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Life’s a twin set of experiences, a duality of circumstances. Life's a two-faced bitch.
It lends a winking eye while bringing down misery and sneers when handing out favours. Whenever the fates toss a coin, they start to snicker before it even falls. For it will be one and the same: faced with two options, it’ll always land ugly side up. Osamu finds himself confronted with that revelation, along with a twofold ending of his own.
On one side, the end of yet another year. On the other, the end of Onigiri Miya.
The first end is inevitable, which is fine enough. Osamu’s had his share of years, and by the twenty-third, he’s given up on wrestling the arms of clockwork. Time passes, life goes on, et cetera, et cetera. Years end, regardless of whether Osamu wants to celebrate their passing or turn his face to ignore it. He might as well look on.
The second end is also inevitable, which makes it all the more painful. It's the end of a dream— his dream. Worst of all, there's nothing he can do but watch as the final ball drops on the court. He had played a hopeless match against an invisible opponent: felt the urge to remain hopeful, even when things had started to look rough. Has had the confidence that simply more effort would compensate for the lack of points piling up. Has thought that keeping his eyes fixed on what’s ahead would save him from slowly falling behind. And, finally, has realised that all determination to turn things around in the third set is pointless if the whistle rings your defeat by the end of the second.
Onigiri Miya had customers, but when all was said and done, it didn't have enough. A smile from a bite of Osamu's food may have sufficed to brighten his day, but it couldn't pay his electric bills. It could cover neither insurance nor any of the other expenses demanding to be fulfilled. It certainly wasn’t enough to hold on to his employees, his team . He had to let go of them, one after the other. With Osamu struggling to make ends meet by selling onigiri, the only solution was to let go of his dream. All it took was two sets of hands; from the rice and salt in his palms, to the final handshake, sealing his role as the defeated. In the end he’d been tired, worn out from receiving continuous blows, but looking back was a luxury he couldn’t afford. No longer was it his game to play; Onigiri Miya was no longer his court.
* * *
Osamu looks at the road meant to carry him home: to his father, slouched over last sunday’s crossword puzzle, uttering Osamu's name like requesting a five letter word for disappointment. To his mother, warning not to bite the hand that feeds him (ignorant to the fact that he's fed himself for a while now.) To Atsumu's boyfriend, whose bird-boned soul serves as a reminder that the difference between falling and flying is a matter of anatomy. And to Atsumu himself, ready to flaunt his personal happiness, cheeks full of shit for being crowned the premature victor of their bet. Smiling comes easy to lips that taste success.
Osamu knows this is what awaits within the walls of his childhood home. Whatever unbearable emotions his family’s prepared to spare him, he also knows they would spare him of their feelings if it came down to it— when it came down to it. He fears he’ll break in face of their sympathy.
When he takes the second exit instead of the third roughly thirty minutes from his destination, the thought of being foolish crosses his mind, but he keeps going. Osamu drives on narrow roads, letting asphalt turn to gravel in the gloom of frozen rice fields. They bear witness to his flight without judgment, as unbiased as the person who tends to them. Only after knocking twice does Osamu register that he's not just being foolish, but impolite, too. He’s crawling to Kita’s doorstep uninvited, bringing troubles that should worry Osamu alone. The night sky condemns his foolishness in silence. Osamu should have known it would judge him, for Kita doesn’t tend to it like he does to the soil.
Osamu’s shoulders drop, crestfallen, his shadow slouching under the moonlight. He could still turn around. Go home to his family. Kita would forgive the almost intrusion— chances were, he hadn’t heard Osamu‘s knock in the first place. And if he did, what’s one more thing to add to Osamu’s list of pending apologies?
"Osamu." The door slides open. Kita’s initial surprise gives way to a smile in a matter of seconds. He’s warm somehow, the dimmed light above him blurs the already fuzzy outline of his sweater. Osamu’s forgotten just how approachable Kita looks within the comfort of his own home. (It had surprised him when he’d first visited with a business deal in tow.)
Osamu releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
"Kita-san," he says and watches Kita's brows furrow in a manner that says something along the lines of I thought we'd been over this topic. "Shinsuke," he corrects himself. "I’m so— "
Osamu’s interrupted by a second pair of feet shuffling along the corridor. “If it’s Mako-san, ya tell her we’ll only accept sweet potatoes if she takes some of our pumpkins in return. And don’t she dare smuggle them to our door like last— Oh. It’s Osamu-chan,” Kita Yumie says, approaching the genkan. She gives Osamu a once-over with the same prodding eyes he used to fear in his captain. ”Ya look dreadful, my child. Why don’tcha come inside, and I’ll put the kettle on.”
Shinsuke’s brows furrow once more. She’s right, ya know, his face says this time. Osamu can only imagine.
Once inside, he’s promptly tucked underneath the kotatsu with several plates set in front of him. “Eat,” Yumie orders, “Ya look famished.” Osamu feels the need to decline out of principle. He needs none of Yumie’s sympathy, especially not when he can’t even face that of his own family. He comes short (once again). It’s only seconds until he takes the first bite, then the second. The guilt nearly gets stuck in his throat, hidden among his appetite. Still, hearing Yumie’s satisfied hum quickly frees him of any bitter feelings that come with accepting the hospitality offered to him. There's no use in fighting an old woman dishing out affection on tiny plates.
Shinsuke watches him, giving Osamu no clue as to what he might think of the sudden intrusion. “I didn’t consider you’d come here,” he comments after a moment, carefully filling Osamu’s cup with tea— houjicha from the smell of it. Osamu suspects he’s being served low-caffeine tea on purpose. The way Shinsuke pours shows enough consideration that makes it clear he has thought through his selection. Apparently, he’s also thought about where Osamu would go tonight.
"So what brings ya?” Yumie asks. Shinsuke’s grandma is sweet, but she doesn’t feel the need to sugarcoat. “If I had known, I’d’ve made ya a proper meal," she continues, decidedly ignoring the array of plates she’d placed in front of Osamu. Yumie laughs in dismissal, "Well, how rude of me— of course it's none of my business." It strikes a sore spot without meaning to. It wasn't Osamu's business either, not anymore.
"I..." Osamu tries over the rim of his cup. ...don't know. ...don't want to say it out loud. I don't want to go home. Too many versions of the same, sad truth lay waiting at the tip of his tongue. Osamu swallows down each one before he has the chance to undo himself. The potential to spill his tea was one thing, to spill tears another.
“I see,” Shinsuke says.
Yumie pats his shoulder. “Well, be sure to eat up, boy.”
The two remain quiet after that, wordlessly watching him eat, as if Osamu could choke on his feelings at any moment now. Only after Osamu sets down the final plate, scraped clean with surprising hunger, does Shinsuke speak up again.
"I'll draw ya a bath, if ya want?" he offers, taking Osamu by surprise. He hadn’t thought ahead when he came crawling to Shinsuke’s doorstep, but Osamu’d assumed he’d be sent on his way once he was done stalling for time. Fed like a stray and then turned back out into the night.
Was he allowed to stay?
“Of course yer allowed to stay,” says Shinsuke, like kindness comes free to him, like it’s as easy as breathing. He takes Osamu’s plates and gets up without waiting for an answer.
* * *
The bathroom is saturated with the smell of lavender, the water tinted a forgiving shade of purple. Once more, Osamu’s taken aback at the level of consideration Shinsuke applies to everyday life: first the tea, bearing his sleep in mind, and now a scent meant to calm so close to bedtime. Though maybe it’s meant to sedate Osamu's mind, to soothe the wound cut so clean and deep, Osamu has yet to feel the actual pain. He suspects which one’s true and which would be easier to accept.
Sinking deep into the water, Osamu closes his eyes and takes in the scent. He floats in this moment, the black of his eyes turning to lavender fields in his mind. His body exists beyond the passing of time, if only for the time being. Sinking further, he wades through waves of purple blossoms, feels their leafy caress on his skin. Even in his imagination, he can make out the difference to touching Shinsuke’s plants in his fields. Osamu remembers the lightness of each leaf when Shinsuke had shown him how to plant the seedlings. How Shinsuke had rolled up his sleeves to dip his hands into the water— steady and precise. How he’d smiled, doing the work he loved. It makes him wonder what Shinsuke would look like surrounded by plants that weren’t his own. Had he ever been to lavender fields in person? Maybe, if Osamu hadn’t let him down as a partner, they could have gone on a business trip of sorts, taken a vacation to Hokkaido to strengthen their partnership. He figures Shinsuke would thrive on any kind of soil, that he’d smile regardless of which plants surround him.
Osamu lets go of the thought. There was no use pondering what-ifs, now that they were no longer options. His roots were no longer connected to the rice on Kita’s fields, neither was there a need to stay connected. Nothing could grow forever; neither rice nor lavender outlasts the new winter’s frost.
Osamu releases a breath, and with it all the moments that brought him to this now. He lets go, like he let go of the keys to his shop earlier that day, though it hadn't felt like much of a moment at the time. Only now, in the embrace of Kita’s home, can Osamu process Onigiri Miya no longer exists, is no longer his. Not the plant winding its way across the wall, carefully nurtured with rice water that Osamu knew better than to pour down the drain. Not the dent on the counter, the signature of Atsumu’s forehead left during the drunken revelry of Osamu’s opening night. Not the calendar of the men’s national volleyball team (with actual signatures) that Osamu secretly hung in the storage room. He left it behind with all the other trinkets, but not before turning the page back to October. Hopefully, someone might find to appreciate his brother’s smiling face, now that Osamu himself could no longer smile there.
He doesn't even realise he's crying until he's drowning in it. Until he's choking— on sobs, on tears, on broken dreams. Osamu is taken by wave after wave, swallowed by a deadly surge rather than floating in Shinsuke's bathtub. Knowing he’s safe makes no difference, not when he’s pulled into the deep. Not when he’d guided himself into the wreckage.
Knowing Shinsuke is going to hear him is something else. Being found like this— crying, barely afloat— is almost a certainty if Osamu doesn’t stop himself. Yet all efforts to muffle his sounds only make them worse. Osamu can’t stop the noises spilling from his mouth no matter how hard he tries.
The bathroom door opens, unnoticed over the sobs spilling from his mouth.
"I'm just dropping in fresh towels for ya. I'll leave them— " Shinsuke stares at him with widened eyes, like hearing what Osamu’s been up to and seeing it are two different realities. Osamu knows. There’s no pretending that the trails on his cheeks were caused by steam, but Osamu hasn’t seen himself. "Please excuse me for disturbing; I'll leave ya alone." It might be worse than expected.
It would be better if Shinsuke turned his back now; there was hope they could pass it off as an accident— an incident, at worst. Go on pretending like Osamu hadn't invaded someone else's home and was now sobbing in their bathtub; pretend, like the tears on Osamu’s cheeks weren’t the result of him sinking his dream in an ocean of his own making. They might have seen each other cry in high school, but they'd been boys then— enough time had passed for their youthful tears to dry. Now, with his soul and body laid bare, Osamu could actually drown himself, if it only meant that Shinsuke wouldn’t see him this vulnerable.
"Please, don't go," he chokes, despite himself. The water swallows his plea. He waits for Shinsuke to lecture him. Life had struck him purple, now Shinsuke would expect him to turn the other cheek. Osamu braces himself for the impact.
"Would ya like me to wash yer hair?" Shinsuke asks with all the calmness Osamu lacks, "Obaa-chan used to do it for me. It helps.” Whatever Osamu expected, it wasn’t this. Not trusting what sounds might escape his mouth, he nods.
“Good.” Shinsuke lowers himself to kneel by the bathtub and rolls up his sleeves. He moves like he does everything else: with patience, with care, with sufficient intent to give his actions meaning. Osamu remembers the bruises that would bloom on Kita’s forearms from practicing receives, the blueish sheen of forget-me-nots painting his skin from taking blow after blow. None of them remained now. The Shinsuke in front of him only shines golden.
“Okay?” he asks. Osamu gives another sniffly nod.
Shinsuke’s hands dip into the water. Osamu’s mind flashes back to seedlings being planted in Shinsuke’s rice paddy. “Now don’t stop crying just ‘cause I’m starting to touch ya,” he says, reaching for the shampoo, “It's important to let go of everything, ya know."
Osamu doesn’t expect to, but he huffs at the irony. Wasn’t letting go exactly what brought him here? Still, with Shinsuke's permission, Osamu finds it more bearable to breathe. The tears on his face no longer threaten to drown him and spill from his eyes with a little more ease.
Steady fingers start to wander over Osamu’s scalp, tracing patterns, applying pressure. Osamu’s eyes fall shut as he takes a deep breath once more, returning to the lavender fields of his mind. Only, this time Shinsuke stands beside him amidst the sea of purple. He gets lost in the patterns traced on his head, accompanied by the sound of Shinsuke humming under his breath. When he cups up water to pour over Osamu’s head, it feels like a long-awaited rain, flushing his tears away.
It takes a second for Osamu to reopen his eyes and return to the present. It takes another to comprehend their situation. "I hafta look pathetic like this," Osamu sniffles after a moment. He hopes Shinsuke gets his meaning, even if his words weren’t completely honest to his concerns.
Kita shrugs. "There are worse ways to look." The way he says it is nolanchant, but his eyes are infinitely soft— like he means to say, Ya look good, even like that, like he’s allowing Osamu to be broken.
Blaming the tears still clouding his vision, Osamu blinks the notion away. "I could have a terrible bleach job, I guess."
Osamu’s joke lacks intent to be funny, but Shinsuke smiles nonetheless. His look carries none of the sympathy that Osamu dreaded from his family. He’s neither smug, nor sorry or pitying. Shinsuke is present. It’s enough.
“It really wasn’t that terrible back then,” Shinsuke says and reaches for the shampoo once more, “but I like how it is now.” If there’s a lesson in Shinsuke’s compliment, Osamu fails to see it. It doesn’t matter, not when Shinsuke reaches for his head again; steady hands moving, his testament.
Repetition. Consistency. Care. Only Shinsuke would be able to make a ritual of something as simple as rinsing someone's hair.
That night, Osamu falls asleep to the smell of Shinsuke's shampoo. He doesn't dream.
* * *
The morning brings a time for reckoning. When Osamu wakes up late in a room that isn't his own, he remembers the previous evening: the impromptu visit, the meal, the bathtub. Osamu’s barely conscious (hell , he didn’t even have breakfast yet), but his stomach twists, trying to digest the unbidden images that his memory feeds him. The way Shinsuke had rolled up his sleeves to wash Osamu’s hair. How Osamu had sat there, comforted, naked. It makes him sink his nails into the flesh of his forearm, burning with a multitude of feelings. Shame’s certainly one of them— solace, another.
Though some reluctant part of Osamu latched on to the hope that Shinsuke would let them forget the whole ordeal, he knows it isn’t his way of doing things. Comfort doesn’t come without confrontation and neither does devotion offer itself blindly. Osamu would have to face the emotions that he’d rather hide from in daylight.
Shinsuke himself is already up; his futon is rolled and tucked away, probably long since sunrise. When they'd left the bathroom last night, the second bed had already been laid out on the floor. It was easy to fall asleep in the comfortable familiarity of Shinsuke’s presence and the weightlessness of his body brought by crying. He hadn’t realised just how tired he was until then. Crying had drained enough of him to flood out all his thoughts about the intimacy of being alone. It didn’t feel like it was Shinsuke and him, so much as it was Kita and Osamu. Like their teammates were within arms reach. Atsumu, snuck out, watching game tapes on his phone. Akagi, fitfully turning in his sleep from excitement. Omimi, snoring like an old man (although he’d deny it). As much as he used to fear his captain, Osamu had always fallen asleep with ease under Kita’s watchful eye whenever they’d been away for camps and scrimmages.
Now the only reminder of Shinsuke's presence is a bundle of clothes and, resting on top of it, a note.
The clothes are for you to wear; Obaa-chan threw yours in the wash. (Apologies.) I thought these might fit you best, but feel free to pick out anything you want while you stay. Breakfast’s put aside for you, so rest. Find me out by the pumpkin patch.
Shinsuke
Osamu tucks the note away and feels relief flush his cheeks at the prospect of staying, even if he will have to face Shinsuke in conversation. He knows he’ll have to, sooner or later. He owes him that much.
The sweater Shinsuke picked fits perfectly. The wool scratches against Osamu’s skin like it means to leave lovebites, fox pattern teasing him from the sleeves. Osamu doesn’t need to look for a label to know Yumie knitted it herself. It simply feels that way, like there’s love sewn in or something. Though, of all the things here that remind Osamu of high school— of home — the jeans picked for him truly make him feel fifteen again. Like squeezing into winter clothes after a summer time of growth: they’re a snug fit, but a fit nonetheless. Most of all, the clothes are warm. A warmth that Osamu is grateful for as he heads towards the pumpkin patch.
He finds Shinsuke chopping wood. His sleeves are rolled up despite the cold, the handle of his axe grasped firmly; his cheeks are red from that same cold, breath clouding at parted lips with every blow he lands. Osamu knows Shinsuke’s always been well suited to manual work, but out here he sees just how much it flatters him. Quietly approaching, he keeps his distance, as if to preserve this picture by not disrupting Kita's work. The captain's rituals are not to be disturbed, a younger version of Osamu knows.
“Yer brother called,” Shinsuke says without turning to look. So much for going unnoticed. “I hope it was alright to tell him yer here.”
Atsumu was probably high on life as a newly proclaimed only child, since Osamu would never be seen in the Miya home again, having nothing to show for other than his failures. “He’s gotta be havin a blast,” Osamu says.
“He’s worried.” Shinsuke’s axe hits the block with a low thump. The two pieces of Osamu’s heart— evenly split— fall off to the ground. “If ya think he could be happy while you suffer, yer a fool. There's no winning for either of you if it means the other one loses.” Shinsuke looks over his shoulder before reaching for another piece of wood. The smile of an insight gained in days long passed plays on his face. “Promise to call him back some time?”
Part of Osamu gets what Shinsuke is trying to tell him, at least some watered-down version of it. Growing up with his brother has left Osamu with a concept of duality. He'd always considered Atsumu and himself as two sides of the same coin; while they might be facing different directions, the metal they were made from was one and the same. Even after going their separate ways, this sentiment remained unchanged: Osamu serving food, Atsumu serving on court. Both of them serving a purpose.
Only it no longer applied to Osamu. Fact was, his brother outpaced him. (And Osamu burns, knowing he’ll have to run home eventually.)
Osamu hopes his silence is enough of a promise, before another notion arises. “Wait, does this mean I’m allowed to stay for New Year’s?” he asks before Shinsuke can land another blow on him.
“It might be selfish of me, but I’d like you to,” Shinsuke says, swinging wide for his next strike aimed at Osamu. He meets his aim dead on. The wood falls down to the ground.
“Shinsuke, I am— ”
“Sorry ?” Shinsuke turns around to face Osamu with raised brows. Then he looks to read Osamu’s face, even after reading him line for line mere seconds ago. “Being upset isn’t the same as being sorry, Osamu. You should only apologise when you mean it.”
A younger version of Kita manifests before him from bygone aches and frozen pumpkin vines. Back then he’d said the same words. You should only apologise when you mean it, uttered on a staircase when he and Atsumu had tried to atone for losing what was Kita’s final game. What was their last shared tournament, where fate’s coin decided to send them home without the national title. On the busride, Osamu had slid into the seat next to Kita’s, teeming with the need to say something. Ultimately, he had choked on his words.
“But I am,” Osamu of the present says. Didn’t I promise to be someone you can be proud of?
“Maybe so,” Shinsuke says, tilting his head. His sincerity makes the cold feel forgiving. “Yer allowed to feel sorry, but ya gotta forgive yerself as well.” Osamu figures this is to mean There’s plenty of time to prove your worth to the world, but it doesn’t speak to the fact that Osamu did fail Shinsuke by failing himself. It doesn’t stop the need to apologise, but like Kita’d denied him in face of his final defeat, Shinsuke would deny him again should Osamu keep pressing the matter.
“If ya keep being so damn compassionate, I swear I’m going to cry again,” Osamu jokes instead, but the tears are already collecting in his eyes.
“Cry then,” Shinsuke says, pants tucked into socks tucked into gumboots. Grounded and genuine. It unearths Osamu.
“Ya make it sound like it's easy.” Osamu knows it’s anything but. The matter might be far from simple, but with Shinsuke giving him permission, he thinks it’s possible to at least endure his tears. Possible even to save them for later. He brings a sleeved fist up to his cheeks. The wool scratches at his skin.
“It’s not,” Shinsuke confirms. “Yer gonna feel like shit for a while, I think, but that doesn’t mean ya won’t be alright in the end.” His face is serious. Before Osamu stands Kita, his captain, who faced their team on the stairwell all those years ago. I, too, thought ya were going to succeed with it, he’d said. Shinsuke’s eyes reflect the same sentiment. Still, I would have liked to show you off just a little bit longer.
This is as close as he’ll get to Shinsuke accepting his apology, Osamu knows. He breathes in the cold and swallows his feelings before his past has a chance to swallow him whole.
“Now,” Shinsuke calls him to the present. He extends his arm, axe pointing towards Osamu, “how about ya help me with that firewood. Baa-chan insists on cooking over open flame for special occasions, and I fear we’re gonna need a lot of it.”
“Yes, captain,” Osamu says and steps forward.
* * *
"Shin-chan's out on business, so it's just the two of us this morning," Yumie enthusiastically informs Osamu over breakfast the next day. She’d waited with meat buns and tea for Shinsuke and Osamu to return from the pumpkin patch. Exhausted from work and the cold, it felt like he had earned the offering. Eating felt good. Every time Yumie feeds him a small feast, Osamu feels his soul grow lighter with each bite he takes. It’s easy to relax in her presence, deserved or not.
With the year coming to an end and preparations to welcome the new one ongoing, Osamu hadn't considered that Shinsuke would still be doing business. Until now, he’d been too wrapped up in his own business-less misery to realise that Shinsuke still had things to deal with. He should have known better but still feels pain sting his chest.
"Don't go making that face, dear,” Yumie fusses, like next he’ll hear how his wrinkles’ll stay permanently should he keep frowning that way. “I sent him out on an errand.” Like that explains anything.
Osamu doubts Shinsuke was out sending greeting cards for the upcoming year. Knowing him, he would have already finished them by the end of November. Maybe even earlier.
“Pumpkins,” Yumie explains, at Osamu’s still quizzical state. “Folks’ll take more of ‘em, if they’re offered by his handsome young face. It’s much more effective than when I go and pester people.” Osamu already considered her an old fox on all accounts, but the playful quip in her voice makes him certain of it. She stares him down, promising Next time I’ll send ya both. No one’s gonna refuse if there’s two of you. It’s plenty warm for a threat. The change of pace Yumie offers comes as a welcome distraction from his misery.
"Now, be a dear and help an old woman out in the kitchen. I fear I’m half blind, and my jittering hands would be sure to cut off a finger or two," she says, taking away Osamu’s plates.
He doesn’t point out that she’d been seeing and cooking just fine these past few days, too alarmed by her request. Osamu eyes the ingredients prepped on the counter, feeling a shiver trail along his spine. Helping ‘round the house had come naturally enough— Osamu was grateful to return the kindness he received here that felt surreal enough to be a dream. Cooking, on the other hand, seemed an awful lot like a reality.
It makes Osamu wonder when cooking stopped being his dream and started to feel like a job instead. Most of all, he wonders when he’d started to dread it.
Before he can come up with an excuse, Yumie intercepts. "Ya hafta excuse me,” she says, picking up a sweet potato, “I forgot yer a failed chef at the ripe old age of twenty-three. Guess there's nothing to be done, other than to sulk for the rest of yer days.” A youthful smile plays on her lips, mischievous fingertips brushing away at the vegetable cupped in her hand. “Truly tragic, don’tcha think?" She lifts a wrinkled brow up at Osamu. Once more, her eyes pierce through him.
The truth of Yumie’s words throws him off balance, but the weight of them keeps him up on his feet. Then, Osamu laughs for the first time in ages. “I think ya let it sound like I’m an idiot.“
“Aren’t we all, dear?” Yumie teases. She graces Osamu with a heartfelt smile, her creases deepening. Her’s was the face of someone who’d made laughter a habit and invited its traces. Her skin was a home for happiness. Would Shinsuke look the same one day?
“Shinsuke already talked to me yesterday,” Osamu blurts. It sounds like more of a confession than he intends it to be. What he means is that he’d rather indulge in smiles and distractions for now than face whatever lesson she’s prepared for him. Spare himself the sage wisdom of how not succeeding isn’t equal to being unsuccessful and how failing shouldn’t keep him from trying again . He doubts Yumie would phrase it that way; she’d be way more cunning about it— spark up some wicked trick with the ends of her tails.
“Did he now? ” Her smile only grows in amusement. “Good. Means we can skip the lecture and start on the kuri-kinton.” Yumie winks at him, like she’s letting him in on a secret. When she tosses a potato his way, Osamu can’t shake the suspicion of having played right into her hands. It seems like his lessons to learn would be equal to the amount of potatoes Yumie expected him to peel. He starts to peel and accepts his fate.
* * *
An icy wind blows in the final day of the year and with it, the second of Osamu’s inevitable endings.
The cold, Osamu barely notices. With Yumie chasing him from pots to steamers and Shinsuke’s wooly sweater scratching at his skin, there’s hardly room to feel anything other than boiling. Osamu was on his third potato when she’d started to whistle a familiar tune. Right then, he had realised how cooking for and with someone isn’t the same thing. He also realised how everything seems to be a ritual in the Kita household. When Osamu’d commented on it, she’d said, ‘Isn’t it though, when you make a habit of caring?’
When Osamu steps into the cold for a breath of fresh air, he welcomes the wind, for it might be strong enough to finally carry him home.
As for this ending—
Osamu accepts it, truthfully this time. For someone claiming to be cool with the passing of time, he’s spent an awful lot of effort on hiding from it— on running from it, even when it felt like running in circles. He knows now, there’s no escape from something even more determined to outpace him than Atsumu. There is no hiding, not even in a place that felt as safe as Shinsuke’s. Inevitable things tend to be circular: like balls or coins or years. They always catch up eventually.
New Year’s Eve in the Kita household is a quiet affair. There’s no noise except for the distant laughter on TV (the variety show Yumie insists on watching each year, Shinsuke tells him) and their own laughter (including Osamu’s, that only feels out of place in moments between). Playing cards lay scattered around a bowl of snacks on the table. His legs are loosely tucked in, the blanket a warm weight on Osamu’s lap. It’s familiar, even if it’s different to his own family’s celebration.
If Osamu and his brother were to simultaneously reach for a snack, there’d only be the promise of murder and its subsequent execution. When Shinsuke’s knuckles brush his, both their hands hovering over the bowl, they do so with hesitation, and Osamu’s heart feels lighter for it. Shinsuke’s smile is brief enough not to notice; his lips part only for an eighth of a second, the same amount of time it takes for an old year to pass into the new. But Osamu could be fooled into thinking it an eternity. Like how the eight seconds he'd take to make his serve used to feel infinite before connecting to the ball. He knows in that split second that this year will be better for him, cause he'd be okay in Shinsuke's hands.
* * *
The wind makes a mess of their hair when they walk up the steps to the shrine the following morning. It’s just the two of them: Shinsuke, who has no regard for the gods but embraces the ritual anyway. And Osamu, unsure of what vows to renew with gods who’d toyed with his fate like it was a coin to be gambled away.
He still ends up tossing in his five yen— eyeing both sides of the coin before giving it away.
Imprinted on one side, his thumb traces the hardships of his past: the loss of a dream and the taste of defeat. The feeling of drowning in an ocean, unsure of where the surface was anymore. The winter that ensured nothing could grow under its cold touch.
Imprinted on the other side, possibilities: the squeaking of gym shoes on court for the first practice after a game lost, the determination to practice in order to improve. The first breath of air after coming up from the water, deep and desperate. The first walk in springtime to overlook a sea of flowers, like experiencing colour for the first time.
When Osamu bows low, it’s not out of respect for the gods but to make a habit of caring: the way Shinsuke does. Maybe he could make a ritual of letting go.
“So what are you going to do now?” Shinsuke asks on their descent home. Osamu can hear in his voice that the question isn’t intended to stir Osamu from where he’s been allowed to rest. He knows Shinsuke will let him heal some more in his care if Osamu needs to.
Back in the day, Osamu’s mother would kiss their scratches. It was foolproof medicine, the universal treatment known to still childrens’ tears and ease aches that would be soothed with time. Lips pressed to bruised knees and elbows promised to ease the pain. If he stayed, it wouldn’t be long until Shinsuke would offer to kiss his pain away. Osamu would let him.
“It might be time to go home,” Osamu says, thinking of the place he’d been avoiding. To his father, slouched over last Sunday's crossword puzzle, testing words for Osamu’s approval. To his mother, who tried her best to feed him (despite knowing that he’d been able to feed himself for a while now). To Atsumu’s boyfriend, whose bird-boned soul served as a reminder that flying sometimes came at the cost of falling. And to Atsumu himself, who couldn’t win a race without someone to challenge him. “And from there on... I’ll see. But not before trying your grandma’s osechi meal. I did help make it.”
Osamu knows he won’t be alright immediately. There’s no rushing the healing of an open wound, no trying to take charge of a job that time will do just fine. Returning home was the next step he needed to take towards healing. Then it would be time to decide on his next step.
Life would be a bitch regardless of which path Osamu would take, but he’d be fine. It’s not like he needed to toss a coin to decide.