Work Text:
Nobody wants to be working at 1am on a Friday night (technically a Saturday morning), yet here is Miya Osamu, leaning across the counter, the end of his pen being gnawed down to the nub as he stares at the numbers on the several pieces of paper splayed in front of him on the wooden countertop, encroaching onto the glass of the serving station, which has been cleared out for the day and just left with empty tubs. He was (lesser-than-his brother but still nonetheless) the sporty, athletic kid during his high school years, barely paying a morsel of attention to the subjects that supposedly mattered, subjects the faculty staff would drone on about to the students leading up to their final exams. Although it was an innate interest, finding himself daydreaming about food constantly, his next meal, what he wanted to cook next, the moment he discovered he wanted to turn this fixation for food into something more personal to his life, everything else ceased to be important to him. Maths was on the bottom of his pile, like a scrunched up piece of paper that’s been kicked haphazardly into the waste basket without a thought or care. He barely scraped by his final exams on the subjects that would determine his future, and he loathed how this supposed future was dictated by teachers, encouraging members of his family, even his brother (who also had the same grades as him) to ask Osamu: well, how far is cooking going to take you?
Inevitably, it took him far. Further than he would have thought and now he barely has time to manage the success of Onigiri Miya outside of his usual working hours. So here he is, clocking in to the universal experience of self-employment hours that involve a lot of early mornings and late nights. God, how he wishes he paid a little more attention in his maths lessons as he continues to stare at the numbers that aren’t adding up in front of him. He’s rubbing stress lines into his forehead, aggressively hoping that the more he pushes on his brain the harder it’ll work, but he’s feeling fatigued, exhausted, all the synonyms for tired. All Osamu wants to do is crash on the freshly cleaned floors and take a nap right there. He doesn’t care if the employees who are starting early find him on the floor, panicked and talking amongst themselves if he’s dead because he knows it’ll make for a funny memory as they share the story to the others over a night of drinks one day, eventually, if Osamu ever gets a chance to make it for their after work rendezvous. But right now he isn’t fretting about his next social activity. All he cares about right now is his cosy and comfy bed that’s calling his name, begging for him to close his eyes and to fall asleep. Instead of counting sheep, before he closes his eyes, he conjures up new recipes he wants to try with his friends, family, by himself, finding solace in his imaginary seasonings and sauces.
The thought of sleeping is casting a hazy and lazy spell over his eyelids, causing them to heavily droop. Osamu is borderline close to accepting his fate of collapsing onto the floor, welcoming the cold limestone tiles with open arms, until a loud, incomprehensible yell of slurred words jolts him upright, the sound from the dead of the night outside running straight through his bones. He momentarily looks around at the empty tables and chairs, his brain lapsing in judgement for a split second to think it happened inside, until it clicks that it happened beyond the glass. Without a moment’s notice, he runs to the door, unlocking it cautiously and sticking his head in between the noren into the cool summer night, the breeze lightly ruffling his hair, rushing past his ears and nipping at his nose. Now he’s definitely awake.
There’s nothing out there in the darkness besides a few measly flickering street lights not even doing their job well enough to illuminate the surrounding area. He’s squinting into the void, making out moving shadows and sees someone emerging, passing underneath a dimmed neon sign and looking behind them constantly, tripping a little on the pavement and catching themselves on the store’s shutters to their right. Following the figure are two more shadows, one taller, skinnier, and with their hands in their pockets, the other stouter with a gruffer, forceful walk. Osamu blankly observes what’s going on until he realises the person leaning against the shutters is a young woman, vitriolic words of ‘fuck off’ and ‘go away, leave me alone’ aimed for the two men. She wears her confidence loud and proud with her upright posture and projecting voice, but her hand’s grip on her phone and the way her knees begin to slightly shake the closer they approach, undeterred by her livid request, signal otherwise.
Osamu watches her take in a puff of air and step forward, raising her hands and flailing them above her head wildly. This doesn’t even prompt them to cease their lewd comments and it encourages Osamu to take a few further steps out of the shop to at least be in their line of sight, but he becomes a figure of the night passing by, no one paying any heed to him as she begins to ruthlessly bark at the men. The few sound embarrassed and shy at first, just meagre yelps from the front of her mouth, until Osamu watches her close her hand into a fist beside her hip, inciting mock confidence to return. The next barks are deeper, gruff ruffs coming from the back of her throat, prompting her to lunge forward and stomp her feet onto the concrete several times, now beginning to holler in gibberish. They exchange a look between themselves, mildly concerned but also fatigued with how their chase has become harder than they expected, slithering back into the shadows, not without leaving a farewell gift of ‘crazy bitch’ spat behind them. Osamu hopes they go back to the hellhole they crawled out of.
She collapses onto the shutters as a crutch, hand on her heart, prompting Osamu to take a few more steps forward. “Are you okay?” he tentatively asks, feeling meek at the question because it sounds silly to him, of course she doesn’t seem okay.
The woman yelps and pushes herself further into the shutters, holding her phone up in front of her as a shield. “Fuck me, you scared me. Who the fuck are you?”
Her words are slurred and blurred, blending into each other little by little, consonants being dropped, vowels elongated. To Osamu, her voice sounds round and full, like a hearty bowl of curry on a cold winter evening, topped with the fluffiest rice ever imagined, drizzled in sesame seeds and spring onion for texture, a bit of grit. “S-Sorry, I just saw what happened. I was checking to see if you were okay.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, just two cunts,” she makes sure to yell the profanity, emphasising the harsh percussive quality of the word that would have the back of his head clipped by his mother or brother if he ever uttered it, “following me after I left the bar. I just wanted to go home, but I ended up being driven by those two into this part of the city.”
Osamu nods and looks past her, dubious if they’ve actually left, or they’ve instead skirted around the corner and are ready to make their next move the second he leaves her side. He frowns deeply, the poorly lit stretch of road not encouraging anyone to stay out for longer than a few minutes. “Do you want to sit at my store while you calm yourself down?” Osamu realises what it sounds like and he immediately begins to panic. “I mean, not like that, the whole situation was pretty shit, but like, to just compose yourself so you don’t feel shaken and you can organise how to get yourself home. It’s literally right there.” He points to the only lit store on the road.
“And how do I know you’re not a perv like them?”
“I promise I won’t do anything.”
“Show me your hands.”
Osamu holds them up next to his head. “Promise. See? No fingers crossed. I also have onigiri.”
Skeptical at first, she hoists herself off the shutters. “I like onigiri.”
Escorting her towards Onigiri Miya, she stands in front of the shop, absorbing the signage of the noren hanging in front of the entrance. Something flickers across her eyes, something that Osamu can’t quite catch because he’s too busy unlocking the door, dropping a glance over his shoulder to check if she’s still there. Her gaze dances across the wooden panelled shelves to her left with menus in the shape of onigiri, the wooden countertop that runs around the middle of the room with barstools tucked carefully underneath as they cross the threshold. The clicking of a lock behind her causes her to spin around, breath hitching in panic. Osamu raises his hands again in defence, a feeble attempt to calm her down but instead she’s rummaging through her purse.
In his short years of running Onigiri Miya, Osamu has undergone plenty of training for store thefts, any sort of harmful threat, dangerous individuals coming into the store, routine fire alarm testing, cybersecurity and fraud prevention, the whole nine yards of health and safety. He would make his employees sit through all the lessons, monitor their tests and even go to lengths of silly reenactments past closing if someone didn’t pass first time round. In all of this content, there was nothing mentioned – not in the training manuals, guides, handbooks and plethora of videos – on what to do when you get a (albeit blunt) French pin pressed to your chest at 1am on a Saturday morning by a drunk woman whose stomach is growling audibly. This elicits a nervous snicker from Osamu, which encourages her to push the pin a little harder. That’ll leave a bruise, he thinks to himself.
“Hey man take it easy, I’m just locking it in case those guys come back or something.” He mutters, pushing the pin off his chest and making his way to the back of the counter. His palm massages the aching bone. “You’re fine.”
“Easily said, you’re a six foot giant with arms thicker than an evergreen trunk, I have a dead phone and breath mints.” She shows her practically empty purse, shoving it in Osamu’s face from across the glass display case and he swats her back a step.
“You have that thing in your hand too,” he says as he pushes her further back. “And quit leaning on top of the glass man, hygiene 101. This is a sacred space and I literally just wiped down all the fingerprints that were on the glass.” He says, gesturing to where the prepped food is usually displayed in the stainless steel tubs, which are now empty (obviously).
Her eyes squint, but begrudgingly, she yanks out a barstool from underneath, scraping it across the grey tiles and plopping down on it, leaning her elbows on the wood in a huff. She meets Osamu’s eyes.
“You’re an aggressive drunk.”
“I am not drunk.”
“You could barely walk in a straight line from outside there to here. It was like five metres. Drink some water and eat some food, that’ll hopefully sober you up.” Osamu sighs. “I’m going in the back to get some ingredients. Don’t do anything stupid,” he spins around and points in a taunting, authoritarian way.
“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, slouching in her chair.
Osamu comes back out with the ingredients and in what feels like a blink of an eye but it was actually less than ten minutes (to her ten minutes is normally a very long time), she watches him make the onigiri like a live performance, plating them with perfection and leaning across the glass to place it in front of her. She looks up at him, awestruck at how quickly these were made and how divine they looked. Perfectly shaped using the fluffiest rice on god’s green earth, mouthwateringly delicious to look at, she can only imagine how they’ll taste. Her brain then starts ringing the alarm, loudly until it’s all her ears can hear, and she pushes the plate far away in front of her, looking up at Osamu whose towering build is feeling more gigantic than usual, the brown tendrils of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, peeking out from underneath the backwards cap.
“Take a bite.”
Without a second thought, Osamu grabs one and shoves the entire thing in his mouth, sloppily chewing and saying a happy now between bites, swallowing it down with ease. Cooked to perfection because it practically melts in his mouth. He licks his lips tauntingly, lapping every little drop of his exquisite cooking that she’s obviously missing out on. He’s ready to go for a second if she doesn’t, but she instead squints at him again, a little flustered at his brazenness and decides to eat one. Then the other, then requesting a few more for her stomach because all it could do is rumble and grumble, not feeling satiated until she’s tried every single flavour of filling that’s beyond the divided line between consumer and chef, only a block of glass keeping her hands from reaching over and grabbing it before he’s done. And Osamu, being as happy as a clam in the open kitchen, thinks of this as something better than going home, returning to his apartment and being lured by his bed. Finding solace and comfort in cooking in the dead of night for a stranger, who clearly hasn’t tried his food before, tipping them over the edge into becoming a potential loyal customer, has filled his stomach. As the next three onigiri make their way to her plate, her crossing her arms in an X shape in front of her while her mouth is full to indicate that this is the last round, she gestures to the empty seat beside her.
“Come away from your kitchen kingdom and join this mere pauper for her final plate,” she says after swallowing, specks of rice around her mouth. Her mascara has powdered the underneath of her lower lashes, lip gloss virtually inexistent, and a warm colour dusts across her cheeks the more she eats. Her enunciation has become sharper, two bottles of water and nine onigiri down her throat clearly having a positive effect in improving her sobriety.
“Did you call a taxi yet?” Osamu leans his forearms on the table, leaning forward slightly.
“Nah, I’m only a walk that-a-way, so it’s not that bad,” she flicks her hand haphazardly, loosely gesturing in the direction of the city centre that increases with light the further you walk towards it. “I think I know where I’m going from here.”
“You think?”
She shrugs. “I mean I only moved here like last month, so Osaka is pretty new to me, alright?”
“Where did you move from?”
“Sapporo.”
“Oh wow, long way to travel. How come?”
“Moving away from a cheating ex-boyfriend, no biggie,” she shrugs again, blasé about the whole ordeal. “Caught him in bed with the neighbour, big yikes! Crazy film moment of kicking him out of the bed, throwing things at him, chucking his clothes out of the window, you know. Not my proudest moment, but we were together for like four years. Anyways, I wanted a fresh start and my office told me that they were hiring for a job, pretty much identical to what I do now with a better bonus scheme, at the headquarters in Osaka, so I applied, went through loads of interviews and got it. Also by loads I mean like three, and one of them was a screening call, but it was a pretty big deal for a girl who walked into her nearest fast food restaurant after school to ask if they were hiring and got given a polo on the spot. But yeah, nothing else to say other than I was embarrassed to show my face in the neighbourhood for the weeks leading up to the move and I just wanted to get the hell out of there at that point.”
Osamu grimaces, a little pained at her story, but also respectful of how blunt she’s being about the situation. Something like that wouldn’t just hurt, it would have lacerated skin, left an open wound that would take months, maybe even years to heal from, so instead of bleeding her heart out on the table for a stranger to hear her pitiful story, demanding consolation while hearing her woes and pleas and tears, she’s smart enough to keep the vessel bandaged, protected, and only really say what’s inscribed into the hard-as-steel casing.
“He sounds like a fucking loser.”
“Tell me about it!” she throws her arms in the air. “Absolutely a waste of space, anyways good riddance to him, but yeah, my office building is near here so I know where I kind of am, as I made sure to get an apartment near the office, but all these tall buildings look identical to each other.”
“I can book you a taxi if you’d like, do you know your address?”
For the first time tonight, her bold and brash self is looking sheepish, looking down at her hands, letting out an awkward, light laugh as Osamu is on his phone to get a taxi ready for her. “Well the thing is, I don’t know my address.”
“You don’t know your address.” Osamu deadpans.
“I’ve been here a month, cut me some slack.”
“It’s not that hard to remember.”
“I have to remember so much more for this address! Flat number, the building name, the road it’s on! My apartment in Sapporo was one number, one road. That was it!”
“You’re only remembering one more thing!”
“That’s too much for my tiny little brain, cut me some slack! And the buildings in the areas sound so similar to each other too, alright!”
The two spend a few minutes bickering between themselves until Osamu slouches in his seat, admitting defeat. He pinches the bridge of his nose and then sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “Alright, my car is just around the corner, I can drop you off. Come on then, we don’t want you here any longer or you might end up being the girl who cried perv.”
“And what if you are, huh? Can you blame a girl for doubting?”
“If I was a perv, I’d, number one,” Osamu holds his hand up next to his head, “wouldn’t have made you nine onigiris and made sure you sobered up. As a matter of fact, I’d have done the complete opposite and number two, would have done something by now, right?”
“Well I’d like to think I’ve gotten this far in life for always thinking twice. Anyways, take me to my carriage Mr Chef.” As she gets up, she sweeps her finger on her plate, picking up some crumbs with the pad of her finger and putting it in her mouth, pulling it out with a pop.
“My name’s Miya Osamu,” he says as he begins to unlock the door, remembering to switch the lights off before locking it behind him. “What about you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know perv?”
“Whatever man, keep it to yourself then. Just get to the car or I’ll leave you here.”
The drive is pleasurably quiet, mixed with navigation instructions and small musings of the surrounding scenery, Osamu dreaming about his bed, his head hitting the pillow, the softness of his sheets draped across his body as he lets his limbs submerge into the cushy mattress as he demands a lie in for the next morning. His eyes flicker to the dashboard and sees it’s approaching 3am, internally rolling his eyes as he makes a left because ‘this tree looks familiar’, nodding along to her interesting directions. It’s a little busier than expected the further out they get from the business district and into the hustle and bustle of city centre life, more people out than Osamu expected, staggering out of bars and clubs and pubs, others enjoying an impromptu konbini trip. He’s too busy dozing off, staring at the warm bulbs of the lights to hear his petulant passenger’s request to let her alight here.
“Wait, here, are you sure?”
“Yeah yeah, don’t worry. The building is right in front of you, it’s difficult to get to the entrance with a vehicle. Here is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Besides, I don’t want you to know which one of those buildings I’m exactly in, right?” she giggles, grabbing her purse and her water bottle from the floor as she slips her legs out of the car. “It was lovely meeting you Mr Chef, hopefully I’ll see you soon. Thank you for the onigiri! I’ll tell everyone at work about it.”
When she smiles, the glittering street lights, twinkling stars, the car’s headlights all pale in comparison. Osamu is staring at where she stood, head immediately snapping to her bounding across the street, the clack-clack-clacking of her heels across the paving stones. Her figure manoeuvres around the decorative foliage and Osamu is about to leave, but something tugs in his heartstrings to stay for a moment longer, to see her skipping up the steps and turning her head in the direction of Osamu’s car. He can briefly make out her wagging her finger at him tauntingly, and then she’s gone behind the doors.
Suddenly, Osamu becomes aware that even though her encounter was quite fleeting, a little out of the ordinary for his regular late night shifts at the shop, she left something behind, something that’s causing an itch he can’t scratch until he next sees her. He doesn’t like this feeling and tries to physically get rid of it by rubbing his hands up and down his arms, yanking his cap off his head and furiously raking his hands through the matted and tangled ends, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. He turns the key in the ignition and tries his best to ignore the return of the itch, crawling up his forearms and into his brain, the entire drive home consisting of him furiously rubbing his forehead at every red light. He stomps up the stairs of his apartment building in agitation, unknowingly frustrated at how he’s met someone so infuriatingly funny, witty and charming, yet is an absolute nuisance. Grumbling and huffing as he strips out of his sweaty and messy clothes, stepping into the shower to wash the day away, all he can think about is how personable she was, inviting a fresh personality to the forefront of most of the conversations, not hiding anything behind a curtain to leave little to the imagination. She was unabashedly, honestly herself and that transparency is once again something Osamu deeply reveres.
His bed is calling his name and he can feel his body slacken at the sight of the crisp and smooth sheets, immediately throwing himself into its arms and landing with a plushy plop, rolling onto his back to stare at nothing but the dark expanse of the ceiling, throwing his left arm to cover his eyes. He can see it now, the land of sleep and sweet dreams, the place where he can lose himself in his marvellous creations that are rattling around his brain, every brick of this place slowly being stacked, ready for Osamu to plunge himself into for the next eight hours of REM.
Although, the odds aren’t in Osamu’s favour tonight. This moment he’s clutched onto since the beginning of that evening has melted away, the tiredness suddenly evaporating from his eyelids and he’s now fully wired, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, dumbstruck at what’s happened.
All of a sudden, Miya Osamu, the man who could eat, sleep and shit for Japan, the man who puts his bed above his brother in his ranking of ‘things I love the most’, the man who has been dying for this moment ever since the thought has crossed his mind suddenly can no longer sleep. Because there isn’t food flashing behind his eyelids, recipes and ingredients enhancing his dreams. All he can see is her, her fingers around the onigiri, the flecks of seaweed dusting her lips, the way he watched her smooth thighs cross over each other from over the counter, her scuffed kitten heels slipping from her feet, the way her hair swept across her face when she ducked down to put her purse on the floor. The way her eyes gloss over his in curious captivation, the corners of her lips curling when he would bark back at her, finding humour in his agitation. How the thought of her looking at him like that is causing his heart to put any Olympic gymnast to shame with the way it jumps, dives and somersaults in his chest.
He’s in for a long, long night.
-
The week goes by. Monday rolls into Tuesday and the corporate talk of hump day makes the rounds around the shop during the lunch rush, a mid-week treat away from dismal packed lunches consisting of leftover rice with little to no creativity, maybe even a granola bar at best sometimes as most people end up working through their mandatory breaks anyway (something Osamu isn’t unfamiliar with, but surprised that those who work jobs where it can wait until tomorrow still type away at their keyboards as if everything will explode if they don’t accomplish their to do list by 5pm).
Osamu is used to the hectic chatter and racking of orders, but today he’s feeling extra sluggish, moving slower than normal that it triggers his part-timers to look amongst each other and mouth ‘is he okay?’ to the other, customers oblivious to what’s happening oh-so-clearly in front of them. Well, even Osamu is oblivious to how he’s causing the queue to back up with how slow he’s moving, his folding technique more subpar than the standard he set. His body feels exhausted, his eyes heavy and his limbs having the same mobility as rigid lead as he moves around the small space of the tight kitchen, bumping into the youngest part-timer. He doesn’t even say corner when he slips into the back to the big cooker of rice that’s constantly being replenished, something he gives other people flack for if they don’t do it, reprimanding them with dish duty or working over a hot pan of fillings on a sweltering day instead.
All Osamu can do is close his eyes and lean against the tower fridge with the excess of prepped ingredients he and a colleague did an hour before opening, staring up at the fluorescent lighting hanging above that keeps flickering, the sensation of fatigue washing over him as he tries to muster the energy to push himself off his back support. It’s been three nights of restless sleep, unable to even fall into a deep slumber as his body just fought with him to stay awake, to keep thinking and churning the same memories of the Saturday night, a film projector cuing the credits and rolling the tape for Osamu to watch behind his eyelids every night. The way she smiled, her fingers curled around the onigiri, how her heels scuffed across the floor as she sauntered in, the mystified look in her eyes staring up at the noren, the big text that has his name, the way he gave his name to her with ease and familiarity. Not in a civil way, just to make small talk, but in a way that begged for her to prod and pry to learn more about himself.
With these thoughts rattling through his brain at the speed of light, it churns something inside Osamu’s stomach. He suddenly feels violently ill, and extremely claustrophobic, pawing at his stomach and his throat in the relentless hope that it would stop the thoughts of her, her, her, like a flip book but it just keeps on going. There’s a ringing sound that’s coming from somewhere around him, a half moment of wondering if it’s coming from the inside or the outside of his brain. Osamu stands there clutching onto his apron, hat askew and deliriously looks around, squinting at his surroundings to determine where the noise is coming from until he realises it’s on him, in his apron pocket at the front, the ringing growing louder until it suddenly ceases. It’s only then when he realises that the sound was coming from his phone and he lets out a panicked fuck sake, immediately striding out into front of house, pushing past the part-timers and the bustling entrance with several people lackadaisically waiting for their order, one getting a shove of the shoulder from Osamu. He is once again oblivious to the exchanged looks, now not only between the part-timers but the customers have joined in on the confusion as well.
Osamu snatches the phone out from the front of his apron, blurry eyes pawing at the device to access his voicemails. Shit shit shit shit shit, is all he keeps saying to himself in his head as he rounds the corner of the building into a small alleyway to the side, the fresh air barely providing a respite and filling his lungs with clean oxygen. He can hear the automated machine on the other side, and the first two voicemails are empty, which means they just hung up after and tried again. The final one is where it’s at and Osamu leans against the brickwork, arms crossed over his chest as he looks down at his worn and torn Doc Martens that have stood the test of time.
“Hello Mr Miya, it’s your lettings agent. Unfortunately I’m afraid I cannot show you around the properties you requested to view this coming Saturday, as I have an extenuating circumstance to attend to. I will try to find another realtor for you, but depending on people’s availability the viewings may take place either tomorrow or Friday. I’m so sorry for this, but I will email you with more details. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
Slumping against the brickwork and lowering himself onto his haunches, Osamu takes the heel of his palm and pushes it into his eyes, massaging the tissue as he hears the voicemail play again. He immediately knew his phone ringing was going to be something that would ruin his day, his family and friends being courteous enough to not phone him unless it’s an emergency, especially when he’s working. So this phone call from the estate agent is the cherry on top, especially when he spent almost two weeks working the rotas to ensure that he could assign himself the odd Saturday off, the one Saturday in a blue moon he takes off and even then he’s booked and busy doing stuff for the shop. You would have thought with how Osamu went to hell and back when opening up his first store, he’d have realised how difficult it is to open the second branch, right? Now all he can do is just sit on the ground of the alleyway and let out a disgruntled sigh, mentally working out the rotas in his head and bracing himself for some pissed off part-timer who has a shitty excuse for why they wanted that day off. The least I can offer them is extra pay that day… he thinks, exiting the alleyway and into a busy street full of suits and ties.
Slipping back through the doors of Onigiri Miya, the ash brown-haired boy discreetly composes himself as he rounds the corner to situate himself behind the countertop, tapping into his customer service voice and providing a beaming smile to the lady in front of him. He kindly asks for her onigiri order.
“I was recommended this place by a colleague of mine,” she says, making unsolicited small talk that feigns a smile from Osamu, humming along to her words as his hands roll the rice into shape. “She said it was the best onigiri she ever had and I had to try it out for myself.”
“Well, I hope it exceeds your expectations. Would you care for a drink with your order, or is that all? Okay great, well, have a lovely rest of your day and thank you for stopping at Onigiri Miya.”
-
Looking down at his phone, one hand in the pocket of his oversized hoodie that’s sloping off his shoulders, Osamu can only read and then re-read the vague email he received from the estate agent the night before. Just a location and time on where to meet the ‘excellent colleague’, who they forgot to mention by name, or just carefully omitted in case it ends up being someone else completely. It’s already been fifteen minutes past the time he’s supposed to be meeting this supposedly exemplary employee, who you’d think would honour punctuality, and he wonders if he’s just an afterthought. A post-it on the table that ended up getting coffee spilt over it, a text message that was immediately read and neglected. Maybe, even worse, they completely forgot to let anyone know to look after his viewings and now he’s standing in front of an empty building, watching pedestrians pass him by, swivelling his head from left to right like he’s in the stalls of a very intense tennis match – his fingernails have already been chewed down to the bone, so it adds to the effect. There’s no one who sticks out to him, giving an air of they’re meant to be there to be his estate agent. As it’s a weekday morning, everyone is suited and booted in business casual, that Friday feeling encroaching in the askew tie or creased shirt, wearing something that appears to be office appropriate to the untrained eye, but if you look a little closely underneath the blazer you’ll see the sliver of slightly more exposed skin that would be acceptable in a corporate setting.
The dinging of bicycle bells, the rush of traffic flooding his ears and the monotonous marching of Osaka are the only things keeping him company right now. It’s coming up to twenty minutes and Osamu is just about to give up and call the estate agents, fishing for his phone to punch in the office’s landline, until he hears panicked clacking across the tarmac, an oh for fuck sake rippling through the banal morning. Whipping his head to the direction of the noise, he sees someone fumbling with their heel, slipping it back on their foot as they hold onto a lamppost beside them, the other hand clutching onto some loose paperwork that’s become crumpled by their vice grip. She realises what her hand was touching and audibly groans, wiping her palm onto the front of her light trench, a disgruntled huff emitting from her lips. She looks over at Osamu and Osamu’s heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach.
He knows that face all too well now for only having met her once. It’s the face that’s burned behind his eyelids every night, the one that jolts him awake in a cold sweat as he would find himself envisioning her smile, the lick of her barely glossed lips, the whiff of her perfume flooding his brain and the only thing he can smell for the rest of the day, the scent triggering his olfactory response to be set to ‘always thinking of her’. No words are escaping his mouth, which has now dried up and is catching flies instead, watching the way she saunters over to him. No matter the lighting, whether it’s fluorescent white in the middle of the night or underneath beaming sunlight of a summer’s day where it lightly rained in the early hours of the morning, that coy smile is the same as he remembers it, curled up a little at the top corner, a slight pout of the lips that Osamu is twitching at the thought of pressing his against.
“I didn’t know I was showing you around today.”
“I didn’t know you worked in commercial lettings.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t, I’m a buying estate agent. There wasn’t anyone available in lettings, so I got a very panicked email this morning from your original estate agent asking if I was able to show you around the properties you’ve picked. I didn’t know I was showing them to you though…”
“Did she forget to mention my name, too? She didn’t mention yours, obviously aware she didn’t know who was going to take her place…”
She waves a dismissive hand as she looks through her bag for the keys to the restaurant space. “No, I just didn’t have time to look over the brief she sent me. I got the email literally forty minutes ago, so I apologise for making you wait.”
Osamu drops down a little as he stands behind her, his lips close to her ear as he tauntingly chuckles. In a low rumble, he asks, “why are you suddenly being so formal with me? Do you have a body cam on you?”
The hair tucked behind her ears brushes the tip of his nose and there’s that smell all over again, knocking the wind straight out of him, almost cracking his back flat against the tarmac. He lets in a sharp inhale as she turns her head, eyes meeting to look up at his, flickering between them both. She continues staring at him, for what feels like an eternity and a bit, Osamu holding onto his breath and turning close to purple. She squints. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
He lets out a quiet exhale. “Well, do you expect me to? I’m a business owner who stays up at night to manage his books, along with taking in drunk strays in the middle of the night and feeding them copious amounts of onigiri that’s unfathomable for only one person to ingest.” He follows behind her, standing in the middle of the barren space, his voice hitting each wall with an echoing thud.
She spins on her heel as she dumps her bag onto the countertop, one arm slouching across it, the other wrapping around her hip. She crosses one heeled foot in front of the other, lolling her head to the side in complete disbelief, a scornful taste glossing over her eyes. “I’ll have you know I did share.”
“A bite.”
“I’ll bite you. Hurry up and look at this place, we have four more to go through and I want to be rid of you.”
And Osamu looks around, hums in approval, nodding his head along to her ticking through all the amenities, the square metreage, the perks of on-site parking and appliances already built in and functioning. For his business, he isn’t looking for a grand and big space, just a hole in the wall that’ll be teeming with regulars just from word of mouth is all he wants, an atmosphere that encourages people to stay in and take a seat in the cosy space, but he isn’t averse to those who just want a grab-and-go snack. He relays all of these things he wants, and she acknowledges his expectations, telling him not to jump the gun on the first one as they have four more to go through, plainly through gritted teeth, locking up behind her as she listens to what he liked and disliked about the space. It’s good, but having the appliances visible is a bit of a visual eyesore, compared to my current location. Just a small area in the back is much preferred, he says to her, her half-listening as she puts into maps the second location, asking if he wants to walk or take the subway.
Onto the second location, then the third, each one nearly getting it right but somehow missing the mark, which disappoints Osamu because he just wants to find somewhere immediately so he can get started on it, throw himself back into the deep end of launching a business all over again, which he knows will tire him to no end, but hey, at least he might be able to get a restful night’s sleep after all of that grafting, right? The other half of him, however, doesn’t want this moment to end. Here he thought he was going to be an insomniac for the rest of his life, pining and yearning for a woman where he had the privilege of being in her company for just shy of an hour. Yet fate has a funny way in getting him to meet her again. Of course, while it is involuntarily she’s spending her time with him, now that he’s with her again, arm brushing hers as they walk in twos down the cramped stairs towards the subway, he’s praying to all the deities he can think of to not let this be a dream.
Osamu isn’t the type to be smitten instantaneously either, his brother being the one born with a heart on his sleeve, Osamu being born with a gentle, tender appreciation from an arm’s length away as he realises it’s what’s best for him emotionally. Although, the closer he gets to her, the more he feels he’s going to catch himself either doing something stupid, hurting himself, or perhaps both things if he keeps taking chances. With the more time that passes this morning, he can sense her becoming a little less sharp in her replies, her tone more rounded and her jagged edges that would jut into his side to stop him from getting too close when he winds her up softening a smidge, letting Osamu get a bit closer than he could a few hours before.
They arrive at the fourth space, which is nearly, oh so nearly there in being the spot for Osamu – as they say, location, location, location and this is a prime spot for tourists, residents of the city looking for a quick bite to eat, it just won’t be reserved for a weekday lunch encounter like his first branch and has the potential to be the flagship location for his brand, operating at (hopefully) full capacity seven days a week. Along with the fact the kitchen layout is exactly how he wants it to be. Yes, he might have to buy some new appliances but he’s already budgeted for that. Everything looks like it’s close to getting his name on the dotted line, and he’s ready to say let me put an offer to the landlord to her, but something is nagging in the back of his head. Something that tells him he needs to do something first before he puts all these viewings behind him, this whole day turning into another chip in his memory book, something he’ll end up thinking about on another restless night. A niggling what if.
“So, what do you think of the place?” she looks over at Osamu, eyes glossing over his towering figure, watching the way he leans against the counter behind him, hands behind his back. His trademark cap is still on his head and she inwardly smiles at it. “It looks pretty similar to your first branch – which by the way I have been recommending to everyone in the office about. The bench around the counter, there’s more seats for indoor seating at the back and some for out the front too, which will do well in the summer I think.”
“No, you’re right, it’s a good location for sure. There’s just… I don’t know.” He shrugs, eyes casting over to the side to observe the chipped wooden flooring, ignoring the awkward pause hanging over their heads. It’s a niggling, tickling feeling at the back of his head that’s stopping him from committing to anything and it’s frustrating him to no end, but he can’t show it in front of her without looking like a complete dork having a paddy over literally nothing. So he chooses to stand in silence, clutching onto the racing thoughts, chasing for something that makes sense to him as to why he doesn’t want to sign for this place.
Until the penny drops.
The thing that’s holding him back standing in front of his very eyes, the very simple idea of what if that he never really fleshed out because he was too scared to think about going down that route, too fearful to wonder if it was even a sliver of a possibility that something might come out of it. So every night, his subconscious would catch those fleeting moments, forcing him to look, observe, experience the sensations coursing through his body as he would try to fight to go into REM, to feel anything that would give him that push to sprint towards something worthwhile. And here is another opportunity, bestowed upon his lap on fate’s finest silver platter, ready for him to feast upon. And here is Miya Osamu not having the courage to do anything. A man who is so adamant in getting things done as soon as you can, so sure of anything that could relate to him and only him, but once you take him out of the kitchen and throw him into the deep end with someone else, he becomes a paralysed passenger watching his life turn into a fiery car crash all because of his hesitancies in bringing them down under with him.
“Hello, Earth to Osamu, you good?” she waves her hand in front of his face and he nods, watching her watching him.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m good,” he clears his throat. “Um. Before I sign anything—”
“Oh?” she hikes a brow, the coy smile back and god he feels like he could melt right there. “So this is the place? Did you work out what’s wrong with it?”
“Yeah, no I have. Before I commit to this—”
She’s fishing through her bag for her pen and phone, “have you seen my pen anywhere? I swear I had it here a second ago.”
Suddenly, there are hands gripping onto her shoulders tightly, capturing her attention. Stunned, she looks up at Osamu, heart in her throat as he stares down at her, licking his lips fervently and oh. She feels in her stomach the sudden gravitational pull to lean in until he roughly exhales in agitation. She gulps, frozen, staring up at him and continuing to do so because the silence is back, this time a little awkward (of course) but different.
“For goodness sake, let me finish. Before I sign anything, I want to ask you if you’d go on a date with me?”
She blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice and then realises she has to say something without making either person feel like a dumbstruck fool. “Oh, uh. I mean, you’ll get the place no problem, you don’t have to go on a date with me to put in a good word, I can attest to the success of the place to the landlord, don’t worry. Like I said, I told my colleagues about Onigiri Miya and some even went earlier this week.”
“Okay, fine, but that’s not why I’m asking you on a date, gosh you’re making this so difficult. I just want to go on a date with you. No strings attached.”
“Why do you want to go on a date with me?”
She half expected him to say something a little bit, well, expected, of a man in his twenties who wants to go on a date. Half cheesy, half sultry, a way to lure her in, but also non committal, a little ‘whatever happens, happens’ sort of approach. Something fun to experience in their twenties, and for someone who’s just had her heart broken and ripped into two, well, now’s a better time than any to jump back on the saddle, especially if the saddle is a man who’s six feet, hotter than the kitchen he works in and who has her permission to do whatever he pleases with her, to her, especially if those tree trunks for arms are invited. But the way he looks at her with desperation, the shadows underneath his eyes darkening a little, the grip on her shoulders loosening but his whole body tense and tight. It causes her breath to hitch unexpectedly, and to hold onto it when he suddenly slackens, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder.
“Because I’m going to drive myself insane if I keep thinking about you and not do anything about it.”
-
Summer falls into winter and springs back around again. Onigiri Miya’s second launch was a success, and by recruiting a few extra hands, some of who have turned into mid-level management, it alleviated some of Osamu’s workload. It also meant he had more free time to actually find an accountant to hire so he doesn’t have to juggle two books. Regardless, when a Thursday lunch rush calls, Osamu comes running at the drop of a hat. It’s dwindling down at this point, the mad rush of men in suits and women in slacks coming in a steady, manageable wave that it gives Osamu a moment to breathe. To admire the full tables, the aimless chatter, the sound of the card machine beeping rhythmically from payment after payment after payment. He’s leaning across the counter to grab some empty dishes, ready to put them into the sink at the back, when he hears a sarcastic, teasing why hello there! Are you new to Onigiri Miya?!
Osamu looks over his shoulder briefly, then does a double take. Even to this day, just seeing her, whether she’s in her work clothes, stained pyjamas, his oversized tees and hoodies and whatever other things of his she can get his hands on, he suddenly feels like he’s flying. The dishes get tossed into the sink at the speed of light and he runs around the counter, wrapping those damn tree trunks for arms around her, hoisting her off the ground. If he could, if the space permitted, he would have spun her around ten times over, but he settles for a strong squeeze and sets her back down. His coworkers watch in enamoured amusement, catching onto the way she rolls her eyes at his giddy behaviour before lightly punching his shoulder.
“Alright calm down, you see me every day.”
“And it’s not enough.” A beat. “What are you doing here, though? Wasn’t your lunch break an hour ago?”
“It was, until I decided I wanted to take the afternoon off to see my lovely boyfriend, you know, one year anniversary this weekend and all, why not start early right?”
Osamu grins from ear to ear. “Happy to commence the festivities now. After all, I am the boss.”
A series of boos flood past Osamu’s ears, a dirty rag hitting the back of his head in mocking petulance. Osamu launches it right back at the culprit, hitting him square in the face. He swats a hand at the part-timer-turned-supervisor and says to close up an hour earlier to compensate, everyone erupting into cheers at Osamu’s gesture of goodwill and well, he can do it because as he said, he is the boss after all.
The pair of them slip out of the front entrance, waving goodbye to everyone before Osamu slings his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. As the two continue to walk down the street, Osamu lets out a large yawn.
“What, did you not have a good night’s sleep last night? Something, no, someone, keep you awake?” she juts her elbows into his ribs, causing him to let out protests of ‘quit it’, lightly laughing as she does so.
“No, I slept amazing. I’m just tired.” He shrugs, tilting his head to rest his cheek on the crown of her head. “Just tired of going back and forth between apartments, who’s sleeping where, having to lug my shit over to yours and yours to mine. Don’t you think it’s time we make it easier for both of us and you move in with me?”
Slowing down to a halt, her feet scuff on the asphalt below. Her eyes raise up to meet Osamu’s and once again, he watches her watching him. For someone who wears her confidence like it’s second skin, Osamu has grown to learn the ways in which she exhibits her uneasy side, from the way she shuffles her feet, taps her fingers, fidgets with the hem of her shirts or toys with the chain around her neck. This time she’s opted for playing with her necklace, twisting the chain around her finger as she inquisitively observes Osamu, egging him to elaborate further. And when he doesn’t, she huffs. “I didn’t know moving in together was on the table.”
“It was going to be eventually, didn’t you think that?”
“I did… Just unsure of whether you were thinking the same, too.” She kicks a few gravel stones by her toes.
Osamu reaches for her hands, feeling the soft, supple skin of her palms against his calloused fingertips, rubbing circles on the inside of her wrist. She feels his warmth, then something cool slipping in the gap between her index and middle finger. Her fingers curl around the key in her hand and she pulls her lips into her mouth to stop her from grinning too wide that it’ll rip her cheeks in half.
“Is this mine?”
“It’s ours.”
“We need two keys, we get home at different times you idiot.”
“Yeah but for this weekend we can survive with one, right? You’re not going to run out on me.” He hooks his arm back around her shoulder and yanks her forward, encouraging her to put one step in front of the other.
She slips the key into her trouser pocket, readjusting her bag on her shoulder a beat after. “I don’t know, I’m pretty fast.”
“You know if you leave me I won’t ever sleep again,” Osamu wistfully sighs, shaking his head disapprovingly.
Tilting her head to get a better look at Osamu, the curve of his nose, the cheeky grin ghosting his lips, the same cap on his head that has seen better days, she chuckles. “Will me reading you a bedtime story help instead?”’
“If you do it sitting on top of me, then I’m all ears.”