Work Text:
Osamu can remember the moment he fell in love and his feelings shifted. Not love at first sight, like in the movies, but there were plenty of firsts to make up for that after. Even after all these years he can remember the exact second you had turned around in class, something you had done many times, nothing out of the ordinary. A last minute study group, a collection of stressed minds, Osamu’s body tired after practice, Atsumu complaining next to him, the endless drawl of equations and numbers. Useless, pointless things.
And it was your voice, eyes meeting his, “Osamu, can I borrow a pencil?”
Not pausing to assess which twin he was, not darting your eyes up to look at his hair, none of that.
The confidence in which you knew it was him.
That moment.
Lit a flame and launched fireworks in his heart. What followed is a collection of moments he remembered with you by his side. And suddenly, that collection stopped. Why’d it stop?
When he sees you across the street, he wonders, did he ever stop feeling that way? Because if feelings can be turned off like that, Osamu is sure he’s broken. Not that he’d fix it, not that he’d change the way his heart eases a bit seeing you.
And when your eyes meet his, that same confidence all those years ago, causes your hand to wave at him.
Before you even realize it, before you even register what you’re doing. Osamu had lifted his hand back, praying you take his smile is as soft, disarming. That you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s been months since you’ve last crossed paths. It’s genuine, that excitement you have to see him, and he’s pleased to see you too.
A man that blocks you from his path, Osamu’s eyes filter to the group around you.
Ages mixed, state of dress a bit formal, a work dinner, he assesses. He feels his chest fill with pride, you’re being social. These things stress you out, but there you are. You even arrived early it seems; as more and more people join and suddenly you’re tucked into the restaurant. That smile doesn’t fade from Osamu, delighted to know, you keep trying, challenging yourself.
✦
It can’t be him.
As much as you plead with your mind, your colleagues start up about the menu, about holiday plans. Easy banter, you’ve practice a few non-answers to reply with. This isn’t a comfortable setting, perhaps it’s okay that you saw Osamu outside. Your mind is more occupied with him than overthinking social interactions with people who seem to like you.
You’re seated next to a …group date? It seems like it, the girl seated next to you gives a soft smile seems when she slides in. Maybe a bit nervous, the way she’s adjusting her bangs, checking her reflection in a handheld mirror. Your eyes looks at her dainty nails, her pretty dress shirt, back at your own attire. And your colleagues. It seems they dressed up too and your apparel is a bit plain in comparison.
Well, that started early. The comparison gremlin.
Drown it.
You sip a glass of water, the empty seat in front of being taken by handsome, tall—Osamu!? You choke and the water you’re drinking exits your nose, it gets everywhere.
It burns.
✦
He didn’t mean to, he assumed the table reserved for his staff would take up the whole row. So lost in thoughts of you, he hadn’t bothered to look where he was sitting. Missed his own table by one seat; had you coughing and spitting and spiraling towards something he knows you don’t want anyone to see. “Excuse us.”
Hands on your shoulders, lifting you up, steering you steady and strong.
Ushers you into the single bathroom, harsh paper towels in his hands that dab gently at your face, “Hey, you’re okay. No one saw that.”
“Every…” a cough, “saw that.” What a terrible liar he’s always been.
He bites his tongue, “I know, but it wasn’t that…hey, eyes on me please, keep breathing, in an out, good.” You mimic his breathing pattern. If you close your eyes and focus on his voice, it’d feel like old times, the multiple occasions Osamu has walked you through a frenzy. “Easy, there you are…”
He wipes at your nose, it’s embarrassing, it should be, but he doesn’t bat an eye. “I’m okay you can…go back.”
“My staff seen my mug ‘nough.”
So not a group date.
Small talk.
Come on.
You have it in you, say something to him, anything, get him to stop looking at you with those eyes, “Oh.”
He grins anyways, “We hit 200k ticket this year.”
“Osamu that’s amazing.”
He shrugs, you weren’t there for 75,000 of them.
“Stop, it’s amazing and you know that.” There he goes again, acting mature and responsible, warding off the praise for long nights and early mornings. You still remember his furrowed gaze, no one has looked at rice with such scrutiny at four in the morning. But, no.
Abort that thought.
You go to wash your hands because you’re in a bathroom.
Osamu watches, he has so many questions.
Are you sleeping better? He still has that pillow you had ordered, you never came to grab it.
Are you eating enough these days? He has so many reels to send to you, so many recipes he wants to feed you.
Are you happy?
He catches you scrunch your nose in the mirror, knows the unconscious gesture, that water must’ve gotten deep, you’re gonna get sick. Or at least, irritated nasal passages leading to congestion and given that winter has come, chances of an illness are high. But he doesn’t say anything, lets you leave the bathroom first, follows after five minutes.
His staff doesn’t ask him about you, and your colleagues look at him but don’t ask you a thing. He feels himself exhale in relief. When colleagues go outside to wait for your ride home with you. That when they return, your incident never crosses their lips. Good, this is a better work place for you. Even if they made you socialize on a Friday night.
✦
There’s a box with soup outside your door the following morning. A text message from a number your new phone hasn’t ported over but it’s hard to erase those digits from memory.
🍙: Your food has been delivered. For the best experience, we recommend eating immediately.
We? You think to yourself, curious if this is a new service Osamu has started. You should say thanks, text him back like a normal person. But a sneeze has you dropping your phone. After, you bargain, you’ll text him back after.
The next Saturday, it’s a box of your favorite noodles and experimental onigiri, his hand writing is as messy as ever, you give up trying to figure out what ingredient it is. The text also comes in.
🍙: Your food has been delivered. For the best experience, we recommend eating immediately. Rate our new Onigiri flavor on a scale of Delicious to Scrumptious.
That boy…
🌼: Where does delectable fall on this scale?
✦
It feels easy, texting Osamu again. You were friends before your gaze had lingered a bit too long on his lips and turned your relationship sweeter. You were friends before he became the person you’d turn to first person, you were friends. You were friends.
You were friends and then you were more.
You were more and then you weren’t.
And now, where does this fall?
✦
🍙: Your food has been delivered, if you like please thumbs up, comment, and subscribe.
🌼: 👍🏼
✦
🍙: Your food has been delivered, we recommend placing in the freezer asap. Like yesterday.
🌼: There are ants everywhere Osamu.
✦
🍙: We’re running a contest for the best meal. Vote here.
🍙: If you vote for option B, I’ll name it after you.
🌼: None of these are desserts.
✦
🌼: I will need to pause my food delivery, I will be out of town this weekend.
🍙: Your food go unfulfilled, left to waste on forgotten countertops.
🌼: I’ll stop by when I get back, still open til 7?
🍙: Yup, see you then.
He wanted to say, “For you, always.” But Osamu’s happy to be allowed into your world again, even if it’s just about the meals he’s been sending or what the restaurant is up to. He’ll take anything you feel safe giving him. Even it’s more than acquaintances and less then friends. Even if it means dancing around everything he’s been feeling.
Why did it stop?
When he scrolls up the message history he doesn’t see a clear reason. His messages became less and less frequent, then yours, and then things faded. A plethora of good memories and Osamu can’t find where things got to the point where you not being in his life felt like a sane and rational decision.
What kind of idiot was the him months ago? Well, he isn’t going to be that same kind of idiot now. Despite knowing better, he risks sending another message.
🍙: Good luck on your trip, and I still remember snickerdoodle, so any time, okay?
🌼: Thanks, Osamu.
Snickerdoodle was your shared code word with Osamu for ‘everything is overwhelming please come find me.’ You’re not surprised he remembered. You were friends with Osamu before the relationship started, whether you wanted to or not, you’ve shared your ugly sides with each other, that included knowing when the other was overwhelmed.
Osamu was always a little better at reading you than you could read him though. Ah, whatever right? He’s always been a stand up kind of guy. This is…part of the course for being friends with him.
✦
🍙: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: Thanks again, I will protect this charm with my life.
🌼: It’s supposed to protect you, ward off the negative vibes
✦
🍙: Don’t forget an umbrella, its supposed to rain.
🌼: Thanks, Osamu.
✦
🍙: Hypothetically, if we added a dessert to our menu, what would complement our offerings. There is 1 wrong answer here.
🌼: Hypothetically
🌼: Cinnamon rolls
✦
🍙: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: Dine-in Special, if you snag this seat, the Chef will dance for you.
🌼: How’s Friday?
🍙: The Chef will use all week to practice.
✦
🍙: [Link Sent]
🍙: Is this the cinnamon roll recipe of your dreams?
🌼: It uses Stevia? Osamu, this cannot…be anybodies dream
🌼: Don’t you dare put this in my box
✦
🍙: On a scale from scrumptious to sensational, ‘never bake again’ is not a valid response.
🌼: Send me something with Stevia again and see what happens
🌼: Don’t you dare say ‘bet’
✦
🌼: Hypothetically, if I promised you a crepe, and if you were on the corner of 3rd and 8th, your arms free, would you carry a really heavy box for me?
🍙: Hypothetically
🌼: Hypothetically
🍙: Do I get to pick the flavor?
🌼: Maybe
He smiles at everyone he texts, you tell yourself as you watch him read your message.
Osamu looks up from where he was had stopped at the corner, eyes darting around, that relaxed look on his face when his eyes finally land on you? That look isn’t for everyone, that’s just for you.
Your hand going up automatically, a soft wave, the smile accompanying it makes sense.
He doesn’t look winded at all, lifting the extra large, extra heavy, flour bags on his shoulders. “Where to?” He doesn’t look winded taking them up four flights of stairs either.
✦
🍙: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: hey, where’s my batch?
🍙: unfair ‘samu get’s all the goods
🍙: i was ur friend first
🍙: he ate all of them
✦
🍙: ‘samu said he wants chocolate chip cookies
🌼: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: 😱
🌼: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: think ya broke my brother
🍙: his face is stuck like that
✦
🌼: [1 Image Sent]
🍙: Oh my god.
🌼: You have a minute to tell me which one you want.
🍙: Pistachio, no, almond. Wait, Cherry?
🍙: Any.
🍙: You pick.
And he’s only slightly baffled that you show up at Onigiri Miya, uninvited, unannounced but equally greeted with roaring cheer. Two lovely boxes in your hands, “I got all of them.” His staff secretly rejoicing at the less intense version of their boss and additional treat, when said boss shares.
✦
This soup…does not taste right. Scratch that, it tastes outright bad. There’s tangy and there’s whatever this salty mishap is. There’s no text asking you to rate the delivery, you debate sending him a message first but opt to ignore it.
It’s Sunday and there’s another box of food. This …is odd. You pull out the container, cautiously taking a bite of the interestingly shaped onigiri and…okay, something is wrong.
🌼: The scrumpt factor is missing.
🌼: I’d like to speak to the manager.
But you get nothing, not after the usual lunch rush, not after the last dinner ticket should be filled.
🌼: Checking in, busy?
🌼: Are you okay?
🌼: Osamu?
You figure you’d go into the restaurant, remind Osamu to charge his damn phone, and walk back to the office. It should all be possible in the hour-ish window you have. However, it’s like they were expecting you, his staff is busy with the lunch rush and instantly you’re ushered upstairs, “We finally got him to leave the kitchen but…”
“I’m fine.” The door opens, Osamu appears with a mask and unfocused eyes. “You look terrible.” His staff watches as you get no glare, no retort, just a mild shrug. “This is my face.” His voice sounds so congested.
Stubborn as ever. You turn to his staff, “I got this.”
He’s only wobbly because he hasn’t had water. He hasn’t had water because he forgot to fill the cup. He didn’t fill the cup because his arms felt heavy. “And you’re arms feel heavy because you’ve got a fever. Osamu you’re sick.”
“Shh, I’m not.” An ill timed sniffle, “just a cold.”
They’re the same thing but you bite your tongue, continue chopping carrots, it’s a stew you’ve made with Osamu many times before, somehow his fridge is always stocked with exactly the right ingredients for this recipe. “The pots in—“
Third cabinet next to the sink, the one without shelves because neither one of you got around to adding them. “Sit down.” You threaten him with a laddle, his laughter turns into a coughing fit and your glare deepens. That tiny voice that tells you, this is overstepping, this isn’t normal for friends, gets louder and louder as the meal progresses.
You’ll leave once he’s fed and back in bed.
If you stay to make him supper, it’s only because Osamu had the good onions and you can’t have those going bad.
If you go back the next day, it’s only because Osamu finished everything you made, you couldn’t let your fever-ish friend cook for themselves.
If you go back the day after that, well, it’s simply to make sure Osamu doesn’t over do it.
That’s all.
✦
“Is this seat taken?” Osamu has just put down an order when he turns to find a teenager and their friend trying to sit in your seat. He looks at his watch, you’re coming in for lunch today, stepping through the restaurant doors any minute, “Yes, it is.” Osamu puts down an Onigiri Miya hat to keep your seat safe.
It gets harder and harder as the lunch rush picks up but he successfully glares everyone away.
“Osamu!” Your voice breaks through all the chaos, his eyes find yours. You’re walking into the restaurant, rushing past all the noise and people and finding your usual seat. He walks over holding two bowls of food that you haven’t ordered and need to be delivered to table 9. You’re giving him an update about a colleague when you pause to take in the scene. It’s packed, and Osamu’s missing a staff member.
“Just a sec’ okay?” He goes to drop off food, a mere thirty seconds and that darn teenager and their friend sit down at your seat. Osamu clicks his tongue, ready to remind these patrons the seat they so comfortable have sat down on, is in fact, taken.
Except it’s you, in an Onigiri Miya hat and apron, taking down their order and writing up a ticket to hand off.
You’ve done this before, in the early days, when it wasn’t as busy. You’re not the best with the hectic rush hour pace, but you’re effective. You’re helping move food along, taking down orders, refilling cups, getting utensils. Mostly, mostly that look is gone from Osamu’s face. His shoulders are relaxed, his voice is back to it’s usual tone, not rushed.
Towards the end of the rush, you’re pulled into his office, a plate of your usual on the desk as he stuffs a spoon into your mouth. Any chance you try to protest, that you need to get back to your own job, he silences with food. You hate how delicious things taste, you’d be here all the time if you could. He goes out to make some extra boxes for you, “As thanks for today, you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
Simple, honest.
✦
“Hmm….is it a little…”
“Too sweet?”
Osamu and you nod. This is your third batch of triple berry cinnamon rolls. There’s flour and batter and frosting everywhere. Your tiny kitchen has seen worse. (Specifically, that time MSYB decided to build gingerbread houses. They all but popped into your place the second you told them they needed royal icing to make the walls stick together.)
It feels nice. Having Osamu in your space.
His movements compliment yours, he’s already brewed a lovely, warm, complimentary drink to ease away the sugar you’ve consumed. “Oh, you didn’t go?”
Two entry tickets to the museum you wanted to take Osamu to, a get away to celebrate the start of your new job. You two hadn’t finalized the date and…stopped talking before you could.
He watches your eyes fall to the fridge handle, to the kitchen counter top and around the room. Lips taking a downward turn, hands fidgeting. “I can remember the day you told me about this museum.”
Osamu takes an experimental step toward you, cautious but secure. Places his mug on the counter beside him, “You were wearing….that hoodie, the soft one with that character you like. You were in that lottery queue for hours and scared the crap outta me—“
“I couldn’t believe I got in.” He nods, a soft smile remembering your disbelief, “You got in, told me about all the things you wanted to eat and…I remember all of that. But I don’t remember why we didn’t go.”
Your eyes meet his, you take a deep in hale, are you really going to…do this? Now?
“Osamu it…”
He shakes his head, “That’s the thing, I keep replaying the past few months over and over, and it doesn’t make sense to me. Why aren’t I in your life? Why are you not next to me?”
You open and close your mouth. Wanting to choose your words carefully.
if you self depreciate, he’ll switch into caretaker Osamu and not really hear you. If you give into emotions, you’ll switch into a nasty version of yourself and push Osamu away. You don’t want that. Of all the options, you don’t want a life where he is a stranger to you.
“I don’t think…there's a big dramatic bad thing here. You were there one day and then you weren’t. I don’t know really how it happened either.” The loneliness had come after. When suddenly texting Osamu turned into mental gymnastics because the two swipes it takes to open the messaging app and find his name.
He’s close now, steps soft and slow, his fingers trace down your arm before settling into your hand. You intertwine the fingers, give his hand a squeeze, dare to look at his face because even now you think of him as extra special. The ease his lazy but always soft smile provides you.
“I’m really sorry…I don’t know how I let go of us…” Closer still, leaning to have his forehead touch yours, a pause from all the noise in both of your heads. You missed him, miss him. Having him this close just proves part of you will never get over him. Part of him will never fill that ache for you either.
“Would it be okay, if we, could try again?”
“Osamu…”
The oven timer beeps, startling you out of his orbit, his hand clings to yours before urging an oven mit onto it. This is the forth and final batch, now or never. You let the rolls cool before plucking and plopping one onto the new bowl Osamu has waiting, two forks in hand. The frosting already remixed and he adds a fat dollop on top.
You take a bite and your eyes meet his and it’s the simplest moment.
And maybe, years later, you’ll tell him. The second time you fell in love with him was when his face crinkled into disbelief and blossomed into the biggest grin. “We…did it? We did it!”
You watched him take another forkful, “Aww, let’s gooooo! We did it.” He’s whipping out his phone to take photos, ready to make this everyone’s business.
All you can do, is watch this tall guy brag about your baking skills. It doesn’t even take a few months, the third moment happens right there, Osamu leaning on the countertop, perched on his elbows as he steals more and more of the triple berry cinnamon roll, “You might not get rid of me now.”
And you let the words fill the air, “I wouldn’t want to.”
Simple, honest.