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It was always just slightly salty, her onigiri.
Astumu never realised, but Okan used to make the onigiri in Osamu’s bento a little bigger, or filled it with more filling. Not that she had many to choose from anyway. Their lives as kids was a simple one. But Osamu noticed. He always noticed when it came to their Okan.
How she always gave him an extra peck on the cheek when Atsumu wasn’t looking. How she gave him more sides to choose from in his bento because she knew that he had a more adventurous palette compared to his older twin. How she’d always wake at four in the morning just to cook the rice even though she got back from her second job late in the night because she had to travel far for it. Whenever he could, Osamu would force himself awake when the smell of freshly cooked rice traveled through their small apartment. It took awhile, but he’d trained himself to do so and it was worth it because whenever he hugged her leg, she would pat him on the head and blow kisses onto his cheek. That’s how he learned how to make them.
Onigishi.
‘Samu are ya dumb? It’s called o-ni-gi-ri! Why are ya still sayin’ it like that!’
Onigishi.
‘Shut yer trap Stupid-Tsumu! I’ll call it whatever I like, right Okan?’
Their mother tilted her head back, laughing so hard that her shoulders shook and tears stung her eyes. ‘Oh you two are the best!’ she’d suddenly tackle them onto the thin futon, tickling them and ruffling their hair until the twins broke out into giggle-fits equally happy as hers.
With practice, making the simple snack became second nature to him. Now at four in the morning, Osamu would get up and go through the motions of preparing his mis en place as their Okan got some extra hours of sleep. As the rice cooked, he gathered little plates and filled them with an assortment of fillings and sprinkles. Sliced tamagoyaki, diced kimchi, okaka, broiled salmon, and occasionally even hijiki. When the rice was done, he knew to throw a pillow at his brother to wake him for his morning run whether he liked it or not. By the time Osamu was molding the warm rice with his hands, Okan would enter their small kitchen with the same comment full of love.
‘What onigishi do we have today, little Samu?’ And Osamu would laugh, his voice a deep rumble from age.
‘I’ll always be a child to you, right Okan?’
‘Always,’ she never failed to reply, still blowing kisses onto his cheek. Only now, she had to tip-toe to do that.
Miya Okan got sick around the time Osamu was busy preparing to launch Onigiri Miya. Atsumu was away for his games and they both argued a lot on the phone because they were both mad that they couldn’t be by her side to care for her 24/7. When Atsumu found out that his brother had fallen sick because he had overworked himself with the store and taking care of their Okan, he sent Suna to check up on both of them. Two Miyas falling ill was two too many.
Whilst Osamu got better in less than a week, it wasn’t the case for their Okan. As he dabbed her arms with clean water, the youngest Miya finally noticed how delicate her arms were. How she now had random sunspots and wrinkles on her face. How her hair was now more ashen rather than salt-and-pepper-grey. Without realising it, he had become an adult. Without realising it, their beloved Okan had aged. And that made Osamu’s heart clench.
Two months later, Atsumu was leading their Okan through the entrance of Osamu’s brainchild–Onigiri Miya. He too felt how delicate her hands were now. Those hands that used to collect his snot when he was sick. Hands that used to squeeze his cheeks whenever he got into a fight with his brother. Hands that held theirs with confidence when they were thrown out onto the street by their abusive father. The moment the blindfold was taken off, she marveled at the sight of the restaurant. It wasn’t much, but it was home. There was a certain ‘closeness’ of a small dining space that projected perfectly from where she stood. The tables and chairs she knew were mostly secondhand, giving the interior a rustic feel and the colours of reds, gold, dark purple, and browns reminded her of the streets of Shinsaibashi and their never-ending streets at night. She took a seat at the bar, slender fingers tracing the indents and grains of the wood as her son emerged from the kitchen dressed in a simple black shirt with a little onigiri silhouette printed on the top right of his chest. Around his waist he wore a white waist-apron, and Osamu completed the look with a black cap with the kanji Miya right in the middle.
This was an homage to their Okan–they took her family name after all, and she was their most favourite person in the world. This was their Okan, and she deserved the world.
‘So, you’re my first customer. What’ll you have?’ Osamu asked with a smile as his brother slipped into the seat next to her. Their Okan looked up at the menu of different kinds of onigiri and drinks, eyes gleaming before finally settling on her order. She cocked her head slightly and giggled as she held up an index finger in front of him, tongue playfully sticking out.
‘I'll have a set of Onigishi please!’ she requested with glee, heart bubbling with absolute pride. It was a set that definitely wasn’t on the menu, but it was something very dear to their family in all its imperfect saltiness.
‘Coming right up, Okan,’ Osamu replied, his grin wide and voice gentle and soft for the woman who raised them right.
Onigiri Miya was his brainchild. His dream.
But the inspiration for it came from the strongest woman he’d ever had the pleasure of loving.
And here she was sitting right in front of him, happier than he’d ever seen her before.