a compass always points towards home, chapter one.
summary: After your father loses his job in Kyoto, you move in with your grandparents in Hyogo prefecture, right across from a pair of twins who just can't seem to leave you alone.
notes: 7.9k words, author's notes, childhood friends, fluff, reader's mom died when they were little, this mostly captures the first summer you three first meet
The summer you turn eight, you and Tousan move in with your grandparents, to a two-story house located in a quiet suburb in southern Hyogo prefecture. It’s a far cry from Kyoto, your one bedroom apartment on the fifth floor, the noisy downtown shopping districts, and the flood of tourists every season.
The moving truck is parked right against the curb, Ojisan directing the movers on where to take your various boxes. He has a booming voice, one that carries clear across the street, a leftover habit from his days of lecturing university students. His back is stooped, but he still dresses like he’s on his way to work, with a sweater vest and sleeves rolled up to his wrinkly elbows.
Obaasan is watching the procedure with mild interest, arms crossed in front of her. When she catches your stare, she winks at you. She looks like a wispy, ghostly version of Tousan, silver hair glinting like snow in the sunlight, dressed in simple shades of black and white, the only color the bright orange scarf she wraps around her neck.
“This is a fresh start,” Tousan says, rubbing the back of his neck. Stubble dots his chin, and he nudges your hip with his side as his glasses slip down his nose. “You’ll have more space to run around here. Ojisan and Obaasan say there are kids your age on the block, so ya’ll make friends in no time.”
“Okay, Tousan,” you say.
Tousan sighs. He’s been doing that a lot lately, even though all he’ll tell you when you catch him like that is that everything will be okay. “This is only temporary, okay? Tousan will find a good job as soon as he can, and then we can move back to Kyoto. Maybe by the end of the summer, if everything works out.”
You nod mechanically, but your mind is elsewhere. Sure, it’s hard moving away from your elementary school and your friends Hitomi-chan and Yuki-chan, and you’re going to miss the woman at the konbini who sometimes slips you an extra piece of candy because she knows Tousan works late.
But Tousan hasn’t been happy in Kyoto, and it’s only gotten worse in the past couple of months, where he’s worked overtime so much you’ve barely had a chance to see him. He doesn’t know you know this, but he has a habit of touching the framed picture of Kaasan at the family shrine in the entryway when he’s nervous. And he’s been touching it so much the glass has gained a dirty sheen from the press of his fingertips.
Even once he lost his job, for a few days, all he could do was lie on the couch, staring into the dark, only snapping out of it when you tried to hand him the cheap sandwiches and plastic-wrapped onigiri you bought at the konbini.
Besides, you like your grandparents, even if Ojisan is a little scary and you can never tell what Obaasan is thinking. You’ve visited them a few times in the past before, and you can’t tell if it’ll be more or less lonely now that it won’t be just you and Tousan anymore.
Your feelings are a tangled woolen knot, clogging up your throat, and it’ll take you time to unravel each strand. You don’t want to give Tousan more to stress over, not when he’s already watching your every movement so anxiously, so you opt to say nothing at all instead.
“Here,” Tousan says. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a golden compass, dented and faded with age, but its glass face still shines like a pool of light. You snatch it from his hands, a smile lighting up your face.
“Tousan! I thought you packed this away!”
Tousan’s lips quirk up in the corner. “No, I knew ya wouldn’t be happy if I did. But if yer going to play with it, be careful, all right?”
You cup the compass with reverence in your hands. You spin slowly, watching, transfixed, as the elegant red needle always unwaveringly points north.
And north is—the house in the street right across from you, a solid wooden fence encircling it like a moat guarding a castle, and two pairs of black eyes and fluffy hair peeping at you from over the top of the wall. It’s two boys, mirror images of each other.
Your first thought is that the boys look a little like foxes, and that if you were to brush back their hair, you might find a twin pair of ears nestled inside the fluff.
You hold their gaze for a startled eternity of a second, before one of the heads vanishes, followed by a loud crash of a body hitting the ground.
“Atsumu, ya scrub! Why’d you kick me?”
“If you didn’t want to be hit, ya shouldn’t have left yerself open!”
There’s a loud thud, then the second head disappears, followed by a similar crash.
“Ya jerk! What’d you do that for?”
“If you didn’t want to be hit, then ya shouldn’t—”
“Shaddup! Don’t copy me, Osamu!”
Not foxes, you think, listening to the sound of their ensuing brawl, childish bodies tussling with a single-minded fervor, but boys. These must be the children Tousan was talking about. And your compass points directly at their house, your new north star.
—
In the following few days, you keep your compass clutched tightly in one hand and a shiny new notebook in the other. You spend long, rambling hours mapping out your new neighborhood. You map out each house and street with squares and intersecting lines, drawing stars to mark any notable locations that catch your eye.
“Don’t stay out too late,” Ojisan says crabbily whenever you come home with windswept hair. Tousan is usually away following job opportunities, but you’re used to not seeing him for long stretches of time. Obaasan will simply smooth your hair with her fingers and brew you a cup of warm tea with extra sugar.
“Ojisan’s just worried about you,” Obaasan whispers with a mischievous wink, a trademark habit of hers, you’ve noticed.
You don’t see the boys again, but when you pass by their house on your adventures, you swear you feel the hint of eyes on your back, or black hair disappearing behind the gate, but it’s always too fast for you to catch it in action.
But that suits you just fine; you’re content to spend hours roaming the streets and using your makeshift maps to navigate home. The compass is an inheritance from Kaasan, and when you use it, it almost feels like her hands are guiding you home.
A week after you move in, notebook tucked under your arm and stubby pencil tucked behind your ear, compass secure in a little cloth pouch you keep around your neck (Obaasan gave it to you, after noticing you only kept your compass in your pocket), you hear scuffling near the boys’ house again—the house you’re privately starting to regard as your north star, the one that always lets you know you’re back home.
“Gimme that!”
“Wh–Hey! If ya wanted this, you should have gotten one when Okaachan asked! It’s a limited edition, you stupid scrub!”
“Shaddup, Osamu! You can always get more! ‘S not like I can throw a rock!”
Something soft falls on your head and flops onto the ground, like you’ve been hit with the world’s lightest pillow. You bend down to pick the offending object, a plastic packaged swiss roll with cartoon chestnuts dancing in front. Special Edition, it proclaims in bubbly hiragana.
“Do ya want that? If you do, you gotta answer our questions first.” A voice echoes above you. It’s one of the fox boys, arms crossed over the top of the wall, cheek resting against his forearm, staring at you with bright, curious eyes.
“No, no thank you,” you say politely. You hold the package up to the boy. “You can have it back.”
“They don’t want it? It’s a special edition!” Another voice chimes from below, with equal parts relief and disbelief at your rejection. This must be Osamu. “Why not?”
The boy’s mouth twists in a downward pout, burrowing his face further into his arms so his cheeks squish. “Huh? Ya don’t?” He suddenly jerks his head up, triumphant smile lighting his face. “But you didn’t even want it and you took it from us, so that makes ya a thief!”
“But you’re the one who dropped it on me—”
The gate bursts open, and two identical boys come tumbling out before you can even finish your sentence. They’re both dressed in matching shorts, but the one on the right has a yellow shirt, and the one on the left has a blue one.
“And since yer a thief, ya gotta make it up to us,” the boy in the yellow shirt says. “Like tell us your name! And what you’re doing with that notebook! And where ya came from, since you moved in with that grumpy old man!”
The boy in the blue shirt holds out his hand. “And ya gotta give me my Swiss roll back.”
You place the roll in his palm, and the boy unwraps it and swallows half of it in one bite. It’s impressive, the way his cheeks puff out.
“I’m mapping the neighborhood,” you explain, flipping open your notebook to show the carefully mapped pages, telling them your name. “Tousan and I moved here from Kyoto for the summer, and we’re living with Ojisan and Obaasan. Tousan is an engineer, so he’s gonna find an engineering job soon.”
“Huh…” The boy in the yellow sweater squints at your maps, looking vaguely impressed despite himself, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Well, Osamu and I know all the best spots around here, so we don’t need to do anything like map the area. That’s something only a scrub would do. I bet you don’t even know where all the parks are here.”
“I’ve mapped out a few of them,” you protest, flipping to the pages.
“Ya missed a few,” Osamu says, licking the crumbs off his fingers. “Yer map’s not gonna be that good if you can’t even get all the parks in there. Atsumu and I could find them, easy.”
“Yeah! Since we know more than a scrub like ya would, because we’ve lived here for eight years. And you’ve only been here, what? A few days? You need someone like me and Osamu. Yer basically a baby.”
“Well, I would be grateful if you could help me out, if you had the time,” you say. “I wanted to make a map of all the pets in the neighborhood next. Or maybe all the plants.”
“Why’d ya wanna do that?” Osamu asks.
“There are different types of maps that I want to practice making,” you say, touching the cloth around your neck, feeling the reassuring metal of the compass through it. “And it’s fun.”
Atsumu looks at Osamu. “Huh.”
“Huh,” Osamu echoes.
“Well, I guess Osamu and I don’t have anything better to do right now, so we could show a scrub like ya a thing or two,” Atsumu says.
“Only when we have time for ya. We don’t like hanging around scrubs too much,” Osamu adds.
“Would you? Thank you!”
Osamu and Atsumu glance at each other, some wordless conversation flying between the two of them, before they turn back to you.
“But if we stop by the park, ya gotta stop with us,” Osamu says. “We don’t wanna just walk around the whole time. That’s boring. If we help you, yer gonna help us.”
They’re a little weird, these fox boys. A bit rude, and you can’t make sense of their behavior at all. But no one else has offered to help you with your maps before, and besides, it might be fun to make maps with someone else for once.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s go.”
You don’t come home that day until the sun has almost set and Ojisan is worriedly standing outside the front door, but his mouth twists sourly when he sees that you’re with Atsumu and Osamu, the three of you chasing after each other down the block. It’s the most fun you’ve had all summer, and after he sees your electric smile, Ojisan doesn’t tell you anything other than that dinner is ready.
—
On an early summer morning, two weeks after your move when you’re still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and the dishes from breakfast haven’t even dried, you hear two knocks on your door.
“Coming!” you call. When you pull it open, you’re greeted by the twins, but there’s something different about the two of them today. Their hair is a nest of fluff, a deviation from the careful side parts they usually opt for, and their clothing is identical, from the same red t-shirts to the same shorts and black sneakers. You’ve never seen them look so similar before.
“Atsumu, why did you put your hair like that?” you ask politely, turning to the twin on the right before addressing the other. “You too, Osamu.”
“I’m Osamu,” Atsumu says.
“And I’m Atsumu,” Osamu adds.
“Eh? Are you?” You tilt your head, squinting your eyes, trying to focus on the boys in front of you. They’re identical, sure, with the same heavy-lidded eyes and imperious stare, the same round face and mischievous turn of their mouths, but there’s still little things that set them apart. The differing locations of various scrapes and bruises, the intonation of their voices and what they say, their preferences of food and habits.
You’re a quiet child (“spacey,” Ojisan would call it, at the same time Obaasan might say “thoughtful”), but you’d like to think you’re good at observing the people and things around you. That’s a skill that’s essential if you want to make good maps: to stop and take a careful look at the world. How can you translate information into a map for other people to understand, if you yourself don’t know what you’re looking at?
“I’m sorry,” you say. “But…” You glance at their shoes; Atsumu is wearing Osamu’s beat-up sneakers, and Osamu has Atsumu’s on. “But are you sure you’re not Atsumu?” You point to the one on the right. “And you’re not Osamu?” You point to the one on the left.
“Ya got it wrong,” Atsumu says.
“So wrong,” Osamu says. “Ya think we wouldn’t know who we were?”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” you say.
A beat of silence. Then–
“Argh, yer no fun!” Atsumu says, breaking character as he stomps his foot. “How’d ya know who we were?”
“Most people can’t tell,” Osamu grumbles. “We’ve been doing this to everyone we know. But it didn’t work on you.”
“I’ve been watching you two, and, um… Atsumu has a scrape on his knee, right? From falling off his bike when racing Osamu. And Osamu has two scabs on his arm. And…!” You count off each reason on your chubby fingers. “And Atsumu likes to gesture more and his voice raises when he’s trying to lie and Osamu takes more time when he’s talking.”
The twins glance at each other, another silent, telepathic conversation that escapes you. Still, there’s a pleased, smug curl to their smiles when they turn to you, speaking in that rapid barrage that leaves no room for you to interject.
“That’s creepy,” Atsumu says.
“Yer creepy for watching us like that,” Osamu says.
“But yer lucky we’re still gonna play with ya. No one else would, but we’re nice, so we’ll still do it,” Atsumu declares.
“Eh… If you didn’t want to play with me, then you don’t have to. I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want.”
“I didn’t say that, ya scrub,” Atsumu says, reaching forward and rustling your hair with fast, rough hands.
“Keep up. We just said we would play with ya, and I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” Osamu says. His touch is just as punishing as Atsumu’s as he joins in.
“Eh… But…!” There’s nothing for you to do but stand still under their sudden onslaught, head bent as their chubby fingers run through your hair.
By the time they’re done, your hair looks like a bird’s nest, and you need to run back inside to comb it out before you can go out and play. When Obaasan asks what happened, all you can say is that you aren’t sure.
—
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with those twins, haven’t ya?” Obaasan asks.
Obaasan sets down a plate of cut watermelon slices in front of you. It’s a sweltering summer evening, and the sun is a melting red coin in the sky as you and Ojisan are sitting cross-legged at a low table in front of a fan. Obaasan looks impeccable despite the heat, not a silver hair out of place.
It’s been over a month since you’ve moved here. Tousan is still looking for a job, and you do your best not to trouble him or your grandparents. When he asks how you’re doing, you tell him that you’re okay, and you really are. You’ve gotten used to the novelty of coming home to a house that isn’t dark and empty for once, and your grandparents are kind. And that’s not even to mention your new friends, the bright spot in every day.
“The Miya twins,” Ojisan mutters darkly, waving a paper fan in front of his face. “Are they giving ya a hard time? Forcin’ you to hang out with them? If they’re bullying you, I’ll talk to ‘em.”
“Ojisan is just mad because Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun knocked their soccer ball into Ojisan’s flowers last spring,” Obaasan confides. “He hasn’t forgiven them for ruining them.”
“They’re born troublemakers, Nao! Ya know the flowers are still recovering from what they did!”
You glance out the door towards the backyard, where a profusion of crepe myrtle, hydrangeas, and amaranth bloom, a chorus of vibrant blues and pinks against the deepening dusk. Not a single petal looks out of place.
“Ojisan, I like hanging out with them,” you say earnestly. You pick up a watermelon slice and bite into its icy sweetness, juice filling your mouth. “They’re nice to me.”
“Nice? They’re–”
“Nice boys, yer right. They mean well, and if ya say they’re treating you well, then I’m sure they are,” Obaasan interrupts, sending a smile to Ojisan more cold than the watermelon you’re munching on.
It’s hard to remember what your summer was like before Atsumu and Osamu came into your life. Every single day, without fail, you show up at the gate of their home and wait patiently for them to emerge, notebook in hand. They usually tumble out with pilfered snacks in their pockets and whatever new activity they want to try, fishing rods or nets or chalk buckets tucked over their shoulders.
Lately, though, they’ve taken to knocking on your door instead, braving the perils of your grumpy grandfather to badger you to play with them every morning.
“Yer Ojisan is scary,” Atsumu grumbles, “But ya take too long to come over!”
“‘S your fault,” Osamu says. “We got no choice.”
The three of you traipse round the neighborhood, spending the first half of the day creating maps of anything that catches your fancy. So far, you’ve mapped all the nearby streets and notable landmarks (including several new parks Atsumu and Osamu take you to), the location of every pet in the neighborhood, and the different flowering plants you can find. Now you’re trying to see if you can map all the local wild animals.
The second half of the day, then, is usually spent doing whatever Atsumu and Osamu want once they get bored of walking around. This is when they drag you out to hunt for cicadas in the trees, or create obstacle courses in the park to race across. You’re game to try anything, even if it ends in scrapped knees and bruises you carefully show your concerned father.
Though Atsumu and Osamu look a little sheepish at your injuries, they also seem a little proud that you keep up with them, as you’re always quick to bounce up and say, “Let’s do that again!”
“I’m having fun,” you say again. “I like them both. They’re my friends.”
“All right, but if they bother you, don’t hold it in,” Ojisan says. “I’ll talk to them.”
“I think,” Obaasan cuts in, “That won’t be an issue.” She presses three fingers to her lips, in contemplation. “Ya know, I was just thinking. You might not know this, but foxes are real greedy and troublesome. Once they have something, they never let go. It’s an issue when they like something a little too much.”
“But there aren’t any foxes around here,” you say earnestly. “I haven’t seen any, Obaasan. If there are, I’ll need to add them to my map.”
Obaasan laughs. “Is that so? Then ya gotta be careful in case you meet one.”
You nod and reach for another watermelon slice. You have a feeling she isn’t talking about foxes, but you don’t know what she means otherwise. Just because you observe so much, you contemplate, doesn’t mean you always understand what you notice.
—
“Why’d you carry that around with ya?” Atsumu’s pointing to the compass in your hand, which glows like a puddle of light under the sun, the needle a glint of red thread. You use it sparingly, preciously, as you navigate around further reaches of the neighborhood, where it edges into unfamiliar territory.
It’s more habit than necessity at this point; you’ve mapped the neighborhood with a religious fervor, and can plot the layout with your eyes closed. Normally, you keep the compass in an emerald velvet pouch around your neck. Still, it feels nice when the cold metal warms your hand, like an old friend.
The three of you are walking along as usual, threading down streets on your usual mapmaking expedition. The sound of summer echoes around you, the whir of fans and lines of laundry flapping in the sun like white birds stretching their wings.
“To help navigate!” you say. “It’s a compass.”
“It looks old,” Atsumu continues. “Kinda dirty, too. Why do ya keep it around? Why not just use somethin’ else?”
“It’s Kaasan’s, so I don’t want to use anything else! She was a real mapmaker, you know. The government hired her to make maps for them, so it’s professional to use this.”
“Why doesn’t she give ya a better one to use? Are ya broke?”
“Kaasan can’t give me a different one, because she’s dead,” you say matter-of-factly. “I don’t think we’re broke, though. Tousan is still trying to find a job, but he’s never said anything about money. But I guess we’re a little broke if we had to move from Kyoto, huh.”
You can’t hear the sound of the twins’ footsteps behind you anymore. When you look back, they’re a few paces behind, Atsumu biting his lip.
“‘S a nice compass. Brought us around the neighborhood, without getting us lost,” Osamu says. He hasn’t said anything until now, but he jabs Atsumu in the side with a sharp pointed elbow.
Atsumu’s face is tinged red, and he’s twisting his shirt in his hands. “Yeah, it’s real nice. Yer Kaasan had good taste. I didn’t… I really didn’t mean to… Yer Kaasan, I mean…”
“Ya idiot,” Osamu murmurs, jabbing him again.
You trail back to the twins, tugging Atsumu’s hand away from his shirt to bring it palm-up. Your hand encircles his wrist, gentle, and with your other hand, you bring one of Osamu’s hands to rest side by side with Atsumu’s. You then place your compass in the cup of their joint hands.
Kaasan is always an awkward point of conversation with people, so sometimes you never bring her up at all. You’re used to watching their faces shutter, as if unsure what expression to make, but in the end they always end up looking a little sorry for you and Tousan. But it’s not as if there’s anything to be sorry for: Kaasan is dead, and that’s simply a fact of life.
You were young when she died, too young to really remember much, but Tousan always told you stories about her, about how she loved her job making maps. It never feels like she’s left you completely. You still have your compass and all the old maps she’s made, so even if you do feel lonely, you can trace her work and imagine her guiding you through all the different places in Japan.
(Besides, if you say too much about what you miss about Kaasan, then Tousan’s face scrunches up, and you can’t do that to him, not when he still looks at Kaasan’s pictures so sadly).
“It’s okay! You’re right, Atsumu. This compass is super old, and I haven’t cleaned it in a while,” you say. “And besides, Kaasan wouldn’t mind, I think. It’s not like you knew about her. I didn’t tell you. But this is her compass! What do you think?”
“Feels warm,” Osamu says.
“Kinda heavy,” Atsumu says.
“It’s nice to hold, right?”
“Is it always pointing north?” Osamu says. “Never changes, or anything?”
“It is! So I can always use it to find my way around,” you say. “Oh, do you want to know something? Your house is my north star!”
“North star?” Atsumu asks.
“Yeah! Your house is directly north. Isn’t that funny?” You point in the direction the needle floats, somewhere to the left of all three of you. “So whenever I see it, I know I’m home.”
“Our house, huh,” Atsumu says. He’s peering at you from under the fringe of his eyelashes, but the old smugness has returned to his voice. His cheeks still retain a hint of warmth, a pinkish hue. “So yer using it for something like that? No wonder you always passed by our gate. I thought you were real weird for that.”
“That means yer house is south, right?” Osamu asks.
“Yup! Since it’s right across from yours,” you say. “But I think it’s more Ojisan’s and Obaasan’s house.”
“Ya live in it, so it’s yours too,” Atsumu says resolutely.
“South. South. South…” Osamu muses. He purses his lips, then shoots a look at his brother, who squints his eyes in return.
“Yes?” you ask.
“Yer Minami,” Osamu says. “‘Cause if we’re north, then yer south.”
“Minami-kun,” Atsumu says.
“Minami-chan,” Osamu tries.
The twins look at each other and shake their heads.
“Nah, sounds dumb,” Atsumu says. “And ‘s not like they use honorifics with us.”
“Minami sounds good,” Osamu confirms.
“Eh… do you want me to use honorifics?” you say.
“Don’t even try, ya scrub,” Atsumu says. “‘s too late for that.”
“Ya already talk so weird,” Osamu says. “All polite and stuff, like yer trying too hard to be a grown-up. If you use honorifics, then you’re just gonna sound weirder.”
“It’s just Atsumu and Osamu to ya, and don’t forget it,” Atsumu says.
You curl your hand over the top of your compass, so for just a second, your hand is joined with Artsumu and Osamu. It feels like a promise of some sort, but for what, you don’t know. All you know is that it just feels right, Kaasan’s compass sheltered between three sweaty palms.
—
“Miya-san, it’s nice to meet you,” you say, bowing. “This is from Tousan. Thank you for letting me come over.” You extend your hands out while your head is still respectfully dipped, plastic bag crinkling. There’s a cardboard box of cookies in there, and some dried tea leaves in a green metal tin. All bought from the store as soon as you told Tousan Atsumu and Osamu invited you over to their house for once.
“Oh, my. How thoughtful of you!” You glance up at Miya-san. She’s pretty, with black hair just grazing the top of her shoulders, but it’s her drooping eyes that memorize you. They look just like Atsumu’s and Osamu’s, complete with thick eyebrows set above them.
“Minami! You’re here!” Osamu says.
Atsumu and Osamu barrel past their mother, stopping just short of the entryway as you carefully take off your shoes and line them up on the shoe rack.
“Took ya long enough, slowpoke,” Atsumu adds.
“Atsumu…” Miya-san says, her sweet voice dropping low, a note of warning in her tone. “Are ya being rude to our neighbor?”
“No, Okaachan,” Atsumu says, as Osamu snickers behind him.
“Is Minami your name?” Miya-san asks. “It suits you.”
“It’s not, Miya-san,” you say, before telling her your full name.
“Then… hm…?” Miya-san tilts her head, but Atsumu is already reaching for your hand and tugging you further inside. Your socked feet slip on the polished wood before Osamu throws a pair of slippers at your head. You catch them with your free hand, clutching them close to your chest.
“Come on, we got a lotta things to show ya!” he says.
“Don’t push them around!” Miya-san calls, a note of exasperation in her voice again. Miya-san, you think, seems like an adult you should never cross.
“This is the living room. I’ll show ya my favorite show later,” Atsumu says, splaying his arms out in front of a room that contains a soft couch, a television, and miscellaneous toys and books scattered along the floor.
“This is the kitchen. We had grilled fish and rice for breakfast,” Osamu adds, a note of reverence in his voice, pulling on your shirt sleeve to guide your attention. You hardly get a flash of a row of well-worn utensils and pans resting on the stove before Atsumu grabs your hand to drag you to another room.
They give you a whirlwind tour, introducing places so fast your head spins, scampering around corners and up the stairs. You can barely get a word in edgewise, what with Osamu and Atsumu’s voices overlapping as they compete to tell you different stories about what’s taken place around the house.
“See that spot on the wall? It’s a different color because Atsumu broke a picture that was hangin’ on there. He tried to lie to Okaachan that we never had a picture like that, and she got mad at him.”
“Stop lyin’, Osamu! Minami, he almost threw up in our room ‘cause Okaachan bought some fried chicken and he snuck it into our room and ate alllll of it. And wouldn’t even let me have a bite! It smelled for the whole week!”
The apex of the tour ends in their shared bedroom, a bunkbed shoved against the corner of the wall, blankets askew, a pillow hiding under the bed frame. A volleyball and soccer ball loll across the floor, books piled haphazardly in the corner. Their desks, pushed up to the opposite side of their beds, are a mess of stray notebooks and pencils, as if they’ve dumped out the contents of their school backpacks and haven’t looked back since.
“And this is our room,” Osamu says.
“You think it’s cool, don’tcha, Minami? If yer jealous, you can say so.”
“You have a bunkbed! That’s so cool,” you say in an admiring tone. “I only have a regular bed.”
“Wellllll, if ya want, you can try the top. I usually get dibs on the top, but since you’ve never been on one before, I suppose I can let a scrub like ya try it,” Atsumu says.
“Hah? Since when do ya have dibs on that? I only let you have it because the top is the worst place to sleep.”
“What are ya talking about? It’s obvious the bottom is the worst. If my bed falls on yours, then you’re getting squished.”
“But if someone attacks us from the ceiling, then they’re gonna get ya first, and I’ll be safe,” Osamu returns.
“Hah? As if anyone would—”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask! Can I map your house?” you interrupt, holding up your notebook.
Osamu and Atsumu glance at each other, and then they nod. “Figured ya were gonna ask that,” Osamu says.
“If yer gonna map it, we might as well help you,” Atsumu says. “What’d ya wanna map?”
“The layout, and all the furniture! And maybe we can make special markings for anything that’s super important.” You flip open your notebook to a fresh, clean page, taking the pencil from behind your ear. “Do you know how many meters each room is?”
“Uh…” Atsumu begins.
“No,” Osamu finishes.
“That’s okay! I’ll just guess.”
You trail out of their home to examine each room, measuring the length of each by placing one foot directly in front of the other, and Atsumu and Osamu follow you with a shrug.
The afternoon passes in a pleasant blur as you carefully catalogue their house. Osamu and Atsumu take colored pencils and scribble their own notes about who owns what and favorite areas, though they almost get into another argument over which side of the house belongs to whom.
At some point, Miya-san comes out with a plate of cut fruit, apples and glistening melon, and you take a momentary break from your mapping to feast on your newfound harvest.
“I hope you’re having fun,” Miya-san says. “These two aren’t giving ya a hard time, are they?”
“I always have fun with Atsumu and Osamu,” you say sincerely, kicking your legs under the table.
Out of the corner of your eye, you think you might see Osamu and Atsumu smiling at each other, something wide and electric, but when you turn to look, they both glance away.
When the sun sinks lower in the sky, the three of you are perched up on Atsumu’s bed on the top, cross-legged, even though it’s a little cramped. Your new map is spread in front of you, and it takes up two pages, one for the top floor, and one for the bottom floor.
“This looks good. Now ya know what our house is like,” Osamu says.
“You have a nice house,” you say. You bounce a little, Atsumu’s mattress wobbling beneath you.
“It’s the best house,” Atsumu says. “Yer house probably isn’t as good. Have ya mapped it already?”
“I have, but not in the same way we mapped yours,” you say, trailing a finger over one of Osamu’s notes about a corner Atsumu likes to sulk in.
“If that’s the case, we should map yers again,” Atsumu says.
“Are you sure?” you ask.
“Yeah. ‘S only fair,” Osamu says. “We can help ya.”
“Okay. Let’s do it next time!” you say. No one has helped you map anything before Atsumu and Osamu have, and it feels like new possibilities are unfurling before you, a new world that you want to hurry up and chart.
—
Summer passes by in what feels like a flash of golden sunlight, long, lazy afternoons stretching into eternity. Before you know it, several months have passed, and autumn is just right around the corner. Cicadas chirp in the haze of heat as you and Tousan take a long, slow walk home, ice pop melting in your hand.
It’s a cool, sweet reprieve, and you savor the taste slowly, the way the popsicle turns to slush in your mouth even as it threatens to drip down your fingers.
It’s a rare day that you get to spend with your perpetually busy father. He’s finally found a job in the city a few train stops over, which means he’s usually out the door before you wake, and he’s home by the time you’re in bed. Obaasan keeps a hot meal warm on the stove for him, and Ojisan hands him the daily newspaper to read together, television turned low in the background.
It’s also a rare day to not spend time with Atsumu and Osamu, and you feel their absence like the space of a missing tooth, a sudden space that used to feel solid that you can’t stop poking. They’re spending the weekend with their grandparents up north, in the countryside, and they had whined about the trip the entire week precluding it.
“Ya can come with us, Minami,” Atsumu had told you. “We’ll hide you in the suitcase.”
“It’s boring out in the country,” Osamu affirmed. “If ya aren’t around, what am I gonna do? Play with this scrub? That’s lame.”
“Hah? Say that again, ya jerk!”
On Friday, though, their mother had dragged them away by the scruff of their necks as they kicked their feet and glumly pulled their backpacks behind them. You and Obaasan walked with them to the train station, where you stood on the platform and waved as they departed.
“Don’t forget us, Minami. No one else ya play with is going to be as cool as us,” Atsumu said.
“‘S just a bunch of scrubs around here. Ya better not be getting close to any scrubs without us,” Osamu added.
“You two are my friends, so I’ll be lonely when you’re gone,” you said sincerely. “But… I thought I was a scrub, too?”
“And the trip is only for the weekend, so won’t we see each other on Monday, when you’re back? Two days isn’t that long.”
“Ya don’t get it,” Osamu said, shaking his head. “This is why yer a scrub.”
At that point, they both flicked you on the forehead, one after the other, leaving you bewildered on the platform as they boarded the train. Obaasan only laughed.
Tousan holds your free hand, swinging it back and forth. “Are ya having a good time with Ojisan and Obaasan?”
You peek at him out of the corner of your eye. Tousan is slight and slim, a man who’s always gentle and careful with his words. The dark eyebags are still there, you notice, and he’s always looking into the distance. You squeeze his hand, just to be sure he’s here with you, and he squeezes back.
“Yes! They’re very nice, and I like it here. I’ve been playing a lot with Atsumu and Osamu.”
“Ah, the Miyas, the people living across from us. Ojisan told me a little about them. They’re twins, aren’t they?”
“They are, but Atsumu gets worked up more, and Osamu takes a bit more time with things. But they’re both really funny, and nice.”
“I’m glad you’re getting along well with your neighbors. It sounds like they like you a lot, too. We might be staying here, with Ojisan and Obaasan a little longer.” Tousan’s head dips. “We can’t just go back to Kyoto just yet.”
“That’s okay, Tousan. I like it here. And you like it here, too, don’t you?”
“I do,” he says. Tousan pauses, before adding, in a quieter murmur, “You talk like your Kaasan used to. She was always polite, too. And always trying to make the best of things.”
“Hehe.” There’s a warm glow in you at that knowledge. You don’t remember much about Kaasan, but you do remember a handful of things, things you’ve clutched tightly in your fist against the erosion of time. The floral scent of her perfume, the way she would kiss both your cheeks and your forehead every night, the way she was always so polite, even with you. You have her compass, her speech, and her maps, and these are the ways in which you can keep her alive.
“As long as you’re happy,” Tousan says, “I’m happy. Now, do you have any maps you want to show me? Obaasan tells me you’ve been working on them almost everyday.”
—
Atsumu and Osamu have repeatedly stressed to you the exact time they’d come back from the station, and so you’re outside the Miyas’ front gate at three in the afternoon sharp, the sun beaming in your eyes. You lean against the stone, hands folded in front of you, squinting down the road to see if you can make out the approaching figures of your friends.
“It’s this station. This one, and don’t forget it,” Atsumu had said, jabbing the map with his finger. There’s already a highlighter trail from your street to the station, and then all the way to their grandparents; the twins have spent the entire afternoon marking all the various routes one could take, whether it’s by train, car, or walking.
“Don’t forget, or else,” Osamu added ominously. “Ya won’t like what happens.”
With their words in your mind, you’ve decided to arrive at exactly the appointed time, even though they could run into traffic, or the bus from the station could be late, or they could be held up by any inconsequential number of things.
But you’ve missed Osamu and Atsumu; the neighborhood is quiet without the call of their raucous voices. Their voices make up the backdrop of your summer, as familiar as the buzzing of cicadas or the crunch of watermelon. Even mapping isn’t as fun when you don’t have someone else to show off your work to. Maps are meant to be read and shared, after all.
Three blurry figures emerge in the distance, made hazy by the heat, accompanied by the cacophony of twin feet pounding against the pavement. Your heart swells when you see your friends finally, finally come home, their bags slapping against their backs, straps crossed over their chests.
“Minami!” Atsumu yells, waving his arms.
“Yer here,” Osamu remarks, and he’s the first one to fold you into a hug, arms sticky with sweat as he wraps them around you.
You squeak in surprise, but then Atsumu is tackling you from behind, and you’re trapped in a kingdom of boyish limbs and laughter. It’s hard to move or to hear, not when they’re talking rapidly, voices overlapping, and still clinging stubbornly to you.
“Minami, it was so boring without ya, and there’s nothing to do in the countryside, and Obaachan made us do soooooo many chores and it sucked—” Atsumu says.
“There were a lot of rice fields where we went. Ya’d like mapping them. You should come with us next time—” Osamu adds.
“Eh… One at a time, please,” you say plaintively. “And I can’t breathe!”
At your words, the twins finally give you a few inches of space, moving back just enough for you to pull away.
“This is for you,” Atsumu says, taking one of your hands and pressing something hard and wooden into them.
“And this is for you, too,” Osamu adds, taking your other hand and pressing something with a similar texture into it.
For just a second, both of their hands linger over your palms, and it feels almost like that day, weeks ago, when you had given them your compass and your hand covered theirs.
When their hands withdraw, you can finally make out your prize. It’s a pair of wooden foxes, with fluffy tails curled around their legs, painted orange and white. One sits upright, vigilant, a mischievous tilt to its closed eyes. The other fox rests on its haunches, eyes open and sleepy.
“These are so cute!” you say. “Thank you. I’ll treasure them!”
“Yeah, well, figured a scrub like you’d like these,” Atsumu says, but he’s grinning, kicking at the ground. “Knew it as soon as I saw them.”
“I will! I’ll take good care of them, and dust them every day!”
“Ya don’t gotta go that far,” Atsumu says.
“But,” Osamu adds carefully, though Atsumu tenses at his words, “If you’re going back to Kyoto, you gotta take those with ya, too. You said you’re from there, right? And yer only here for the summer?”
“Oh, I’m not going back to Kyoto,” you say. “I’m going to be staying! Tousan says that I’m going to attend the elementary school here.”
The twins exchange a quick, pleased glance. “Really?” Osamu says. “If it’s the local one, then we go to that one. Ya might be in our class.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “But even if yer not, you better walk to school and eat lunch with us.”
“Atsumu, Osamu,” Miya-san interjects. She stands behind them with her hands on her hips, the house door open, suitcase rolled into the hall. “Are ya gonna stand here bothering our neighbor all day, or are ya gonna help me unpack? Ya leave them alone now. You can talk tomorrow.”
With a last, forlorn glance at you, the twins trudge back to their house. Atsumu turns and gives you one last giant wave, Osamu raising his hand in turn, and you wave back, the foxes still clutched tight in your hands.
The little statues, in your mind, retain a hint of Osamu’s and Atsumu’s warmth, and you unconsciously curl your fingers tighter around them. When you get home, you’ll put them on the shelf in your room, but for now, you’ll savor this little present from your friends.
—
Atsumu and Osamu are used to sharing a lot of things, whether they want to or not.
Their bedroom, for example, where there’s never a second of privacy. And their clothes, because Atsumu has a habit of taking Osamu’s shirts, claiming it looks better even when Okaachan buys from the same brand. And their food, even if Osamu gets a little possessive over saving the very last piece of whatever he’s munching on. And sometimes even their names, if only because most people have a habit of confusing the two of them, to say nothing of when they try to do so on purpose.
It’s inevitable to share with each other, and usually, they’re content to keep it just between the two of them. Their own little world, as Okaachan might say, the entrance of which is barred to many, privy only to a rare few they trust to let in. They’ve always had each other, after all, so there’s hardly a need for anyone else to poke their head in.
“Did ya see Minami’s expression today? It was funny,” Atsumu whispers, speaking into the silence of their bedroom. They’re supposed to be resting, but he knows his brother can’t sleep in the same way he can’t.
“Real funny.”
“I wish it was morning already,” he complains. “Think they’ll be up if we sneak out and throw rocks at their window?”
“No, stupid. Minami probably sleeps on time.”
“Or maybe they’re up making a map.”
Osamu takes a second to consider the image, you sprawled on your bed, crafting maps as delicate as a highway of veins traveling along a body. “Then they’re gonna be mad at ya for interrupting them.”
“I wish,” Atsumu says, raising his hand, splaying his fingers above him, reaching for something only he can see, “Summer could last forever.”
“Stupid. It can’t.”
“Hah? I know it can’t. I’m just sayin’. It’s been real fun this year. You saying you’re excited to go to school, then? Weirdo.”
“I’m not saying that. Yer the stupid one, and that’s why you don’t want summer to be over. ‘Cause then Okaachan is gonna yell at you for yer bad grades.”
“Shaddup,” Atsumu grumbles.
“Wonder if Minami is good at school,” Osamu muses. “I can help if they aren’t.”
“I’ll help them, too,” Atsumu snaps.
“Yeah? They’re probably better than a scrub like you. Didn’t Okaachan get mad at ya for almost failing math?”
Atsumu lets out an unsatisfied little hmph, unable to refute his brother, and on the bunk below him, Osamu turns on his side, his gaze a searchlight against the wall.
A shared wish turns over in their hearts, the same unvoiced thought. This one wish, they don’t mind sharing: even when summer ends, they wish that things could stay like this, the three of you together, forever.
Your matcha might be bitter because of the boiling water! Boiling water can actually burn matcha, so usually the temperature should be around 160–175°F. You can use a temperature-controlled kettle or just let your boiled water cool for a few minutes before using it.
To make it sweeter, you can also use simple syrup (1:1 ratio of sugar to hot water), flavored syrups, or sweetened or condensed milk. If you don't feel like making a big batch of syrup, you can also just dissolve your sugar in water in the cup before you put your matcha in so it's not grainy.
If you like tea, it's also easy to make syrups from tea bags. Steep any tea bag of your choice in 25 grams of sugar dissolved in 100 grams of hot water. I like to store my syrup in empty soju bottles because it's convenient.
Also, of course you should adjust to your own taste, but my personal ratio for sweet and creamy matcha is 2 tsp matcha + 1/4 cup water + 1/2 cup milk + 1 tsp sweetener.
Last thing that might be a problem is what kind of matcha you're using? Some are more bitter than others but matcha is kind of pricey, especially now, so I don't want to recommend you to buy a bunch to try lol. But in case you're interested in the future, some sweet ones I've personally tried and enjoyed are ippodo's sayaka and horii schichimeien's todou mukashi. Avoid resellers and Amazon!
just saw you saying to an anon that you haven't read "Seabird" yet. GIRL WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU SHOULD READ IT, it's so fucking funny and i like that his ego gets humbled there😭🤯 - From a Sae girlie
I don't read much fic in general but I'm sure it deserves all the love everyone has for it! Maybe over the summer.
If you haven't seen it though I think everyone should look at the art Sumi drew for it: link
“Where are you going all buttoned up like that, Father?”
“You think you’re funny,” Sae says.
When you laugh, your whole body shakes with it. The iron chains holding you make scraping noises across the concrete floor.
“I’m being serious,” you say earnestly. “I’m looking out for you, really. Don’t you know that my imagination is so much worse than reality? Trying so hard to cover up only makes me wonder what you’re hiding.” You let your eyes leer over his form, as if you can see under his black robes.
Sae ignores you, getting closer. He kneels by your side and tests your chains with one hand. The iron holds fast. “Not too uncomfortable, I hope?”
You try another tactic.
“You’re a brave man, Father. But brave is just another word for stupid sometimes. Don’t you feel bad? You’re going to leave your flock unguarded. Maybe, when I’m done with you, I’ll come and eat them up.”
You bite at him playfully. At least, it was meant to be playful. Sae doesn’t seem to be interested in playing along.
Quick as a whip, he snags your mouth and pulls it open, running the tips of his fingers against your razor sharp teeth. Amazingly, they remain unbroken.
“Hey!” You spring back. “That’s rude!”
He scoffs at you. “Eat them up with those blunt teeth? You’d be better off taking the meals I give you.”
You should’ve known he’d be harder to manipulate. He’s already proven it to you.
You came to him in the guise of an angel. It wasn’t hard to pretend. The family resemblance means you all have the same otherworldly features. Without a moral axis, divinity is just divinity. And if you’re not told otherwise, you might just mistake a demon for a god.
So it’s justifiable why you thought Sae would be easy. Most people are, even priests. They’re too taken with your burning eyes to notice the scent of brimstone that follows you around.
You thought Sae was the same. He invited you in, led you into the basement. Then, just before you were about to strike, he clapped you in these chains.
Finished with testing your restraints, he stands up. Before he gets completely off the floor, something catches his eyes. His hand lashes out, catching your tail. It writhes in his grip.
His eyes spark, almost like a cat does upon seeing a mouse. He tugs at it.
“Stop,” you whine, trying to tuck it under you.
It only makes him worse. He runs his thumb against the underside of it, stroking where it tapers to a point. It makes you shiver. He cracks a small smile.
“Cute.”
Your tail lashes, pulling itself out of his grip.
“I’ve never seen a demon up close before,” Sae says. His gaze is intense. “I know you have a tail. What else about you is different?”
You don’t like the way he’s looking at you. It’s a cold kind of gaze. You feel like he’s preparing you for dissection. You wouldn’t put it past him.
His hand cups your cheek, forcing your gaze up at him. Down on your knees, you feel strangely like one of his parishioners, a sinful being seeking absolution. His thumb rubs itself back and forth over your cheekbone.
He almost looks like he might kiss you.
“Wait," you stutter out. “Your vows. Your god, remember?”
Sae looks down at you. His face is impassive. For a second, the light reflects off the stained glass behind him, catching him in its glow. He looks almost divine.
“I think,” Sae drawls, his hands on you. “He’d forgive me this once.”
“Wait,” you’re panicking. “Wait. Hang on. We can talk about this.”
“I’m just joking,” he says. “I would never.”
That annoys you. What does he mean he would never? He thinks he’s too good for you, just because he’s a lamb of god?
“I am grateful for you, you know,” he says softly. “I thank my god that he sent you.”
“He did not!”
“I was losing faith before I found you.”
“I’m going to kill you,” you tell him. “And drag you screaming down below!”
“Then take me to hell,” Sae says. His finger taps your cheek lightly, almost fondly, almost in the imitation of a love peck. “That is, if you can, little demon.”
BESTIE CAN YOU REC ME SOME MORE SAE FICS, I'VE READ ALL OF YOURS AND THEY'RE FUCKING AMAZING. i've heard seabird is also really good but idk which author it is so if you read it pls tell me your thoughts before i dive in🤡
Thanks! Anything I've read and recommend can be found under #sera reads but I know that's not organized by character so it can be annoying. I don't know if I've read that many Sae fics to be honest. If you're 18+ I recommend @suguwu and @/prettyboykatsuki.
I literally just saw Sumi talk about Seabird and I think she drew a comic for it! She has immaculate taste so I would 100% recommend it even without having read it yet. It's by @/m1ckeyb3rry. Here's the link! Honestly @sumiscribe-side is probably a better person to ask for recommendations. Scroll through her blog!
canon gojo and the ambiguity of your deeply intimate relationship and the look of subtle devastation when people ask what you two are to each other and you smile somberly and say "comrades" without missing a beat
once, gojo turned his infinity off when he came to bother you in the bath. he has keys to your place, though they rarely get used. who but gojo would come seek you out in the night anyway?
he climbs into the bath with you on a whim and for a moment, there's nothing between you and his skin. by that point you havent had sex, and when you realize it you don't comment. you don't even gasp, you simply touch. your hand is cool but warm at once as it slides up his bare back and shoulder. he sits in front of you.
exposing his back to you without any barriers, the ultimate act of intimacy, of vulnerability from the strongest man in the world. to love is to be comfortable with being subdued, to be crushed, to be weak. you will not love gojo. you forbid such a thing.
but your hand is pleasant on his skin. he likes the way your nails feel digging into his shoulders
comrades, you say without missing a beat. it's painful.
another one of your roommate’s hookups is drinking your oat milk.
he eyes you appreciatively, his eyes tracking your legs, covered only by a low-slung pair of sleep shorts, up to where your tank top bares your shoulders and little clavicle divot. you frown at him and slam the cabinet shut so he jumps a little and sloshes coffee over the rim of his mug.
“hey,” he says, “i’m oliver.” when you don’t say anything, he continues: “i’m a friend of himari.”
you snort. friend. he still has her lipstick print on his neck. he’s still looking at you expectantly with a pair of long-lashed heterochromatic eyes so startling they’re almost beautiful, so you take pity and tell him your name.
“you’re up early. i heard you guys come in pretty late last night.”
“ah, yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish gesture, but he somehow doesn’t look shy at all. maybe because you can tell that he’s flexing as he does it. “sorry about that.”
“eh,” you shrug it off, “i was up anyway. cramming, you know.”
you were reading romance manga, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“oh, so you’re a student! i bet you could teach me some things, then.” you turn your back to sit at the kitchen island and try not to let him see you smiling at his total corniness before you sit facing him. he’s so blatant it flips the corner back to endearing. “i play pro football. i’m used to getting up early for practice.”
and to leave before my hookups wake up, you read between the lines.
“cool.” it is, actually.
you’re leaning across the island with your elbows propping you up, not noticing how focused you are on the bob of his throat as he finishes up his coffee. you flutter your lashes, eyes wide as he crosses his arms and does the same, bent at the waist so you’re almost nose to nose, bridging the countertop.
“right! so i was thinking i could give you—“
“is it supposed to look like that?” you blurt, brain momentarily overwhelmed by the minty smell of his breath and the way you can almost feel his lips against yours. he backs up slightly, more than half an inch between you now.
“what?” he has a bemused half-smile on, like he thinks he should be turned off by your bedhead and bluntness but is too intrigued to care.
“your beard. is it supposed to be shaped like that?”
he blinks.
“what is it shaped like? is it bad?” he scrubs a hand over the facial hair in question, suddenly looking so concerned you almost feel bad. it was a genuine question.
you don’t normally go for guys with beards, but he really is good-looking under all the rakishness.
“it’s not bad,” you shrug. “you look kind of like a dog. scruffy. in a good way.”
“that doesn’t sound like it’s in a good way,” he says, aggrieved. “it’s supposed to be handsome. mature.”
that rips a laugh from you. “it’s definitely not giving that.” he makes a noise that almost sounds like a sob. you wonder if all football players are this dramatic.
your roommate chooses that moment to start making waking-up noises from the room oliver left open, and he glances at you with panicky eyes. they’re almost hypnotic as his gaze darts between you and the door.
“better get going,” you laugh. “see you on the sports channel, maybe.”
he whips around, stuffing a pair of keys in his pocket and heading for the exit. he turns around with his hand on the knob, pointing at you.
“come see a game in person. i’ll tell ‘em to let the prettiest girl in for free.”
“You have crazy eyes,” Oikawa says offhandedly, setting a glass down and leaning hard on a wooden table, long legs crossing over each other elegantly.
“I do not,” Iwaizumi retorts. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Mhm,” Oikawa pushes his head into the other man’s line of vision, dodging as Iwaizumi unfolds his arms to make an attempt at pushing him away, his gaze locked on the other side of the deck all the while. “Nothing’s happening, that’s why the vein in your forehead is about to pop. You’d think he’d notice the big dumb guy staring at him this whole time.”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” says Iwaizumi, casually posing his arm to rest on the table, open palm up.
“Maybe he has noticed and he’s just ignoring it?” Oikawa squints, dropping his (prescription, but don’t you dare tell anyone) sunglasses down his nose for dramatic effect. “A braver man than me, then.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Iwaizumi says, but his fingers twitch, not quite a fist and not far from being one. His eyes are an olive orchard burning. As Oikawa said: crazy.
You are: oblivious, blithe, gorgeous. The tops of your shoulders are sun-warmed and you’re swirling a glass of red in your hand, the contented lilt of your smile familiar to him after many nights watching your favorite wine stain your lips. He sees you sway a little, your eyes popping wide as you realize all too quickly that you might be a little further past tipsy then you’d thought, and the bastard you’re talking to puts his hands on you. One on your shoulder, one on your waist to steady you.
Hajime’s always had a penchant for parkour when he’s drunk, and you and he have been taking sips of each other for days now. He slams a palm down on the hard wood, momentarily airborne as he jumps over the table and cuts through the other people standing around to get to you.
“Hey,” he says, grin looking a little feral as he watches the hands on your waist come off. The guy’s movements are jerky, looking at him like what the hell, man? Iwaizumi has no idea why.
“Hi, Haji,” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. “This is Naoto. He’s from the same place I am, actually.”
“Cool,” Hajime says, extending a hand to shake like he learned at networking mixers at UCI. Naoto stares at him for a second and then takes it cautiously, wincing as Hajime crushes his fingers in his best arm-wrestling champ grip. “Good to meet you.”
Naoto clearly does not think it is good to meet him. He steps back upon release and makes a rushed goodbye to you, citing a group of friends he suddenly needs to find urgently. You smile and wiggle your fingers at him vaguely, already far more focused on the sun setting over the waves past the terrace than you are on whatever is happening between the two of them. Hajime steps up behind you, sliding a hand over your waist, his palm covering the surface area touched by Naoto. You put a soft hand over his, stroking slowly over his calloused knuckles, and hook your other arm back to tug him forward so he’s pressed against your back, bending so he’s cheek-to-cheek with you, watching the water undulate.
“You havin’ a good time?” His voice is a little rough from the clear liquor he and Oikawa were drinking paired with the effort of keeping his voice quiet, his concern just for you.
“Yes, sir,” you say, taking another sip from your glass. You hold it across your chest and he wraps his fingers around the delicate stem, putting his mouth right over the print yours left. “You?”
“Of course,” he says. “It’s beautiful out here. I think Shittykawa got sunburnt on the beach, though.”
“His fault for being pale,” you wave your left hand dismissively. He wants to pin you like a butterfly, your wrist arched gracefully against the darkening sky. “He has all those fancy skin creams to stop it from flaking, too.”
He feels a little bad for abandoning his best friend, but when he turns his head to check on him, the other man has reunited with Makki and Mattsun, who are all clustered together while taking photos of the two of you. Oikawa’s features specifically are spelling out something very smug and that will be very annoying for Hajime later. Iwaizumi concludes that he will probably survive thirty seconds without direct entertainment from him.
“He gets bad flush, too,” he thinks aloud. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“See?” He hums and rubs his thumb over your top where he’s holding you with the right hand, soothing circular patterns. He can almost feel you purring. “I can always tell when you’ve started drinking for the night because Kawa gets red and you start running around and climbing things.”
“I don’t,” he protests, but it dies in his throat. You shake in his arms as you laugh.
“You always do. You tried to climb up my balcony once, remember? You said you could beat the elevator up.”
“I would’ve done it if security hadn’t come out,” he grumbles. You take your glass back and put it on the railing. It’s perilous, but Hajime doesn’t say anything. If it spills over your outfit, he’ll follow you back to the room and help you change.
“When I met you, I didn’t expect you to be the crazy type,” you say, turning so your lips brush his skin as you speak. “You seemed so steady compared to Kawa.”
“Only crazy about you,” he says. You sigh happily and melt back into him. He exhales slowly, a controlled breath, and wonders how a bastard like him got so lucky.
“He acts like your boyfriend,” Hiori says. “Are you okay with that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really,” he says, his voice going purposefully flat so you know that he’s mocking you. “No idea.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” you gripe.
He tilts his head at you. He’s a little more drunk than he should be. There’s something about him that feels off, more so than usual. He normally has quite a good grip on whatever strange tendencies lay dormant inside him, but tonight his inhibitions are loose.
It unnerves you. You’ve always known there was something fundamentally fucked about his psyche. Other people have tried, futilely, to warn you away from him, but you came into this relationship with your eyes wide open.
You’ve always known there was a crack in his personality, as twisted as his face was cute. It’s what drew you to him in the first place, actually. There’s something sexy about someone with a secret side to them. You can’t help but want to pry it out of them.
But knowledge and experience are two different things, and Hiori’s acting kind of scary tonight. He’s not doing anything, technically. It’s all in your head. It’s like watching a charmed snake dance - sinuous, mesmerizing, and perilous.
“I thought,” he says, enunciating his words carefully, his finger tracing the rim of his glass almost as if he’s not paying attention while you’re hyperaware of him, “that you liked that sort of thing. You have a type, ya know.”
“Wasn’t aware, actually.”
He looks up at you from under lowered lashes. You suck in a breath. It’s seductive in the way an anglerfish light is seductive. There’s a small smile playing about his lips.
“Yeah?”
“I have to- um. I’m going to get another drink.”
He grabs your arm before you can flee. “You can just have mine. It’s your favorite,” he says softly, gently. You’re definitely the problem. He’s being so nice to you and all you can feel is this weird vertigo inducing blend of overwhelming lust and fear. Forget Hiori, something is definitely fucked in your brain.
“I’m okay-“
“Why are you being so skittish?” He’s still smiling. He’s so, so happy about this. His hand is still on your arm. His thumb is tracing warm, comforting circles on your gooseflesh skin even as he tries to devour you with his eyes.
The thing is, you kind of want him to.
“Oh,” Hiori says. His face has gone kind of dead and flat. “Look. Your little boyfriend is back.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you protest, reminded of your initial argument.
“Really?” Hiori smiles. It’s this special, rare thing that only shows up when he’s drunk. It’s just the hint of curved lips and eyes that are a little too bright. He looks kind of unhinged, but not in a serial killer way. It’s far more subtle than that. “Should I do something about it, then?”
