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WHAT IS ONE TO DO IF THEY FIND THEMSELVES FORLORN IN TOKYO?
This is a tale recalled not to many. Though if you are in Tokyo, do take a stop in winter to feel the environment around you. You will find much in that moment of indulging.
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There are zephyrs that run through the tall avenues of Tokyo, the kind that I've felt only during the ending months of the year. They makes their way following shoe prints indented into the snow, and follow the umber linger of freshly made hōjicha.
If you're a stranger to the city that is Tokyo, the zephyrs will know. Worry not, just stop, or slow down– whatever it is that you prefer, and let the brittle air lead you. If you have loose clothing on you, follow the direction it blows in, and you will find your way.
If you're one that's tall and reserved, just follow the zephyr, regardless of whether you know Tokyo's map like a mother's recipe or not. Trust me. You will find home.
And take it from me, wherever these zephyrs land you, lay a surface where you can build home.
♡
The metal handle of his apartment feels particularly icy when he goes to open it a few days before new years. The chill makes him pull his hand back instantly, eyebrows crinkling as he puts the hand on his cheek, feeling how his skin has been drowsed in a coldness only felt in the prolonged sunrise of a winter morning.
This is when Osamu finds himself steps before, a faint memory flicking in his mind. Bright, then dark, bright, then dark. it flickers on and on till he gives in.
The memory is this: After volleyball practice at Inarizaki, Osamu waits for Suna to finish getting his stuff. He stands outside the court of his school as insects sing a tinkering tune from the dusty turquoise bushes adorning the foot of the building. The moon follows its orbit in the sky, a waning crescent that seems almost reachable under the empty sky.
Osamu feels cold without his sweater, feeling a chill run through him as the eerily grin of a cold wind flits past him. He exhales warm air through his mouth, rubbing the tip of his fingers together to make the chill disperse to another part of his body. In the distance, the trees ruffle slightly, a shiver of their own as all of Hyōgō prefecture endure the unkind weather. (He is thoroughly biased, but he can't find himself to fall in love with winter yet , not when all it does is offer to him is the urge to run inside and find a home in the shadows.)
He woefully chastises himself, especially aware that he should've brought his gloves with him. Though the scolding does not last long.
Warm fingers slide between him. Suna steps beside him and nudges Osamu's shoulder with his own. A warm feeling runs through his hands, making its way from the wrists to his shoulders, and then finally finding home on the pale of his cheeks, painting them a cute rubescent.
"Feeling cold?" Suna asks him with no bite, pressing his palm against Osamu’s firmly. His secure grip feels like running through the isthmus of a foreign land; a breath of fresh air, feeding lightness into his mind.
Osamu finds himself smiling despite the bitter wasp of the memory. He had forgotten that Suna was no longer here to keep his hands warm, and he had been reminded how biting the air could be in Japan when no one was there to keep the goosebumps from dotting his body.
Osamu considers his options, to deal with the chills until he reaches his store and then bask in the expensive heater he bought for himself, or to wear gloves and break that… ritual of his and Suna's to make it to the shop without freezing. It was something that they both required to reach out for, but with only Osamu here, he goes with the second option. He can't do it on his own.
When he finally wears them, he opens the door of his apartment like he does every single day, soundlessly, though he knows he doesn't need to be worrying about waking up Atsumu or Suna anytime since they don't even live in the same block as him anymore.
Before leaving, he watches from the entrance of the apartment, seeing the way newspapers stay stacked neatly, and the way everything is placed how it should be, not even a piece of cloth or food misplaced from the puzzle. If this is what his life is supposed to look like complete, he'd rather have parts missing than live like this.
It's a little lonely, but it's fine. He understands that everyone does not have the time to be lounging at another's house.
♡
Osamu is placing down the last chair when he finds himself taking a step back and observing this moment and the memories building up to this moment, as if watching from the eyes of an unknown body.
In the midst of the bustling city, the base of his shop starts chipping away as clouds of crowd flutter by, losing the sleek look it had. Though if you ever said that to him, he'd digress and tell you that within the indents in the wood of his shop are buried telltales of memoirs that belong to not only heavy footsteps, but also to fresh fauna that grows from between the pelted brick footpath.
Though these little trinkets contradict the fresh sheen of a newly opened shop, in return, they fill the cracks with a cradle of home that Osamu will only find pressed into the attic of his mothers house, all the way in Hyōgō prefecture. To know a piece of that home is slowly making its way to this branch in Tokyo, is enough for Osamu.
But of course Tokyo is different. For the past few months, inside the kitchen, Osamu would sit, feeling the currents of a new wave crash against his shop as he stood in it, wetting his feet and finding imbalance in his stance.
It doesn't help that his family is not there to fall with him if the wave ends up being too harsh. It doesn't help that if he sinks, he feels as though he will have to teach himself how to swim again. Regardless of how incorrect that might be.
Osamu is aware. He knows if he just expressed this to anyone they'd come to his aid, but the words just do not come to him easily. The feeling lingers in his chest, churning slowly in a spiral, but only the feeling lingers, words lost amidst the lethal current of a brand new city.
♡
The truth is this: Atsumu has visited Osamu's new branch. In fact, he had been there since day one. In the table right beside the entrance, there is an abnormality. For a table of four, only three chairs are kept there, because the first time Atsumu visited after the inauguration, he was drunk and thought it was funny to jump from chair to chair. He ended up falling so hard that the metal legs of the fourth chair twisted and broke. This is Atsumu's print.
Their mother has also visited, and right beside the cashier is a little statue of onigiri on a plate that his mother commissioned someone to make for him. Sometimes, when the only presence in the shop is his, if he strains his ears hard enough he can hear her laughter coming from the side of the shop where she had last sat. This is her linger, that she has left behind.
Osamu sighs, resting his palms on the cold counter, and then looks up towards the ceiling.
The truth is also this: right above the spot his eyes gaze at, is his own apartment, and in that apartment rests a simple wooden drawer that he ordered from online when he first moved in.
The anomaly is that all kept in the drawer is the light weighting dust, and his feelings, shoved away in the corner of his house that persists annoying like the tug of a harmless insect walking on your skin.
Osamu had left it empty in case Suna would decide to come and stay for a while. EJP resided in Tokyo, after all. So that when the day came, Suna would find it convenient to slip into Osamu's life again, and so Osamu could finally be complete and rejoice with the piece of himself that rests in Suna's hands.
The dust that sits in that drawer has most definitely been there since the day his store in Tokyo was open. Suna never stayed. Hell, he didn't even visit .
There are only fixed times you can pluck the petals of a rose before it becomes obvious. Osamu told himself that Suna was most probably busy; One month later, two months later, but over five months later, it doesn't work anymore.
Here's the thing; many people lie because they have to. Many lie because they need to protect someone, be it themselves, from the truth. Osamu was stationed somewhere between the two. Now that the lie doesn't work, all there is, is an ache inside of him that chokes up his lungs and makes him feel outlandish.
Suna posts on his social media, he posts of parties and new friends and wins from matches. He goes to some grocery half an hour away from Osamu and takes a silly photo next to a cardboard standee. He goes to cafés a single train station from Osamu's store.
Osamu tells himself it's fine if Suna doesn't want to see him. It's not like he was obliged to. He tells himself he'll be fine, that on the early dawn of a morning, the ache in him will fossilize and he'll forget the tender feeling of being lonely.
♡
It's early in the morning when Osamu accidentally comes across his favorite 90's film on TV. Seeing it again is like being drowsed in a nostalgia that reminds him of warmth and the presence of another beside him.
Suna and Osamu had watched it countless times during summer breaks, because Atsumu was apparently "better than watching boring romcoms in summer together like some old married couple." and the film was too unironically entertaining for them to not watch it when heat waves were around. Unfortunately, it's too cold now, early March when the gaze of winter still lingers around.
In fact, it's that part of the movie after the interval where you've slugged into a bad posture, feeling-lazy-to-even-sit-up-straight kind of stage. It's the stage where they'd fall languid, Osamu resting his head on Suna's thigh as Suna's fingers would thread through his grey dyed hair.
While Osamu would find his attention tethering to how Suna's hand would press soothingly in his hair, in the background would run the movie and the single air conditioning that was placed in his houses' living room, a nag that would scratch the back of his mind in an almost satisfying way.
Suddenly, Osamu feels too tired to sit up straight. He grabs the pillow he'd been using to support his back and puts it at one end of the couch, before lying down and resting his head on it. The pillow lacks the physical warmth that he pines for, but it's fine.
Closing his eyes, Osamu lets the sound of the movie turn into a blur as he threads his fingers through his brown hair, like Suna used to. First, he'd sink the tip of his fingers into the roots of his head, then run them to the back of his head, slowly, ever so soothingly.
A tick sets off. Then, another. But– maybe if he presses harder—
Osamu sits up frustratedly. A feeling of shame and embarrassment starts seeping into the back of his throat, mind running while bitterness pokes at the corner of his eyes. He feels stupid.
'Of-fucking-course.' He thinks sourly. Suna is not here. Suna has not been here. Osamu has slowly lost his touch. Osamu shuts the TV off with a harshness not needed, and slips into bed as that empty drawer of his casts a shadow bigger than it does on most days.
♡
The next morning, Osamu stands infront of his bathroom mirror, staring at the eye bags that draw indents below his eyes.
Then, he stares at his fingers. They are short and ragged, and in them is kneaded years of love that he makes sure is pressed into the food he makes.
A scar lines the inner pinky of his right hand, and he has more hair lining on his skin than the arm that would hold his waist when he was having one of his bad days.
Once again, Osamu closes his eyes and wraps his hands around himself.
It feels like being held. It feels like having your waist held, but the love is gone. All there is, is concrete cold and small fingers that could never compare.
Inside him, the pressure that's been building starts pushing against his heart. It's a herald, he's sure.
♡
He supposes it all comes down to past midnight on a particularly windy day.
Osamu is winding up his shop, placing the chairs nearly when the bell on the entrance rings hurriedly. Osamu had only left it unlocked because it was easier to leave through the front than the back, so he swiftly turns around to notify the intruder that the store has closed already. He has half the thought to maybe care for his safety and grab some pocket knife, but it immediately dissolves when he sees the figure standing in the middle of store.
"Oh sor—" Suna's words diffuse, gaze falling onto Osamu's figure. Seeing Suna again is like rereading a book that you've forgotten the plot of, words familiar as you comprehend them but plot and structure lost in your forgotten memory. It’s not like Osamu didn’t know what he’d looked like in the past months, he’d seen Suna’s posts after all. But witnessing him like this, under the lights of his store, a forgotten mural that Osamu had once wished to see is like being drowned in cold water after a walk under the scorching sun.
With a loose scarf around his neck and the reflection of light on the glaze of Suna’s eyes shielding his truth emotions, Osamu feels the distance between them, a brooding liminal space that pricks jabs at his chest.
“Sunarin…” the nickname slips past like second nature, “what are you doin’ here?” Osamu breaks the silence between them, a wince resonating inside him when he realises there’s a part of him that yearns for Suna to admit that he was here to see Osamu. But it’s not a far fetched assumption to make, is it?
Suna gulps, eyes darting away from him. “Ah, I just stumbled upon here on accident.” Oh. Right. The hurt that prods at him has air eliminating from his lungs.
“Oh..Of course. If ya had wanted to visit me ya would’ve done that months ago, wouldn’t ya?” Osamu can’t help but express the slightest of his bitterness. “The store’s closed, Suna. ‘M afraid I have nothing to offer to you. (“But myself.” He doesn’t say.)
Suna takes his accusation with a wince. “It’s not that, ‘Samu. It’s not that I didn’t want to visit you, I just…” he trails off, head turning away as his hair falls forward to veil his expression.
“Ya just..didn’t wanna see me?” Osamu completes for him, a sorrowful tightness wrapping a robe around his chest and throat. “Ya know, I would’ve appreciated it if ya told me ya were avoidin’ me for somethin’ I did. Ya know I’d apologize and make it up to ya.”
Suna clenches his jaw, before looking back at him with an expression between the cracks of which seeps a desolation that Osamu has started to find in every corner of his body.
“It’s not you, ‘Samu. It’s not anything you did. It’s just… me, I guess.” Suna admits aversely, voice quivering as the utters the last words. Osamu doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand at all.
“I- I should leave. I’m sorry for… intruding.” Suna says quickly, but Osamu refuses to let Suna slip past him again, not when he’s in front of him, so present and existing that all Osamu needs to do is reach out and hold him in place from fleeing.
“No,” Osamu states, a hand reaching out to grip Suna’s frayed sweaters sleeves as the scent of hōjicha swirls around him before the latter can whisk around and walk away. “Ya can’t just fucking— ya can’t just leave like that, Suna. I know ya understand at least the bare minimum of how fuckin’ shitty I must’ve felt when ya decided to avoid me outta nowhere.” He says as Suna’s head stays low. He looks almost pitiful like this, shoulders hunched and face obscured by the angle. Osamu sighs meekly, his grip loosening around Suna’s wrist.
“Ya know, I still find myself waiting for you to come in one day and tell me ya were just too piled up with practice to make time for me. God, I even fuckin have an extra drawer for ya so ya can keep yer clothes there when ya stay over.” Osamu rants, running his hand through his frustratedly as his eyes dart around, eyes pricking with wetness.
”I still leave portions of everything I make and do just incase ya decide to come back, so it'll be easy for ya to adjust to a routine with me. And ya know what?” Osamu asks him, though it’s not really a question. Suna utters not a single word, and Osamu knows if Suna persists he’ll start regretting that fact that he even opened his mouth. “I feel so stupid, and so fuckin’ alone.” Osamu breathes out, feeling pathetic as he uses his palm to quickly press into his eyes.
Then, Suna sniffles, a subdued sound that makes Osamu’s eyes snap towards Suna. “I’m sorry, ‘Samu.” He says, fingers tugging at Osamu’s apron. Osamu’s heart sinkers.
Suna inhales for a prolonged second, “I didn’t– I didn’t want to make you feel like that. I’m sorry. I just thought… maybe you deserved better. That, I wasn’t good enough for you.” Suna admits, words cutting through the distance between them.
“Rin…”
“You- you’re just, so incredible, ‘Samu.” Suna starts reticently, “You put yourself in what you do and what you love, and you do it with as much effort as you can. And then, look at me, I’m lazy even if I know I shouldn’t be and don’t even have the energy to hold conversations sometimes. I thought you didn't deserve that.” Suna tells him, head shaking as he self deprecates.
“Rin.” Osamu calls, “that’s– that’s not for ya to fuckin’ decide, okay! Ya can't just make decisions like that, I wanted to be with ya, and have ya in my life even after we, I don’t know, got jobs ’n shit! What about that? Was it easy to just cut me out like that?” Osamu points with no malevolent desire.
“Of course it wasn’t” Suna says forlornly. “For the longest time I didn’t know what to really fucking do without you, but god, ‘Samu, you deserve someone better than me. You deserve to spend your time with someone that has enough energy to spend all their time with you!”
Osamu exhales out from his nose swiftly. “God, fuck off with that shit!” He snaps, he grabs Suna’s shoulders, the suddenness of his actions causing Suna’s head to look up, and when he does, something in Osamu falters, mouth falling open for a second as he sees the rubescent lining Suna’s lachrymose eyes.
“Ya keep sayin’ I deserve this, I deserve that, but I don’t give a fuck about that, Rin! Ya know I’ve been in fucking love with you for years, all I want is ya, okay? to me, yer more than enough!…I just wanna be with ya, Rin.” Osamu utters, breath heaving as he meets Suna’s wide eyes.
Suna blinks, angling his head downwards, eyes fluttering fast, before he rests his forehead on Osamu’s shoulder. It feels as though a bridge was breached; a residue of a cataclysmic event. His build trembles as Osamu freezes, a wave of strong emotions inundating him. It feels like a fever dream to have Suna this close again.
“Fuck.” Suna curses in rue, “I’m sorry, ‘Samu. I’m sorry. I-“ Sunas words cut off when Osamu tentatively wraps his arms around Suna’s waist, “I know it’s silly. I should’ve just talked to you about how I was f-feeling—“ Suna croaks out, and Osamu by rote, can already tell Suna is seeping into a state of being overwhelmed.
He cups the side of Suna’s face, internally marveling that he even got the opportunity to do that, thumb brushing against Suna’s cheekbone as he pulls the man back enough to have their foreheads almost touch each other.
“It’s okay, Rin. You’re getting overwhelmed…” Osamu pauses, teeth toying with his bottom lip for a second before he dares to ask, “stay over? We can talk about this tomorrow…” Osamu suggests, watching how Suna’s shoulders relax.
“Okay. Fine, yes. Please.” Suna agrees, and stares at him for a long time with a mystifying glisten in his eyes. It continues, until Suna tilts his head back with a smile adorning his face,
“God,” he says, “I’ve missed you so much.”
And Osamu, for the first time in a long while feels himself at ease. A drop of halcyon, temporary nepenthe, simmering under the hollowness he’d been suffering with.
He knows this isn’t going to make everything go away, but to be here, pulling Suna closer to him, the man he absolutely loves, is enough for more than a moment. It’s enough.
♡
Minutes after they break away from each other, Osamu steps out of Onigiri Miya, and swears he feels a zephyr swirl around them in a giddy motion before it passes away.
Osamu shivers under the brittle winter, until warm fingers slide between his. Suna nudges Osamu's shoulder with his own and a warm feeling runs through his hands, making its way from the wrists to his shoulders, and then finally finding home on the pale of his cheeks, painting them a cute rubescent.
The gesture brings back memories from years ago and a honeyed feeling slithers past the gap between his fingers, tingling everywhere on his body. Osamu can only hope that Suna assumes his cheeks are painted scarlet because of the snow, and not due to their hand holding.
♡
RESPECTFULLY WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT TALE OF ZEPHYR’S?
Alright. Ever since I said that, you guys have really been treating my words like they have no history behind them at all. I made it clear that the tale was recalled not to many, didn’t I? So sorry if you heeded my advice and ended up nowhere significant but I’ll just tell you frankly. This is a tale recalled to me by my father. I asked him about it recently after the backlash I received from you all. He laughed, and said only those who love hard enough will be exposed to this urban fantasy-like experience. That is all. Do with that what you must.
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