hunger.
➤ you are miya osamu
wc: 2.7k
warnings: food, op is hungry, miya osamu centric, manga & anime spoilers
note: I'm 1-2 days late to the funeral/party but pls accept this really short miya osamu character study (kind of. barely. There was hardly any studying as i’ve allowed the spirit of writing take hold of my hands for a solid two hours.) as my elegy/offering to haikyuu season 4’s finale and the 40 tabs of poetry & fics that crashed on me earlier this evening.
You are Miya Osamu, seven years old, and eating in the new ramen restaurant that just opened up for dinner. The place was apparently highly-anticipated as it’s apparently the first Hyogo Branch for an infamous ramen chain that's apparently rated with two Michelin stars. The interior is traditional and neat. The walls, floor, and furniture are of finished wood in varying shades. The staff look old, the chefs look older. You, Atsumu, Pa, and Ma are seated with menus and gurgling stomachs, and walk out with takeout. Hands chained together, you all walk towards the parking lot and Ma lets out a squeal of satisfaction saying, “that was real good wasn't it, Atsumu, Osamu?”
Atsumu being the dimwit brat he is, nods viciously as if his eyes aren't already drooping as a sign of an incoming food coma. He proceeds to say he’s reaaaaaaaal full! And how he really liked how soft the noodles were and how rich the broth was and how soft the noodles were. Ma hums in a smile then looks down to face you, asking you for your own opinion. You only shrug and say, “I’m full. Just not satisfied”
Ma looks at you, mortified. Pa guffaws his lungs out and manages to wheeze out how you better be thankful that you’re out of the restaurant's vicinity for you might have gotten your first lawsuit at seven! You don't completely understand what he means but knows it's something bad. In the car ride back home, you stare out the window and wonder why.
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You are Miya Osamu and think that Aran Ojiro is hella cool. He’s got a hella cool name, hella cool physique, and hella cool lunch he brings to school one day. They’re pancakes. Not really the ideal lunch meal, but hella cool either way because they’re nop ordinary pancakes. They’re corn pancakes, except, as Tsumu (his new name that you both proclaimed post-meeting Aran-kun) says after taking a bite, there’s no corn in it. It just tastes like corn. You pull out your own plastic chopsticks from your bento to take a taste as Aran explains. He says there’s something his mom puts that called ‘cornmeal’. Before you could take a piece, Aran halts you and shuffles for something in his lunchbag, only to pull out a mini tupperware of freshly chopped green onions. With glimmering eyes, he recommends that you try it out with the green onions garnished above before you take a bite. You nod, take his advice, and your mouth explodes with colors. It’s beyond sweet or savory or spicy or umami. Pancakes have always been either flat or fluffy alone, never so interesting and flavorful until now.
Ma picks you and Tsumu up later that day and you ask her to buy some cornmeal and extra green onions the next time she goes to the market to buy groceries.
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You are Miya Osamu and it's New Year’s. You’re also yelling at Tsumu too keep it up, who in return, is also yelling at you to keep it up. Ojiisan is chortling in endearment, Obaasan is cackling her lungs out. When the Mochi is finally done, you and Tsumu exchange glares with your arms folded in a huff. Tsumu mutters how you, Samu, is so stupid and dumb and slow, when you know for a fact that HE’s the one who’s stupid and dumb and slow. Obaasan, being the ever observant granny she is, hitches a brow teasingly and asks if her precious grandsons have changed their precious names into something else. You and (a)Tsumu splutter up a string of apologies and excuses, only for her to cackle once again, this time simultaneously hitting you both on the back as she does so. Ojiisan is the one to tell your Obaasan to calm down now as he distributes the mochi.
Obaasan smiles with the softening of her eyes after taking a bite of the mochi and says it's good. Both your and (a)Tsumu’s hearts swell in pride. She then smiles with her dentures flashed in a wide, cheshire grin, adding how it could’ve used a little more oomph! She says it’s good because food is always good when you’re happy. And you’re happy when you make decisions for yourselves. And when you’re making decisions for yourself, you’re supposed to make a decision that you think will make you happy. You and Tsumu nod while reaching out for your own mochi and she’s right, it’s too soft.
But you think, huh. It does taste a lot better.
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You are Miya Osamu and firmly believe your brother is a curse. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. You’re the curse. Ma never told you who’s older or younger, and probably (likely.) (definitely.) for the best. Though, you’re also one half of the newly infamous Miya Twins™ (synonymous with: chaos incarnate) who have recently shaken the ground of the volleyball world. The other half of the Miya Twins™ is Atsumu, who puked in the bus before the first game in your first nationals that no one, everyone, would have expected you’d win. Of course, you only reach the semi-finals, but that alone is a feat in itself. Still, on the bus ride back to Hyogo, while your eyes aren’t swelling with tears anymore, they’re mapped with veins and your heart’s the one doing the swelling, but with distraught and a promise to give it your all until the very end as one half of the Miya Twins™.
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You are Miya Osamu and the team that stands before you across the net is Karasuno. Whom no one, everyone, would have expected would come this far. They’re an amalgamation of rookies, geniuses, and straight up monsters. They’re an odd bunch but so is your team. You’re both standing in the court, in Tokyo, match being ingrained into the minds of every person watching whether live or through National Television that'll either last forever for them to talk to their grandkids about or just fleet away the next day. Either way, the memory of such alone is proof that they’ve come this far. So are the jerseys being drenched in sweat, bruises blooming on their forearms, and the muscles being more and more conditioned as each three centimeters of a second passes by.
“Hey ‘samu? I’m startin’ to feel hungry.”
“Me too, ‘tsumu.”
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You are Miya Osamu, scarfing down on the third best gyudon you’ve had in your life. It’s served in the Tokyo branch of a well known gyudon chain and only the third best ‘cuz Ma’s is and will always be the best, and yours will be the second best because you’re seventeen and self-proclaimed one hell of a home cook. It’s third best probably because of the garnish or the beef’s quality or how well-cooked the rice is. Or the fact that you’re eating it right after a loss. Food is always better when it's used as comfort or a coping mechanism. If it’s decent and you’re feeling like shit, your brain always registers it as the best thing in the world for at least the next few days. But you’re smarter than Gin who’s ordering his third bowl because it's the best gyudon he’s ever had in his life. But also, food is always better when you’re happy, when you make a decision for yourself that you deem would make you happy. You’re not happy, but you’ve decided that you’re gonna be the junior Kita-san’s forever gonna brag about.
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You are Miya Osamu and practice the next day is grueling. Even fiercer and vicious than the already fierce and vicious practices your body had been accustomed to pre-nationals. Not completely by coach’s order, rather by the hunger born as an aftermath from yesterday's events. It’s also a water break. The mere three minutes your body is given to repair its own muscles before another set of serves. Riseki mentions how yesterday, Kita went on another one of his strange speeches in the midst of the match. He reiterates how Kita believed everyone on court were monsters and all, that's really the bare minimum Riseki’s pea brain, in comparison to Kita-san’s argentinosaurus of a brain, was able to absorb. You nod and hum in acknowledgement, after all, you thought the same too at one point of the match. But now-
Your gaze shifts over to ‘tsumu who’s across the gym and trying to create a heimlich by punching his chest. God knows what he’s choked himself up on again this time.
-your face twists into nonchalance. Even from the other side of the gym, you feel tsumu giving you the stink eye as Aran’s obligatorily assisting him. It's probably the twin senses. The guy’s no monster. Even if he was, monsters are supposed to be terrifying. Like the ones scaring you from under your bed. Or crawling up from a well and out of the TV screen. Or dipping fingers along with a french fry into a ramekin of ketchup in a team outing, like what Tsumu doe— Ah.
(Later that night, he does it again. He’s no monster, just a stupid fuckin idiot.)
(A disgrace to humanity.)
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You are Miya Osamu, it’s the week after the last Spring High National Tournament, 1AM, and you should be asleep. Instead, you’re googling: what the fuck do retired athletes do when they’re retired. Your back isn’t aching and you dont smell funny yet, but you’re a teenager and tired and your brain whirrs in the strangest of times. The search results are blurry as like does a black hole, sleep succumbs and swallows you into itself.
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You are Miya Osamu, holding your brother in a headlock. The catalyst to the impromptu wrestling match in the gym was you admitting to Atsumu that you’re no longer playing volleyball after highschool. Some delusional part of yourself hoped for some kind of peaceful talk. Y’know, with puffy gowns and smiles and chamomile tea. But Tsumu’s childish and you’re apparently a FUCKIN’ [REDACTED] [REDACTED] HORSE-CRAP-LOOKIN’ [REDACTED] BITCHASS [REDACTED] [REDACTED] SHITTY SCRUB. As per usual, you throw each other, yells (Communication between the Miya Twins™ was either inarticulate yelling or twin telepathy alone and nothing in between.), and punches around. There’s no real winner or loser in your quarrels as either Ma’, the coach, or Kita-san is always quick to end it. This time, when Tsumu yells at you that when you’re in your deathbeds, he’s gonna say that lived a happier life, you grin fierce, proud, in pain, and attempt to keep tears from streaming down your eyes. There’s no winner or loser to this fight as it doesn’t, and will never end until you’re on your deathbeds trying to deem who lived a happier life.
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You are Miya Osamu, sweating profoundly, and the touch of the ball your brother set to you barely quarter a second ago is faint. The Twin Quick Attack, Minus Tempo. He gives you a look that says “are ya still thinkin’ about quittin’?” You slam the ball down along with returning a look that says “fuck yeah.” The ball creates a deafening echo as it ricochets off the ground. 2014 Spring High National Tournament: Inarizaki High School vs Karasuno High School (2:1)
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You are Miya Osamu, swearing you’re about to go blind because of the continuous flashes of cameras being sent your way in your graduation. Ma’ and Pa’ are in tears, so are a few of your classmates and teammates and juniors. Some people say that they wished highschool would never end but that’s a load of bullshit. Highschool sucked. Calculus sucked. Everyone many Some people sucked. ‘Tsumu definitely sucked. Playing volleyball— didn’t suck. It never sucked.
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You are Miya Osamu and adult-ing sucks. Taxes, landlords, income— Never have been fond of economics and likely never will. They said that when you become an adult, you’re finally gonna be thrusted into the world of freedom and happiness. Freedom is for everyone, children and adults alike. Happiness on the other hand, is temporary and reserved for times like a good lunch, and only permanent for people swimming in bills and coins and gucci. You? You’re just some guy making equilateral riceballs for a living. The food industry is always a gamble. To make a name for yourself, you’ve gotta keep thriving. To keep thriving you require consistency in improvement. That means more branches, more flavors, and more investment while making sure the quality never drops. It's difficult and mentally taxing. It also makes the whirring of the ceiling fan seem louder than it should be, making you feel smaller, more alone, than you should feel. You take another piece of manchego and narrow your eyes into the list of potential new flavors you could sell. A high-pitched DING! from your phone causes you to lose the staring contest you’ve had with the sheet of paper in front of you.
From: Kita-san
I’ve prepared the rice for pickup. See you tomorrow, Osamu.
You grin at the notification and text him a quick thanks. You stand up and flip the paper around in order to get read for bed. Something tells you you’ll figure it out somehow and soon.
(you do. Spicy pickled cucumber onigiri is fresh and a well selling item in Onigiri Miya the moment its introduced.)
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You are Miya Osamu and firmly believe your brother is a menace, but also a nuisance. Yet here he is, likely (definitely) unaware of the splatter of soy sauce his cheek is smushed upon that you weren’t able to clean up from the former customer as he’s too immersed in his own personal venting. He’s whining on and on about how he can’t seem to perfect this new special serve he’s been working on for a while now. You’re familiar with this co called “special” serve he’s trying to pull off as it’s been the only thing he’s been texting you daily about. Because you’ve heard of it a hundred-or-so times and you were also supposed to close up ages ago, until he came waltzing in with that stupid pout and blonde hair of his. He’s a menace and nuisance but also your brother, so you offer him your own two cents and fresh onigiri. The night goes on with you both talking about Kita-san and life and the time Bokkun got his hand stuck in the pipe system back over in the MSBY dormitories. As you close up the shop and part ways, Tsumu yells at you saying he hasn’t figured out the serve yet, you yell back at him that he’ll figure it out somehow.
(he does. he debuts the new menacing northpaw serve, entitled the “hybrid serve” the next match the MSBY have.)
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You are Miya Osamu and formally meet Akaashi Keiji for the first time. You recall him as one of the setters for Fukurodani, the highschool that often appeared in lists of participatory schools in the nationals as well as the former abode of your brother’s teammate, Bokuto “Bokkun” Koutaro. The dude’s nice. Probably needs more sleep, but generally nice. Seeing him and so many other people from highschool all gather up in Sendai for the match fortifies its already well-established significance. The crowd quivers and roars in awe as the MSBY win, some of shock, others of pride, many over at the Adlers side in goodbye to the sum of money they’ve pooled into bets. You quiver and roar in a grin, proud of your brother and the incoming flock of hungry customers coming over to your stand.
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You are Miya Atsumu and your brother is Miya Osamu. No surprise he’s 60+ and still making those stupid equilateral riceballs of his. Probably because he’s got his life up together. Definately because he’s a FUCKIN’ [REDACTED] [REDACTED] HORSE-CRAP-LOOKIN’ [REDACTED] BITCHASS [REDACTED] [REDACTED] SHITTY SCRUB. You enter the shop and the doorway is no longer one you’d have to duck for in order to enter. The place is really neat. Sumiko-chan (16, working part time) welcomes you back and says Osamu-jiisan’s break is still in an hour or so. You wave her off saying you’re just gonna get a minced tuna and spring onion onigiris to go. She nods and tells you to wait for five minutes. You do so and in those five minutes, you watch ‘Samu smile as he’s heartily making those stupid equilateral riceballs of his out of rice and love and whatever the fuck each flavor requires.
He’s probably happy. You're probably happier. But he’s definitely happy.
