” the God says in a matter-of-fact tone, that still manages to sound like he is in fact joking. But honestly, what does Osamu know? He’s just the idiot that thought he was dead and gate-crashed his way into a feast for ghosts. The God looks at him coolly, as if able to read his thoughts, hey get outta my head if you really can is what Osamu thinks in response, emphasising this with a mental image of a tongue sticking rudely out of his mouth.
The God’s expression stays the same.
“Fine, I just hope they don’t pull the plug on me while I’m down here.”
“Wonderful,” the God says, and also makes no acknowledgement of the very real possibility that Osamu may actually pass away while he’s serving his time here. Osamu supposes he’s probably hoping for that, it would certainly make the God’s job a lot easier. The God strides out of the office, “I’ll show you to your lodgings.”
“If I’m gonna be yer captive for a few weeks, mind telling me yer name?” Osamu says, as he scrambles up from his chair to follow after.
He doesn’t expect the God to answer, “Akaashi Keiji.”
“Well, Akaashi,” Osamu begins, as a God not God Akaashi Keiji leads him through a series of winding hallways. “Word of advice, I know we’ve just met, but from one business owner to another, you really needa start hiring more staff.”
Outside of Akaashi’s messy, lived-in office, it seems like the minimalist Scandinavian trend has caught on in the Underworld. Potted plants line the corridors, pretty abstract paintings hang from the walls. He didn’t think the Underworld would look like the Bible’s fiery pits, but he certainly hadn’t expected it to resemble a spa.
“Thank you for your suggestion,” Akaashi answers, stopping in front of a nondescript door. He knocks gently first, waits for a few seconds, then opens the door. “Enjoy your stay here.”
Osamu peers in. The room is larger than his apartment back home. He turns to look at Akaashi but the God’s face betrays nothing. “Y’know if this is the Underworld, maybe it ain’t that bad, huh?”
“You’re welcome to extend your stay permanently,” Akaashi says. He strides off before Osamu can respond, not quite sure if he had been serious.
⸻
It’s probably not a surprise but the Underworld is neither dreary nor boring. Sure, you may have to get used to the screams of terror and the sounds of torture that sound off from some vague corner, but what’s life without some spice —
Not.
“How come yer not beatin’ any people up here?” Osamu asks, after the third night. He’s standing by the entrance of Akaashi’s office, where the door had been left wide open, which meant he was welcoming visitors, right? Akaashi doesn’t say anything and Osamu accepts that as an invitation to come in. “Thought there’d be way more action than this.”
This means the lack of anything much, really. It’s only been a few days and Osamu’s not one to judge, but the Underworld is frankly rather boring with its sleek wooden furniture and muted colour palette. He’s spent the past three days ambling about, trying to get a sense of how large the Underworld is.
The answer: friggin’ humongous.
Outside the mansion he’d been staying in (which apparently was the site for the Welcome Feast, and Akaashi’s office, and a set of apartments for new arrivals — Osamu reckons, the Underworld may be due for some better city planning), the land stretches out so long and wide, there’s a set of buses that run every half an hour, ferrying content-looking denizens to places they need to be.
Honestly, apart from the tinted lighting (everything is drenched in this purple-blue haze), he might as well be in a small town in Japan. It’s frankly rather bizarre, the way the Underworld seems to mirror the real world. Or was it the other way around? Osamu saves that thought to ask Akaashi at a later date.
Osamu doesn’t bother learning the names of his neighbours, despite their welcoming smiles. No point getting too attached, he reasons.
“I’m sorry we don’t live up to your expectations, Miya-san,” Akaashi says. His face is devoid of any emotion, but Osamu didn’t spend three years being teammates with one Suna Rintarou without picking up on the art of sarcasm.
“Just Osamu, please. Unless yer want to drag my brother down here too.”
“Once again, I must iterate that wishing death upon your brother won’t put you in the good books of any of the Gods,” Akaashi answers. It could be Osamu’s imagination, but he thinks he can detect the slightest lilt of amusement in Akaashi’s reply.
“Luckily, I only have one God I needa impress,” Osamu winks, not quite sure where his confidence is coming from. Then again, death does change people. “‘Sides, I’m not dead, am I?”
The impassive expression on Akaashi doesn’t waver as he answers, “Not yet.”
“Ya a funny one,” Osamu quips, then pauses. He doesn’t think it had been a threat, it certainly wasn’t delivered like one. Osamu frowns, doubting himself for a moment.
“Don’t worry. I’ve checked the records,” Akaashi’s voice interrupts him before he can start spiralling down the rabbit-hole of speculation. “You have plenty of days ahead of you, so long as you make it back up to the surface.”
“Right,” Osamu grins, like he hadn’t been a second away from questioning his own mortality. “An’ that’s just how many days again?”
“My records also show that you do not have memory loss,” Akaashi says. “I’m sure you recall my prior warning that you may burst into flames if you return to the surface world before three and a half weeks.”
“Thought yer said two and a half.”
“Well,” and here there’s no denying it, Akaashi has the faintest hint of a smile. “We better be safe than sorry.”
⸻
Day 5 — Osamu is bored. And hungry.
Well, he’s not hungry exactly. But he misses food as fiercely as he misses unfiltered bright sunshine, as much as he misses the warm steam of his kitchen.
The first problem is the most easily solvable, so no one can blame him for stealing a bite of the onigiri they’re serving at dinner. It’s just part of conducting field research, to find out how other-worldly onigiri can be. He’s being a good entrepreneur, staking out the competition.
“That’s an extra two days here.”
“That doesn’t even make sense!” Osamu scoffs, frustrated. “How’s one crappy onigiri worth two days?”
Akaashi taps his slender blue book, like it’s supposed to be a valid answer.
“It wasn’t even that good anyway,” huffs Osamu. “I can make ‘em tons better than that.”
⸻
It’s Day 8 when Osamu finds out that the body the God is inhabiting had been born in the same year as Osamu was, just shy of a few months. He takes to calling Akaashi Akaashi-kun instead. Some may call it idiocy, but hey — Osamu’s just a step away from death, or well, several corridors down from death if one wants to be exact about it. Either way, what’s the worst he has to fear?
“Dear Akaashi had passed away before his twenty-fourth birthday, but he was born in the same year as you,” Osamu catches a whiff of the dramatics about Akaashi as he relays this information.
“How did ya die?” Osamu pauses. His apologetic tone doesn’t convince anyone, “If it ain’t rude to ask.”
“I was poisoned by food I’d eaten at a stranger’s party, Miya-san,” is what Akaashi’s answer, entirely straight-faced.
“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Osamu says, but the curve of his smile betrays his true sentiment. He continues, more to have the last word than anything else, “An’ it’s Osamu to you.”
⸻
It’s after Akaashi turns into Akaashi-kun that Osamu starts to trail him on his daily walk-abouts of the Underworld.
(“We don’t take too kindly to the word Hell,” Akaashi had informed Osamu, after Osamu had asked about whether there were hellhounds around that he could see, I like dogs but I can’t keep ‘em cuz I wouldn’t have time to look after them. “Too much religious baggage.”)
Akaashi had been right. He’s not so much God or Ruler or Overlord or anything fancy like such myths suggest. Administrator had been the best word, with the way Akaashi asks after each denizen they encounter, often going door to door to find out more about their lives and their needs.
He’s almost like a hotel manager. No, he’s better than a manager from even the best hotels. Akaashi’s promises and assurances come readily: yes, we can look into having greater variety at the evening meals; no, unfortunately, it’ll be challenging to find the dog that had passed away when you were 12; there isn’t such a thing as Wifi here, but we do have an extensive library, and perhaps that may suit your fancy even more?
“I dunno how you stand it,” Osamu grumbles, his feet protesting with the miles and miles it feels like they’ve walked. Akaashi is several paces in front, steps still light and brisk. If they were in a Disney movie, Osamu’s sure there’d be flowers springing up behind in his wake. Akaashi’s pretty enough to challenge any Disney princess, for one. Is that insensitive? he has to wonder, to attribute the birth of new life to an agent of death.
“What can’t I stand?”
“Being nice to all these people all the time,” Osamu answers, as Akaashi nods in greeting to two denizens walking by. “Don’t ya get tired of it?”
Akaashi pauses mid-step. He turns around slowly to meet Osamu in the eye, all meditative, as he answers, “I suppose it’s no different from you wanting to make sure your customers are well taken care of when they’re at Onigiri Miya.”
"Ri - right, yer right,” Osamu says, ducking his gaze. There’s a blush creeping up the side of his cheek. He’d like to blame it on sunburn after being out and about for the past few hours, but the Sun is a muted pale thing down here. Instead, Osamu clears his throat and throws out a poor excuse of a subject change, “‘Ey, so any chance I can try a bowl of ramen?”
To his credit, all Akaashi does is let out a sigh, spin back on his heel, and continue on walking.
⸻
“Hey Akaashi-kun, I’ve a favour to ask of ya,” Osamu says, on Day 11 of his stay in Hotel California. Akaashi looks up from his desk where he’d been examining a document closely, face impassive as always. Eleven days have honed his eyes though, and Osamu can detect the faintest air of amusement around him, “Is there any way I can slip a note upstairs?”
Akaashi considers this question for a long moment. “Yes, that would be possible,” he says eventually. Osamu lets out a long breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.
“Great!” Osamu grins, “So how do we do this? Would it be like a haunting?”
He can already imagine writing something creepy on Atsumu’s mirror, maybe even smashing something. Damn, he hopes he gets to smash something, that would be cool.
“Something like that,” Akaashi answers, in a way that makes it increasingly clear to Osamu that Akaashi truly has a penchant for understated dramatics.
Something like that turns out to be dream-walking, which honest to God (or was it Gods? given that Osamu’s pretty sure Akaashi isn’t the only otherworldly supreme being around) is pretty damn cool. “The temperature may take a little getting used to,” Akaashi says, a little apologetic. He gestures at a tub full of what looks like a strange gelatinous substance behind him. The not-liquid glows strangely, like it’s emitting its own light.
Osamu eyes it warily, “I haveta sit in that?”
Akaashi nods an affirmative, having already explained the mechanics of the entire thing on their way over. Osamu has to admit, most of it had escaped him; the only thing that stuck was that he’d have to dunk his body in a vat of water or something. Now that he’s standing in front of the vat of water or something, he’s starting to re-think this entire plan.
Well, no time like the present.
“Sure I won’t drown?” Osamu asks, as he takes a step into the tub. Then lets out an involuntary gasp at the sensation. The cold is biting, goes straight to his bone like a million sharp spears piercing his skin. It’s deeper than he’d initially thought, and the not-liquid reaches his shin. “This isn’t some ploy to get me dead faster to save ya the time, is it?”
Akaashi smiles at him, as Osamu gingerly lowers the rest of his body into the pool, yelping at the cold as he does, “I’ll be here the whole time. Don’t worry.”
He’s lying flat now, floating just gently on the surface of the not-liquid. His entire body is both freezing and burning with the cold. Osamu looks up at Akaashi, who appears now upside-down in his vision. It should make him feel self-conscious that Akaashi’s going to just be beside his sleeping body the entire time, but Osamu’s too distracted by the cold to think of anything else.
Hold up, what if I say somethin’ weird out loud? occurs to him in a flash of panic, and Osamu opens his mouth to ask when —
He’s suddenly in the arms of someone.
It’s Atsumu, who’s leaning in close to him, lips puckered in the most disgusting pre-kiss face ever. God, who would ever want to kiss this scrub? Osamu lets out a noise of disgust, and Atsumu’s eyes spring open.
“What the fuck?” Atsumu exclaims, pupils blown out in panic. He shoves Osamu away and brandishes an accusatory finger in Osamu’s direction. “What the hell are yer doing here?”
“What the hell were you doing?” Osamu asks, then looks down at what he’s wearing. It’s the MSBY Black Jackals uniform, and a look of understanding crosses his face. He turns his head back to see if he can read the name stretched out across the back of the shirt. His face melts into a shit-eating grin, “Dreamin’ about Omi-omi, weren’t we?”
“Shut yer trap,” shoots Atsumu back, an automatic reflex, before his expression softens. “Hey, y- yer okay, right? Yer not visitin’ me from the grave or somethin’ creepy like that?”
“Yea, about that, don’t worry, I’m not dead.” Osamu scratches the back of his head, unsure if he should add on the caveat, “Yet, I think.”
“I know that, you idiot, I just visited ya today at —” the word curdles in Atsumu’s mouth before he can say it, and Osamu feels a pang of guilt at the way his twin’s eye dim. He finishes the sentence, quietly, “I saw you.”
“I’m fine,” Osamu doesn’t even know where to begin. “It may take me a lil while to get back.”
As if he senses something amiss, Atsumu narrows his eyes suspiciously, “Whatcha mean, ‘Samu?”
“Listen, just don’t pull the plug on me for another, maybe, I dunno, one month or so. But I’m fine, I promise.”
“Geez, ya think we’re made of money?” With Osamu’s safety assured, the protests fly readily out of Atsumu’s mouth. If they were knives, Osamu would be skewered by now. It wouldn’t be that inconvenient, his body’s already transported to the Underworld after all. “One month would cost a bomb. Ya know how many machines they have hooked up to yer dumb body? Yer might as well be a robot.”
Osamu rolls his eyes, “What’s the point of yer going pro then?”
“Fine.” Atsumu pauses, and takes another look at Osamu. Call it twin intuition or whatever, but there’s no escaping Atsumu, he states, disbelievingly, “Yer up to something, aren’t ya.”
“I’ll explain it to ya when I get back. Now, I’ll let yer get back to what you were doing.” he says with a lewd smile, and Atsumu lunges straight at him, except Osamu’s gone and now gasping up for air, sitting in the bath of not-liquid that’s now warm in the same way when someone’s peed in the pool. Did I pee? Osamu panics, as Akaashi smiles down at him, beautific and perfect.
“Welcome back.”
“Did I say anythin’ weird?”
“Nothing more than usual,” Akaashi answers, that sounds like it’s both an insult and a compliment. The God offers a hand out to him, which Osamu gratefully accepts to pull himself out of the tub. Akaashi’s fingers are warm against his cold palms, and a tingle travels down the length of Osamu’s arm, fizzling off poetically somewhere near his heart. “I do want to meet your brother one day.”
Osamu pulls his hand away quickly, then covers the motion by waving his hand lazily in the air. “Yea well, don’t get yer hopes up. He’s not much of a looker and dumb as a brick.”
“Even so.”
“Even so, he’s the only one I got,” Osamu says. He blinks surprised, like he hadn’t expected to say something as sincere as that. “You’ll like him. If ya do meet him.”
Akaashi hums non-committedly. It’s the way he sounds almost pleased with himself that has Osamu realises the mistake he’s made. Does Death operate the same way as vampires do, how they can’t enter your house until you invite them in? Osamu isn’t taking any chances. “That’s not permission for ya to kill him earlier than he needs to be dead. ‘Tsumu’s got lots of plans for his life, so if yer deprive him of that, I’m gonna haveta wring your neck.”
Nonplussed, Akaashi raises his hands in mock-surrender. There is an amused smile on his lips, as he says, innocently like Osamu doesn’t know any better, “I would never dream of it.”
“Good,” Osamu huffs, all unconvincing hot air. He jabs an entirely unthreatening finger in Akaashi’s direction, but they both play along like there’s some sort of real threat being made, “Don’t ever tell him I said that to ya, he’ll never let me live it down.”
“You have my word, Miya-san.”
⸻
On Day 15, Osamu ends up pocketing a handful of the sweetest cherries he’s ever seen. The juice is dribbling down his chin, dark red and sticky, when Akaashi discovers his hiding place: an alcove just a corner away from the main kitchens in the mansion.
“What’s the damage?” Osamu asks, not even bothering to hide the pits, as Akaashi shakes his head at him, seemingly disappointed.
“Three days.”
Osamu grins, his lips cherry-red, “Worth it.”
⸻
On Day 18, Osamu opens his apartment door only to find a plastic bag hanging on the outer door knob. Inside the bag are onigiri of several flavours, a few packets of chips, and a couple slabs of chocolate, as well as a receipt from a supermarket, proving assurance of their origin.
There’s a note pinned to it, printed in neat handwriting: In case you’re hungry.
⸻
“Hey, Akaashi-kun, can I ask ya somethin’?”
It’s Day 22 or 23, Osamu has frankly lost count but he’s sure Akaashi knows if he were to check with him.
“I don’t suppose me pointing out that you just did would stop you.”
“Nope,” Osamu says, popping the end of the word. He slides into the office seat in front of Akaashi. He’s been in here so often it’s highly likely that the chair has been molded to the shape of his butt. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen anyone else in Akaashi’s office. “Whatcha miss most about being human?”
The answer is quick, like Akaashi’s thought about this before, “New experiences. Getting to learn about the world myself. Listening second-hand to our denizens is nice, but sometimes it’s not enough.”
“Ah,” Osamu nods in understanding. “That’s why yer so under-staffed here. This is a common rookie mistake, where ya do everythin’ yerself instead of having more people to help ya.”
Akaashi raises an eyebrow, but his eyes glimmer with amusement. Osamu takes this as encouragement to proceed to his second line of query, “And were ya always Akaashi?”
“Didn’t you say you only had one question?”
“Well yer told me I only needed to be here for two and a half weeks, but I’m still here, aren’t I?” Osamu points out wryly. They both politely ignore the fact that if Osamu hadn’t had two separate unscheduled snack breaks, he’d be happily back on the surface right now. “Numbers work weird here, huh.”
There’s a bemused expression on Akaashi’s face, but he doesn’t contradict Osamu’s statement.
“So, how come yer chose Akaashi?” Osamu asks again, leaning in.
There’s a long pause as Akaashi contemplates this question, taking his time this round. A stillness that settles into the room, as he’s deep in thought. “There’s no reason, really,” he says eventually, speaking slowly like he’s still sifting through his thoughts. He’s looking down at his hands, where his fingers are twisted together. “We switch bodies now and then, and while the body does need to have an affinity with me, there’s no theory behind it.”
He lapses into a silence that sounds like it contains a half-finished thought. Osamu waits.
“But I do enjoy being Akaashi,” Akaashi concludes, quietly. He looks up at Osamu, his blue eyes are inscrutable.
“Well, I like ya too, Akaashi-kun,” Osamu tries to say teasingly. It comes out heavier than he intends. The words sink into the space between them.
⸻
“Do I need to charge you again?” comes Akaashi’s question, all flat and disapproving, when he finds Osamu in the kitchen, an apron tied loosely around his waist.
Osamu turns around, holding a ladle up in surrender. “I swear, I didn’t eat anythin’ this time.” On the stove, there’s a pot of miso soup bubbling away, the product of three hours worth of effort. Of which, one hour had been spent convincing the denizens who were on kitchen duty to let him take control of the kitchen for just a few hours, I’ll even clean up after myself so ya don’t have to worry about nothin’.
“Well, I thought to cook somethin’ for yer, since yer always looking after other people,” Osamu continues sheepishly. Now that Akaashi’s in front of him, it seems like a dumb idea. He soldiers on, ladling out a bowlful of soup, and placing it next to the plate of onigiri he’s prepared. Akaashi watches, with that impenetrable gaze of his, not saying anything, and Osamu wilts a little.
This had been a silly venture — he hadn’t even been able to taste any of the dishes he’d prepared, wouldn’t be able to attest to the quality of what he’s presenting Akaashi with. What was I thinking?
“S’alright if ya not hungry,” Osamu offers, reaching over for the plate.
Akaashi’s hand darts out, rests lightly on Osamu’s wrist to stop him. His touch is gentle, but Osamu inhales sharply at the unexpected contact.
“I am,” Akaashi says, reaching over with the other hand to pick up one onigiri. His eyes are fixed on the rice-ball, as he says, so very quietly, “Thank you for the food.”
⸻
On Day 30 — one day before Osamu is released from purgatory and gets to rejoin the world above — he steals a pomegranate from the kitchens. He’s already swallowed one seed when Akaashi catches him.
“We really needa stop meetin’ like this,” Osamu grins. He stretches his arm out towards Akaashi, offering the fruit. “Want one?”
“Miya-san, that’s another two days,” Akaashi says, sounding stern, but his eyes give him away.
“At this point, I feel like ya just makin’ up dates,” Osamu says, just to play along. “How’s one seed worth two days, when it’s so much smaller than an onigiri?”
“Like I said, better safe than sorry,” the God sniffs, crossing his arms. He shakes his head, like a disappointed teacher, “You were so close to going home. And it’s not like human bodies get hungry down in the Underworld.” There’s a tinge of exasperation and frustration in the last sentence.
For all the books that Akaashi-kun has in his room , Osamu muses, it turns out he’s not all that clever after all.
“Akaashi-kun, the food here is great an’ all, but that’s not the only reason why I keep eating,” Osamu says slowly. He raises an eyebrow and says with more confidence than a 28 year old man should have while speaking to a God, “Yer know that right?”
It takes a moment.
A long moment; Osamu contemplates burying his head into the ground, if he’d over-stepped somehow.
He’s sure there are probably rules against hitting on a God. It’s probably worth a one-way ticket to the real Hell, one where they don’t serve you delicious food at all meal times. Where they make you eat crappy processed food all the time.
Or even worse - one where food and eating don’t even exist as a concept. Osamu wonders how he can claw back the words left hanging in the air, all bright and neon and forming a giant LOSER sign pointing straight at him.
“Oh ,” Akaashi finally breathes out. The single syllable contains more wonder and astonishment than any sound should hold; Osamu’s wild thoughts slam into a brick wall of reason, while Osamu’s heart sings.
Maybe he’ll be spared from real Hell, after all.
Then, impossibly, Akaashi blushes so deeply that Osamu can almost hear the whistling of steam coming out from Akaashi’s ears. He addresses the space next to Osamu’s head, “There are other ways you can come back down here, if you’d like to.”
“Yer mean, without kickin’ the bucket, right?” Osamu blurts out the question before he thinks it through, the earlier anxiety having apparently demolished any self-filter he may or may not have had.
Akaashi laughs, a genuine chest-rumbling one that has Osamu smiling along with him, his heart almost bursting open, “I promise, on my life, no harm will come to you.”
⸻
Back in Akaashi’s office, the God gives Osamu a small tortoise-shell button. “It’ll take you back here,” Akaashi says, concluding his long explanation of how the button would work. Osamu had stopped listening halfway through, content with just watching Akaashi talk. “Just hold it tight in your hand, and think of any place here.”
Osamu examines the button closely: it shimmers like star-dust, like a thousand stars winking at him. Still wondering if the button really does contain a galaxy within it, he says, absently, “Ya know, I’ve never done long distance before.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Akaashi stills.
“‘M not sayin’ that we’re in a long distance or anythin’,” Osamu scrambles to recover, waving his hands frantically in the air. His palms are sweaty, he grips the button, afraid that it’d fly out of his hand with his gestures. “Just -”
“Well, I’ve never been in one either,” Akaashi interrupts, before Osamu can make a bigger fool of himself. His eyes are glittering with humour (this time, with a joke that Osamu thinks he’s in on), as he says, “Turns out you learn new things as a God.”
Going back to the real world is a similar process to dream-walking.
Osamu’s ready for the cold when he slides into the vat of liquid, biting back a gasp. In his palm is the button. Even in the cold liquid, it’s warm, humming like an engine ready to go.
“Guess this is goodbye for now,” Osamu says, looking up at Akaashi above him. He tries to think of something cooler to say as his final farewell, but —
Akaashi leans over and presses the lightest of all kisses against Osamu’s cheek. To be honest, it’s barely a kiss, just the faintest suggestion of one, yet Osamu feels like he may just implode from the contact. Just kill me now, Osamu thinks wildly, ‘cause that’s the closest to heaven I’ll ever needa feel.
The God pulls away, barely hiding a smile, as if he can hear Osamu’s thoughts. Come to think of it, I never did ask him if he could, occurs to Osamu. For both their sakes, he genuinely hopes not. Akaashi looks at him, his gaze all soft and gentle-blue like swimming pools you could do endless laps in on a hot summer’s day.
“Akaashi-kun, I —” Osamu starts to say, needing to say something, anything.
He can feel the edges of his being blur out slowly. It’s like his entire being is vibrating, evaporating and turning into some other matter, although whether this is an after-effect of the kiss or part of the process returning home is unclear.
He tries to say something but his vocal cords have stopped working, like they’ve already been erased.
And as Osamu fades out, he hears Akaashi call out to him. The dramatic being that he is, he’s chosen his parting words very wisely: “I’m looking forward to your next visit, Osamu.”