Osamu has always considered himself selfish. He’s never liked sharing. It’s simply a product of growing up with a twin brother like Atsumu, but you have made him think otherwise. Maybe sharing only sucked because Atsumu’s definition of the word was taking and never giving it back.
The first time he ever shared anything with you was during lunch in high school. Peeking up after a large bite, he witnessed your desperate gaze, salivating at the meal his ma had prepared him. He thought he could only empathize because your expression had been so relatable. He’s been hungry many, many times. During practice, during a game, even in his dreams. He knew how it felt to crave, to hunger, and so, with a gentle nudge, Osamu shares his meal with you. After that, Osamu’s definition of his grew even looser. What he ever owned was yours, and what you owned was his.
You would never bat a single eyelash when his chopsticks ventured into your bento, simply allowing his to mingle with yours. The wooden utensils split grains of rice, clipping each other in their journey to gather the next, salivating bite. He’s your own phantom roommate who likes to sneak into your kitchen and unabashedly prepare a meal and you’re his ma’s favorite child with the way she dotes on you and calls you the daughter she’s never had. Osamu gives you his hat when the two of you get caught in the rain. You take a handkerchief from your pocket and wipe his face after.
It’s not just the physical things either, but he gets to live out these important moments with you too. You were there when Osamu made his first yen, right behind him with the cheeriest smile as you prepped soy sauce in small, takeout containers. He adjusted the cord around your neck before he watched you in the cheering crowd for your graduation. There’s two barstools in your favorite backstreet food stand that have witnessed every promotion, breakup, and any other milestone that needed a round of sake, good company, and a happy belly.
“Want some?” You slide your way next to him on the balcony, touching elbows as you lean in to offer the crinkled bag of your snacks.
Osamu has to dig through, diving his thumb and index finger in when he realizes you’ve eaten more than half the bag. He collects crumbs along the way that he happily devours with a lick of his tongue. “Where’d ya get these?”
“From the vending machine before the party started.” You sigh before slumping your chest against the railing, leaning your head onto your arm and clearly exhausted. “I knew I wouldn’t get a chance to eat with all this stuff going on.”
“Yeah, but where’d ya get them?”
“Oh! From my pockets! This dress has pockets, you know.” You stand back, eager to show him as you dig into the sides of the satin cloth that cling to the dips of your figure.
He immediately rolls his eyes, having heard this way too many times since you’ve acquired it. “How could I forget?”
“How could you?” You point at him blithely with an affectionate smile.
A lot has changed since high school, Osamu reminisces as he looks at your face. Mature but graceful in age, you’re different from the poor, hungry student who accidentally forgot their lunch.
“There ya are!” The two of you flick your gaze to the right. Atsumu walks through the French doors, festive clangor crescendos until he closes the door behind him. “We’re about to cut the cake.”
Atsumu places a hand on your back before looking to his twin, “Could I borrow her for a second?”
Some things though, as difficult as it is to accept, never change. Because when he nods, when he trails behind you two, when he watches you share the first slice with his twin, he knows that he is still a selfish man. And Atsumu is still Atsumu, whose definition of borrow is to never give back.
