Hara

As you sit aglow in the bright light that pours from your phone screen, scrolling through a myriad of missed messages and emails, your stomach grumbles an insistent, petulant reminder that you fell asleep before making dinner. 

Unfortunately, the state of your kitchen reminds you exactly why you fell asleep on the couch in sun-baked defeat in the first place—your fridge and pantry both have a meager collection of combined offerings at best. And a nap had seemed far more appealing than sweating half to death on the sidewalk to trek to the grocery store earlier. As you frown while glancing back and forth between a jar of pickles and a half-empty container of hummus, your attention is pulled away by the telltale sound of floorboards creaking above you.

Your lips quirk upward slightly as you glance at the ceiling, tracking the noise across your living room and over in the direction of the sliding glass door that leads to your small balcony. 

There’s a slight breeze when you step outside, though even the wind feels sluggish under the heat wave’s humid, suffocating grip. You wince slightly as you take in the sight of your collection of potted plants that fill most of the space—their wilted, thirsty leaves rustle in your direction indignantly.

On the balcony above your own, you hear the sound of a door sliding open. You stand at the railing, looking upward as you call out, “Hey.”

A head of dark brown hair comes into view, and your upstairs neighbor peeks over his railing. “Hey.”

Something inside of you warms at the sight of Osamu, a type of heat wholly different from what clings to the tired city air. 

(It’s a familiar heat that you’ve come to associate with his presence, one that has a way of making you shiver right where you stand.)

“You busy?” you ask him, tone casual. 

He smiles, handsome and boyish and everything that makes you question the word friend. “Depends on who’s askin’.”

“Your favorite neighbor.”

Osamu raises a brow. “I think Doris is probably asleep by now…” he muses, referring to the perpetually miserable old woman that lives in the unit next to his.

You huff in faux offense. “In that case, I’ll just walk to the grocery store alone then.”

The humor rapidly dissipates from his expression, replaced by something that looks a lot like concern even with the deep shadows cast across his face. “Ha? Wait. You’re not walkin’ there by yourself this late.”

“Sure am,” you tell him cheerfully, giving him a little wave before heading back towards the sliding door. “I need food.”

“Ya better not leave without me!” he calls after you, and you hear the door above you slip back open as well. 

You grin to yourself while you find your wallet and keys and toe on a pair of sneakers. Once you swing open your front door, Osamu’s somehow already leaning against the opposite wall across the hall, arms folded over his chest as he waits for you. If he ran down the stairwell to get to your floor that quickly, the only sign of it is his slightly mussed, dark hair. It’s hard to pay attention to his face, though, what with the losing battle the sleeves of his white t-shirt are currently locked in with his biceps.

And his eyes—

It’s distracting, to say the least. 

He’s distracting. 

He offers you an amused smile. “Nice shirt.”

Glancing down, you feel a prickle of heat kiss the back of your neck as you’re suddenly reminded of exactly what you absently tossed on after shucking off your work clothes earlier: one of Osamu’s Onigiri Miya t-shirts. The one that ended up covered in cat hair the time he came over and spent an hour on your living room carpet fawning over said cat, which you were watching for a friend. The one you insisted on washing for him to save him the trouble of the hair mixing in with his own laundry load.

The one you’ve completely forgotten to return for the better part of a month now. 

And now you’re wearing it.

And he’s smiling at you like he thinks it’s funny when you quickly tuck your bottom lip between your teeth for lack of a better response and spin on your heel to lock the door. 

“Maybe I’m your newest employee,” you shrug once you begin to make your way toward the elevator. 

“Mm. Looks better on you anyway.” Osamu pushes off of the wall, gently bumping shoulders with you. “But we still gotta work on your rice balls.”

You bump him right back in return. “They fell apart once.”

He exhales a soft, dramatic sigh. “Still hurts me to think about what ya did to ‘em.”

Crossing your arms, you raise a brow. “I’m not baking for you anymore.”

He leans against you heavily when he reaches out to press the plastic down arrow on the wall, the elevator shaft immediately humming to life while it climbs its way to the fifth floor. “That’s just cruel.”

You catch sight of a flash of blue and yellow on his wrist in the process, and you decidedly pretend not to notice that he’s still wearing the silly little bracelet you made last week while the two of you were sitting on your couch. 

(Your heart sure notices, rattling against your ribcage.)

The elevator dings, and the doors slip apart. Osamu gestures with his hand for you to step in first. 

“Maybe I’ll change my mind if you’re good.”

Osamu leans against the metal railing that lines the walls, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he grins. “I’m always good for you.”

There’s something about you, Osamu Miya, and elevators.

When you moved into your apartment building just over six months ago, fresh out of a break up and still a little unsteady on your feet with a new job in an unfamiliar city, you weren’t expecting this.

You weren’t expecting him.

You were holding a precarious stack of boxes when you stepped into this very elevator, the top one tumbling over the edge when you reached for the button for the fifth floor. But despite the way you immediately cringed, waiting for the sound of something breaking, it never came.

Osamu, who had quietly slipped into the carriage behind you on the way up to his own floor, caught the box right before it hit the ground. Old volleyball reflexes, he’d said with a sheepish smile.

But rather than just putting the box back on top of the stack, Osamu asked if you needed a hand.

(A hand, as it turned out, was taking the entire stack from you and carrying it to your door, despite your protests that you could carry the rest. And then making five more trips back and forth to your car with you when he realized you were moving by yourself without any help.)

(And it was oddly easy, getting past the initial struggle of feeling like you were inconveniencing a complete stranger—)

(—accepting a type of kindness that asked for nothing in return.)

It was all so easy with him after that—

Conversations. 

Company. 

Friendship. 

Everything else you don’t quite let yourself acknowledge— 

Everything else that exists somewhere between the long afternoons spent with him crouched down on your living room floor with a screwdriver and a hammer and piles of IKEA boxes (he’d laughed when you tried to pay him for the help). Between onigiri lessons in his kitchen and late nights spent stargazing and drinking tea and talking about life out on your balcony.

Between the flutter in your heart when he smiles at you for no reason at all. The way your phone lights up with a message telling you to go to bed!! when he can hear you up and about into the late hours of the night sometimes (he’s become familiar with your early work schedule). The convenience store bag that you occasionally find hanging from your doorknob when you haven’t seen him in a few days, your favorite candy waiting at the bottom. The bad reality shows you watch together some nights (the way he doesn’t watch new episodes without you). 

The way he always seems to find himself downstairs in the building’s laundry room with you after that time you texted him to complain about the weird, pushy guy from the second floor who can never seem to take a hint. 

The way you’ve come to crave all of the different ways he says your name, soft and amused and happy and teasing and tired and raspy and imploring—

A distant rumble of thunder echoes across the sky as you hit the sidewalk in tandem, the undercurrent of static electricity that crackles carrying the promise of a storm in its wake. It feels a lot like the state of your nerves every time Osamu’s arm brushes against yours, the sensation sending a flurry of shockwaves to sink into the more tender parts of your chest.

You’re usually better at this—keeping your feelings at bay. But something about the heat has left you abnormally vulnerable, reflexes not quite quick enough to pull back stray thoughts before they take root. 

(Because despite it all, you don’t know how he feels.)

(And you’d rather keep it all tucked away, a slow, fading carbonation fizzing in your veins, than lose whatever this is that the two of you have.)

The relief that hits you the instant the automatic doors to the grocery store slide open, releasing a burst of cool air, has a pleased, excited sound tumbling from your lips before you can stop yourself. Osamu snorts beside you, veering off to grab a cart, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the stark, white fluorescent glow that lights the inside of the building.

Despite the fact that it’s open 24 hours, the store is nearly deserted save for the few employees left milling about. Cheery music from the radio pours over the speakers, and the two of you mosey about down empty aisles, one rogue wheel on the cart squeaking in protest every so often. 

Osamu seems content to push the cart while you grab a few things—though it does a number on your knees when you whip around after going through an admittedly vigorous elimination process picking the perfect bag of oranges. You find him leaning down on the handle, forearms and all, chin atop his hands. Lips curved upward. Amusement sparkling in his eyes. 

You have half a mind to toss the bag in the vicinity of the cart’s basket, hope for the best, and scurry off to the safety of another aisle before he makes it worse and says something while he’s looking at you like that, too. 

(Does he even realize it? Does he know what he does to you?)

“Picky,” he teases when you approach, holding a hand out to grasp the netting that holds the oranges. Osamu puts them in the cart for you, even though you really could have done it yourself, and you have to firmly bite the inside of your cheek at the unintended domesticity of it all. 

“Have you seen yourself standing in front of the avocado bin?”

He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Fair.”

Osamu leads the way to the cereal aisle, remembering that you mentioned you were out of it, and you trail behind him, your tender mind caught on the sharp hook of an insistent thought that refuses to give way now that it’s made itself known.

You can’t help but try and think back to when exactly everything the two of you do started to feel like this.

(You’d be lying to yourself if you said it didn’t feel like this from the very start.)

You don’t know if you’re just imagining it, your heart caught in the crosshairs of the haze of your own rose-colored lens. If these touches and smiles and every easy little thing between you and him is perhaps nothing significant at all. 

If the weight of everything left unspoken between the two of you is yours alone to bear, the echoes and whispers of fondness and affection that live in the notches between your ribs. If you’re waiting on the shore and he’s still adrift in the tide. 

You’re still lost in thought and reaching for the cereal when Osamu’s hand suddenly comes to rest against your hip, the other one grabbing the exact box he knows you were going for as he hurriedly murmurs in your ear, “Do ya trust me?”

Your brain briefly short circuits as you try to process the feeling of his fingers, wondering if maybe, perhaps, you’re actually still just asleep on your couch. You nod anyway. 

Osamu exhales a sigh that might be relief and whispers, “I apologize in advance.”

Before you can try to figure out what he means, the cereal box takes flight as he launches it into the cart just as voice calls out—

“Oh my god, Bo. Are you seein’ what I’m seein’?”

You can hear Osamu take a deep breath beside you as he turns both of you around, pulling you even more closely against him. 

You’re met with the sight of what must undoubtedly be Osamu’s twin, Atsumu—who you’ve yet to meet but know plenty about. He runs a hand through his bleached blonde hair, elbowing the tall, silver-haired man standing beside him wearing a matching grin. 

“She’s real,” the other man whistles in disbelief.

Atsumu scratches his chin, head tilting to the side as he stares at the two of you for a moment. “She’s too hot for him,” he concludes.

Their comments leave you wholly confused, but you hardly have time to ponder over them when Osamu mutters under his breath, “Yeah ya are,” before he laces his fingers with yours and leans his head against you.

You feel hot everywhere he’s touching despite the frigid temperature of the store, and it takes everything in you to try and make it look natural when you let yourself sink against him in turn. And you think you imagine it—the quiet sound of him swallowing beside you. 

For all that Atsumu seems to delight in nagging his brother, in contrast, you would almost think he’s already somehow fond of you as he introduces himself and the man beside him, Bokuto Koutarou. You learn that they play on the same volleyball team. 

Bokuto’s enthusiasm is infectious, to the point where you forget that none of this is real for a brief moment. You feel an air conditioning vent kick on with a vengeance from somewhere up above, and a chill runs through you. Almost immediately, Osamu reaches up to rub your arm. 

“Ya know, I’ve been beggin’ Samu to let us meet ya for months,” Atsumu gripes.

Months?

Bokuto laughs, “Honestly, we were about to start a betting pool about whether you really existed or not.”

“Guess Akaashi woulda rinsed us all,” Atsumu sighs.

“Akaashi never doubted it,” Bokuto nods sagely. 

“You guys are so goddamn annoyin’” Osamu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Atsumu slings an arm around his brother’s shoulders, turning to look toward where you’re still standing pressed up against his other side. “Blink twice if he’s got ya under duress. I can fight.”

You’re not exactly sure what compels you to make your next move—the long-suffering resignation on Osamu’s face, the teasing challenge on Atsumu’s. The fact that none of this is real, and you’re doing him a favor, so you might as well indulge in the moment and give them a show. 

Whatever your reasoning is, Osamu’s clearly not expecting it when you lean forward around him to look at his brother, only to turn back to him instead. His eyes widen just a fraction when you cup his face, your lips finding the corner of his mouth. 

The mint flavor of his gum tickles your lips.

“Nah,” you smile. And maybe it’s entirely self-indulgent, the way you reach up and card your fingers through his hair after for good measure while you continue, “I like him. I think I’ll keep him.”

Osamu stares at you long after your hand drops back down to your side. 

Atsumu sighs good-naturedly. “Well, he’s not allowed to hide ya from us anymore now. You should come to one of our games, I’ll make sure ya get a nice VIP seat.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Please don’t shmooze my girlfriend to come watch ya be a jackass on the court.”

Girlfriend. 

Girlfriend. 

A snort comes from somewhere in the direction of where Bokuto’s standing, scrolling through his phone. 

“Ah ah, I said seat,” Atsumu balks. “Yer ugly mug is sittin’ in the parking lot.”

Osamu mutters something under his breath about looking in a mirror, and the two bicker for a bit before Bokuto joins in to talk about their most recent game. Before the four of you part ways, Bokuto gives you a smile and tells you that you should come with Osamu to the team barbecue-slash-pool party that he’s hosting at his house next weekend.

(You’re already thinking about how in the world you’d manage to handle an entire fake dating escapade with a sun-kissed Osamu in a short sleeve, linen button down, sunglasses, and swim shorts.) 

Meanwhile, Atsumu sounds surprisingly sincere when he turns directly to you and says, “Ya know. My brother hasn’t shut up about ya since the day he met ya. I was about to come over there, find your place, and confess for him.”

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as Atsumu’s words sink in, and you’re in the middle of trying to reason with yourself that you’re taking his words a little too literally in the context of this moment when he adds, “I’m real glad he found ya though. Don’t think I’ve seen Samu this happy in a long while.”

Osamu lightly punches his brother in the shoulder before he turns to leave and mutters, “Ya big sap.”

It’s only once you’re in the clear and heading toward the checkout that Osamu turns to you, scratching the back of his head. “Thanks for goin’ along with the whole…girlfriend thing. Sorry if it was weird.”

Putting your items on the belt, you shrug, not really thinking of the implications of the joke that leaves your mouth a moment later. “Congrats on registering for your free trial, just don’t forget to cancel it, or your credit card will be charged accordingly.”

Osamu pulls a reusable shopping bag out of his pocket—because of course he remembered to bring one. It’s dark blue and covered in a pattern of cartoony onigiri. You huff out a quiet laugh as you take it from him and begin packing it. When he replies, he’s far closer to you than you’re expecting, and your fingers fumble while reaching for your credit card. 

“Do ya accept payment in the form of dinner?”

Folding the receipt and putting it in your pocket, you turn to him, and he takes the shopping bag from you before you can object. The exit doors slide open, and the air outside feels marginally cooler. 

“Depends, will it be prepared by the Chef Miya Osamu?”

Lightning flashes across the sky, inky blank giving way to an indigo glow that lights up the semiopaque clouds that stretch overhead. A rumble of thunder follows, and raindrops hit your skin. 

“Anything for you.” He winks before looking up at the sky and adding, “But we should hurry up if we wanna stay dry.”

Staying dry, as it turns out, isn’t an option. The steady, cool droplets that dot the sidewalk quickly turn into an outright downpour before you’re even halfway home.

“My plants!” you yelp, watching the way the rain begins to slant sideways. Because while they could certainly use some water, you’re doubtful that the more delicate ones will survive the wind.

Once you get inside, Osamu makes a beeline for the balcony, wordlessly handing you pot after pot while you stand just inside of the door as he continues to get pelted with rain. When all of your plants are safely relocated, you scurry off down the hallway, returning wearing a dry t-shirt and tossing Osamu a towel.

Unfortunately, your hand eye coordination, despite the fact that he’s only standing a few feet away from you, leaves something to be desired when you finally get a good look at him. Osamu’s white t-shirt is nearly see through, the damp material clinging to his arms and chest in a way that’s practically obscene. 

He swipes the towel up from where it landed pathetically on the floor, and you quickly turn away to busy yourself with the groceries—it’s the only safe alternative to outright gawking at the way his muscles flex while he dries himself off. 

“Sure wish I had a spare shirt lyin’ around here somewhere,” Osamu muses, chin coming to rest on your shoulder as you make two sandwiches. 

Rolling your eyes, you turn around and push one of them into his hands before hopping up to sit on the counter and eat your own. Anything to put some distance between yourself and the temptation of the fluffy, messy strands of his towel-dried hair.

You both quietly chew, Osamu leaning against the countertop near your thigh as you slowly swing your legs and let the balls of your feet tap against the lower cabinets. Eventually, he breaks the silence, hands now working their way over the thick skin of an orange as he turns it in his palms. He begins to peel it with a steady, practiced ease, the rind giving way beneath the slow curl of his fingers.

He doesn’t look up at you when he talks.

“Tsumu wasn’t lyin, ya know.”

You inhale sharply, trying to cover it up with a soft snort. “About begging you to let him meet your fake girlfriend?

Osamu’s eyes find yours, and there’s something in his stormy gray irises that reminds you of clouds illuminated by lightning (something that sparks and fizzes on its way down your throat as you swallow the thought).

“Mm,” he replies, noncommittal, lips quirking in his usual half smile. 

He holds out a piece of orange.

You’re not entirely sure why, but instead of taking it between your fingers, you lean toward him. Just enough for him to get the hint. Osamu exhales through his nose, holding your gazes as he steps forward, fitting himself up against the counter in the space between your thighs. 

He presses the slice to your lips.

“I was thinkin’ about the bit where he mentioned how happy I’ve been.”

You bite down, mouth watering as the sweet citrus flavor floods your tongue. Your toes curl. Juice slips down your chin, and Osamu catches it with his thumb, carefully wiping it away. The digit ghosts over the curve of your jaw before he lets his hand drop back down at his side. 

You take your time chewing, if only to give your heart time to settle down in your chest, and Osamu eats a slice, too, before continuing, “But ya see, he’d definitely wring my neck knowin’ I still haven’t actually confessed.”

It’s a battle in and of itself to try and keep your expression neutral, despite the fireworks show currently going off in the vicinity of your heart. “To your fake girlfriend?”

He nods. “Ya see, I think maybe she thinks that she’s just my downstairs neighbor.”

“Isn’t she?”

“Well, she became my favorite person somewhere along the way, too.”

Heat engulfs your veins, a molten flash flood that leaves you swaying in place, and you try to keep your voice steady when you nonchalantly reply, “You should tell her.”

“What if she doesn’t feel the same and slams the door in my face?” 

You shrug, waving a hand dismissively. “Your face is too handsome to slam a door on.”

Osamu raises a brow. “Will ya kiss it better if she says no?”

Your chest lurches. Hard. “Why are you so convinced she’s going to turn you down?”

“What do you think she’s gonna say?” he asks, gazing at you imploringly. 

“You’ll never know until you try.”

Osamu leans in closer, close enough for the warmth from his breath to curl against your lips. “I really wanna kiss ya right now.”

“So why aren’t you?” you whisper.

Osamu cups your face in his warm hands, thumbs carefully stroking your cheeks, dragging his gaze from your eyes to your mouth in a way that feels like warm, dripping honey. Thunder rumbles on outside, flashes of lightning pouring in through the windows.

And when Osamu’s lips finally come crashing into yours, it’s an entirely different kind of storm that swells in your chest—

He tastes like citrus.

—it’s a searing, dizzying wave, one that curls and crests with the shape of his mouth moving against yours, with the feeling of his tongue slipping against the seam of your lips. 

He tastes like a storm.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, carding through strands that are still partially damp in places, and you part your lips for him. He groans, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your head as the other slips down to curl against your waist. 

He tastes new and familiar all at once.

(Like everything you want and all that you need and what you’ve been too afraid to ask for even if he’s already had your heart in the palm of his hands this whole time—)

Osamu kisses you like he’s wanted this just as badly as you have all along.

And when you finally part for air, he doesn’t go far, forehead leaning against yours, thumb running over your bottom lip almost reverently.

“Can I keep you?” he asks softly.

An echo of your earlier words, though the weight in them is far heavier as his lips brush against yours while he speaks.