Chapter Text
In Sendai, their interaction is brief and transactional.
Keiji isn’t even certain that Osamu Miya recognizes him, though they’ve exchanged nods at his brick-and-mortar shop a handful of times before. They’re far from Tokyo, Keiji supposes, so there is no reason for Miya to expect Keiji in Sendai; but they’re even farther from Osaka, by hours and prefectures and hundreds of kilometers. There are certainly V.League matches being held this weekend that are far closer to Kansai than the Kamei Arena Sendai.
The Black Jackals and Adlers fans must be good business to warrant such a voyage, Keiji concludes, and leaves it at that.
“One of each, please,” Keiji says when he reaches the front of Onigiri Miya’s queue. He picks up a serving of oshinko pickles in a crinkly disposable container and slides it across the counter. “This too.”
Osamu Miya, barely sparing a glance at Keiji, peeks into his hot food display case. “We’re out of salmon onigiri at the moment, sir, but we’ll have a fresh batch soon if you’re willin’ to wait.”
Keiji weighs Udai’s impatience against Onigiri Miya’s salmon onigiri, and decides, “I’ll wait then, Miya-kun.”
Miya’s eyes flick upward past the brim of his cap when Keiji speaks his name; then his closed-mouth smile quirks at one corner, just to the warmer side of professional, as he hands Keiji’s change to him.
Keiji wonders if the brush of knuckles against palm, instead of coins rattling on a plastic tray, is some gesture of acknowledgement—perhaps he, like Keiji, feels unmoored as one of the few non-Miyagi natives in attendance—and takes his time returning his wallet to his backpack.
“Onigiri Miya’s rice balls are very good,” Keiji ventures, casual. “Do you still not have a Tokyo branch?”
Miya blinks, as if surprised by the continuation of the conversation, and replies with practiced retail courtesy, “Thank you, not yet, but we’re thinkin’ about it.”
They lapse into clumsy silence. Soon, Miya’s attention is diverted to his next customer, and Keiji allows his own to wander away and join the roaring crowd.
The thread between them is thin and flimsy; though running parallel, their paths have only crossed a few times over the years, and only ever with a volleyball net or shop counter between them. Outside of Atsumu or Bokuto’s company, Keiji supposes that there isn’t much common ground to tread. He opens the small container of pickled radish and pops a slice into his mouth, savoring the crunch and salty, mild sweetness between his teeth.
Abruptly, all noise in the stadium catches like a breath—Keiji glances back toward Miya in his confusion, but Miya’s gaze slips off his customer, off Keiji, and focuses beyond. Keiji, an afterthought, returns his attention to the court.
The distant figure of Atsumu Miya slams his first serve out-of-bounds.
The tension breaks, and sound returns to the world; Keiji chuckles. He realizes, belatedly, that he should not laugh at Atsumu Miya in front of his brother—but Keiji only hears a huff of laughter matching his own, and a half-derisive, half-fond, “Lame, tried way too hard to look fancy at the start.”
Atsumu Miya’s head snaps toward them, and Keiji flinches.
Twin telepathy?, Keiji wonders, bewildered, as Osamu Miya continues to sneer at his glowering brother. Frightening.
The rallies continue and Keiji spectates from the entrance of the vendor hall, the oshinko slices dwindling point-by-point. A thrill runs through Keiji when the crowd erupts so loudly that he feels it through the soles of his shoes, and he turns to the jumbotron for the replay.
Hinata’s freak-quick, polished to a perfect point with Atsumu Miya; Bokuto, out-of-focus in the background, gawking. Keiji is certain that the same thought crosses both their minds.
“Pure fear,” Keiji recites, along with the blurry Bokuto projected over the meters-high screen. “Their first strike is always lethal.”
Behind him, Miya snorts, jarring Keiji out of his thoughts. When he turns, he finds Miya surveying him with—not amusement, exactly, or even ridicule. Miya tilts his chin upward, a motion of only a few degrees that seems, to Keiji, to go on for miles, and Keiji is suddenly reminded of the appraising gaze the Miya twins had once caged him with five years ago, at their final Spring Nationals.
Pity, Keiji realizes with a jolt as the brilliant light of the jumbotron at his back casts Miya’s expression into even sharper relief. He sees you chasing—Osamu Miya sees you.
The empty container crinkles deafeningly in Keiji’s hands. Miya tucks two salmon onigiri into his order, and hefts the bag toward him over the counter.
“I only paid for one,” Keiji says, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. Miya waves him off.
“As thanks for waitin’, and for old time’s sake,” Miya replies, tone cool and vacant. Their knuckles bump as the handle of the plastic bag passes from Miya’s palm to Keiji’s. “Enjoy Bokuto’s game.”
Keiji is glad when Udai calls out to him over the din. He bows quickly toward Miya and replies, “Thank you, and I hope you enjoy watching Atsumu-san as well.”
※ ※ ※
Keiji’s short reunion with Kageyama and Hinata after the match is fortifying—Hinata, in particular, can still fill Keiji with light just by brandishing his smile in the right direction—but it can hardly compare to Bokuto bolting toward him from the players’ lounge and gathering Keiji up in his arms.
Bokuto is still warm from the showers, smelling of soap and Salonpas and something infinitely familiar and comforting. Keiji wraps his arms around Bokuto’s ample shoulders to reciprocate. Udai yelps as Bokuto lifts all 186 centimeters of Keiji off the ground and spins him, narrowly avoiding the foot Keiji kicks out in surprise.
“Akaashi, it’s been so long!” Bokuto exclaims, eyes alight and searching over Keiji’s face. “We’re gonna get cow tongue and drinks after this, right?”
Keiji gently extracts himself from the hold, but allows Bokuto to keep one hand wrapped around his wrist. “Bokuto-san, let’s get the interview sorted first before we think about Kokubuncho.”
“Ten-san’s here too!” Bokuto gasps as he finally turns to Keiji’s companion. Udai lifts one hand up to Bokuto, the other cradling the plastic bag of leftover onigiri to his abdomen. “Ten-san! How are you? Are you getting cow tongue with us?”
“Maybe next time, I’ve got to get back to work, and Akaashi-san already bought me plenty of onigiri,” Udai replies with a mild smile.
“Onigiri Miya’s onigiri,” Keiji adds, and Bokuto’s stomach rumbles as if on cue.
“I think Tsum-Tsum said there’d be some of Myaa-Sam’s onigiri at the team meeting,” Bokuto remarks thoughtfully, staring off into the middle distance.
Bokuto’s Tsum-Tsum, and Bokuto’s Myaa-Sam. Perhaps Bokuto knows.
“Bokuto-san,” Keiji says, “Do you see Osamu Miya often? Or has Atsumu-san mentioned anything about a Tokyo branch of Onigiri Miya?”
Bokuto’s face scrunches up in thought, and a rush of fondness rises up over Keiji. Despite their endless exchange of LINE messages and phone calls, Keiji has missed the immediacy of Bokuto’s elastic expressions before him, or of callused fingers tapping idly on his wrist. He knows that by the next morning Bokuto will board the team’s bus to the airport, and Keiji will be on a Tokyo-bound train—but for now, in this corner of the Kamei Arena Sendai lobby, Keiji allows himself to dwell, delighted, in Bokuto’s glow.
“I don’t think Tsum-Tsum’s said anything about a Tokyo branch,” Bokuto says, deflating with the concession that he could not find any answers for Keiji. He begins to swing Keiji’s arm back and forth entreatingly. “I can ask Myaa-Sam the next time I see him, though! Want me to do that, Akaashi?”
Keiji does not particularly want Osamu Miya to know that he’s asked after him, but, far more ardently, Keiji does not want to deny Bokuto anything that could brighten his expression. Keiji sighs, smiles back, and nods.
※ ※ ※
[November 17, 2018]
tsumu_miya
[21:08] You’re selling at the game tomorrow too, right? Save me a couple of tuna onigiri for afterward
OnigiriMiya
[21:10] Pay up for last time first
tsumu_miya
[21:11] I’m your BROTHER
[21:11] We shared a WOMB
OnigiriMiya
[21:11] Yeah and I saw enough of you there
[21:12] Anyway guess who I saw today
[21:12] A couple of folks from Karasuno
tsumu_miya
[21:12] Not that exciting
[21:12] We’re in fucking Miyagi
OnigiriMiya
[21:12] Shut up
[21:13] And Fukurodani’s setter
[21:13] I think
tsumu_miya
[21:14] Oh no wonder Bokkun raced off
[21:14] Wait you mean Keiji-kun right
OnigiriMiya
[21:14] Who
tsumu_miya
[21:14] Keiji-kun
[21:14] Bokkun’s buddy
[21:14] Keiji Akaashi
OnigiriMiya
[21:15] ?
tsumu_miya
[21:15] What the fuck Samu, there’s no way you haven’t met
[21:15] Our height, black hair
[21:15] Eats like a metric shit ton of rice every meal
OnigiriMiya
[21:16] ?
[21:16] The one that’s friends with Bokuto right?
tsumu_miya
[21:17] God you’re lucky you share my handsome face
[21:20] https://volleyball-monthly.jp/article/2012-12-19-fuku…
[21:20] IN THE FIRST PIC
[21:20] NUMBER 5
In Ota, their interaction is even briefer—but Keiji ensures that their declarations are mutual.
Miya lifts the brim of his cap with a thumb when Keiji enters the vendor’s hall at the MSBY Black Jackals-Azuma Pharmacy Green Rockets game. Keiji considers pretending that he does not see him and forgoing the precious opportunity for Onigiri Miya rice balls for the day. He can have karaage instead today, or tofu burgers, or even just popcorn.
But Miya, with his black hair and black cap and black sweatshirt, a head taller than virtually everyone in the Ota City General Gymnasium except the volleyball players themselves, cuts an unmistakable figure in the crowd. Keiji, less dramatically attired but just as tall, is also quite certain that he cannot hide.
Well, alright then, Keiji thinks as he turns on his heel. Camouflage and retreat had not been the best options, regardless: in a game of strategy, on-court or off, Keiji is cautiously confident that he can outmaneuver Osamu Miya.
“Hello again, Akaashi-kun,” Miya says, broad shoulders sloping as he relaxes from his customer service posture in Keiji’s presence. “Back to watch Bokuto?”
“Hello, Miya-kun, yes, I am, one of each, please,” Keiji replies, even though Udai is not with him this week to share. The pickles in their rubber-banded containers are cucumber rather than radish today, and he selects the package with the largest slices for himself.
Miya’s movements as he assembles Keiji’s order are languid and casual, and it needles Keiji. It is a pretense, most likely; Keiji has never been the type to bend to affectation, but it does make him impatient.
“Tsumu says that Bokkun’s been askin’ after me this week,” Miya remarks conversationally, eyes cast down toward his hands, mouth suddenly bowed in a smile. “I’m flattered you’ve even got your best friend on your mission to drag me up to Tokyo.”
Keiji, on his part, refuses to alter his neutral expression. “Not you, specifically, but your franchise.”
“You think the onigiri’s gonna taste the same without my hands makin’ ‘em?” Miya asks. He tucks his smile away, returning to his default of flat blankness, and tips his head to the side. “I’m hurt.”
Even among the onigiri at the stand today, Keiji is certain that the majority were not made by Osamu Miya himself—but he refrains from the argument, in hope that the transaction will end sooner. “Whether or not the onigiri are identical to yours, I think the convenience of a Tokyo branch would make up for any discrepancies.”
But Miya seems to be in no rush, even as the customers behind Keiji shift to the neighboring register in their impatience. “Hmm, I s’ppose so, but Onigiri Miya stayin’ in Kansai gives you more excuses to visit Bokuto, doesn’t it?”
In their high school days on the volleyball court, Keiji had known Osamu Miya as the quiet twin. He misses that now.
“I would visit Bokuto-san and Hinata in Osaka regardless of whether or not your shop was nearby,” Keiji says, placing a few 500 yen coins onto the counter. “I only ask for a Tokyo branch as a customer who enjoys your products. I think Onigiri Miya would be popular here, based on how many people are in your line right now.”
Miya hums in response, taking an unreasonable length of time to calculate the change for 1450 yen from the 1500 yen Keiji had given him. Again, Miya returns Keiji’s change by hand, rather than via the plastic receipt tray; again, their hands brush in the exchange, and this time Keiji is certain that the gesture means something.
When Keiji tries to pull the plastic bag from Miya’s hold, he does not relinquish it. Keiji allows himself a moment to scowl at the floor, face angled away to deprive Miya from any satisfaction. He despises this brand of trivial machismo the most.
“If you’d like,” Miya says, grip firm on the plastic bag next to Keiji’s own fist, “I can talk Bokkun into vistin’ you more often in Tokyo—no new branch of Onigiri Miya required, and you can stop takin’ time out of your busy schedule to follow after him every weekend.”
As evenly as he can, Keiji replies, “The train ride to Ota is only an hour, so I’m not terribly inconvenienced. There’s no reason to trouble Bokuto-san on my behalf.”
Their hands hover over the counter; a joust over the net.
Quietly, almost gently, Miya adds, “I just feel a little sorry for you, since you’re always the one doin’ the chasin’, between you and Bokuto.”
Enough, Keiji decides. New strategy. He leans forward, relishing in the minute shift in Miya’s stance to accommodate him, and allows his bitterness to crest over.
“I don’t particularly care about your impression of me, Miya-kun,” Keiji says, low enough that Miya’s staff won’t overhear, “But let’s both acknowledge that I’m not the one who drags his employees a thousand kilometers every week in pursuit of his brother’s games—or shall I ask Atsumu-san to visit you more often in Osaka, for your convenience?”
New strategy. A mutual declaration. Pity. Osamu Miya, I see you chasing. I see you too.
For a moment, Miya freezes, as if struck; Keiji tugs the plastic bag out of his hand with ease.
Then, before remorse over his outburst can stab too deeply into Keiji: a smile blooms wide across Miya’s face.
“I’d forgotten, since you’re so reserved when you’re talkin’ about Bokuto,” Miya says, half-hushed, as his eyes narrow and gleam, “But you’ve always been pretty brutal underneath it all, huh, Akaashi-kun?”
Keiji swallows and straightens himself, but his voice still comes out hoarser than he’d like. “I’ll see you at the next game, I suppose, Miya-kun.”
“And I’ll be lookin’ for you,” Miya calls after him as Keiji quickly gathers his purchases and exits from the vendor’s hall.
※ ※ ※
Manga editing schedules and inter-prefecture travel itineraries prevent Keiji from meeting Bokuto after the match, but he does not mind. Next week, as a yearly tradition, Keiji will reunite with the rest of the Fukurodani graduates to watch the MSBY Black Jackals-EJP Raijin game, and meet with both Bokuto and Washio afterward. It will be farther to follow—but there will be more time then, Keiji knows.
Besides, he does not dislike quiet, easy evenings like this: listening to Bokuto’s wandering commentary over speakerphone as Keiji finishes his household chores for the night, or answers work emails at his kitchen counter. Hinata’s laughter bubbles up occasionally in the background, followed by the rumble of Sakusa’s exasperated retort; Keiji hears a thump as Tomas returns Bokuto’s athletic tape, thanking him in sweet, friendly English.
Phone calls are not enveloping arms or a hand on a wrist, but Keiji has learned how to sustain himself on them over the past few years, nevertheless.
“Bokuto-san,” Keiji asks as he stacks his leftover onigiri in the refrigerator for lunch tomorrow, “Does Osamu Miya vend at every Black Jackals game?”
“Myaa-Sam? Not every game, and only sometimes at other tournaments—but he’s there for most of the V.League matches, yeah! We eat a lot of Myaa-Sam’s onigiri during our post-game meetings!”
Keiji unwraps the last onigiri in the bag, deciding that an occasional late-night snack is acceptable. A sigh of satisfaction escapes his lips as he takes the first bite. Onigiri Miya’s rice truly is incomparable: springy and tender but never mushy, with just the right amount of salt for every bite. The bright, sour flash of umeboshi at the center whets Keiji’s appetite further, but he forces himself not to deplete his lunch for the next day.
“I’m a little jealous,” Keiji confesses as he finishes the onigiri.
Bokuto laughs, filling Keiji’s quiet apartment with the sound. “I’ll steal some and bring them to you next time!”
“It’s alright, Bokuto-san, I buy quite a lot at every game already,” Keiji replies, smiling. “And I meant that Osamu Miya is fortunate to have a reason to attend so many of your games. I wish I could attend more matches, like he does.”
“Oh!” Bokuto, preening, sounds pleased at the thought. “Akaashi, I think that would be fun too!”
※ ※ ※
[November 25, 2018]
sunarin_0125
[13:06] sup osamu
[13:06] you’re gonna sell at the bj - ejp match next week right
OnigiriMiya
[13:39] Yeah
sunarin_0125
[13:42] nice
[13:42] keep 2 on the side for komori, filling doesn’t matter
[13:42] wait no he says not sesame
[13:43] he’ll pay you before the game
OnigiriMiya
[13:45] He can have Tsumu’s
sunarin_0125
[13:47] nice
[13:48] btw any chance of you selling at the ejp - red falcons game the week after?
[13:48] i’m meeting up with ojiro-san after
[13:48] it’s our chance to hang out without atsumu
OnigiriMiya
[13:50] HA
[13:50] Now I wish I could
[13:51] But we’re signed up to follow the Black Jackals all season, sorry
sunarin_0125
[13:51] boo
[13:51] just ditch atsumu already
[13:51] he’s not worth it
OnigiriMiya
[13:52] Yeah, yeah
[13:52] Any more of your matches in the same stadium?
sunarin_0125
[13:53] don’t think so, not unless we’re all in the final 6
[13:53] and even if we are, i’m sure atsumu would force us to let him join
OnigiriMiya
[13:54] He would
sunarin_0125
[13:54] he would.
In Matsumoto, they come to an agreement.
“Oh, Akaashi-kun, we can’t keep seein’ each other like this,” Miya deadpans when Keiji reaches the front of the line with Shirofuku. “Not if you’ve had a girlfriend this whole time.”
Shirofuku looks up from the team’s onigiri orders on her phone, sleepy eyes meandering between Keiji and Osamu Miya. Keiji suppresses a groan.
“No, Shirofuku-san was a club manager during my first and second year at Fukurodani,” Keiji explains, more to preserve Shirofuku’s dignity than to enlighten Miya. “Every year, the alumni try to attend one of Bokuto-san and Washio-san’s matches together.”
Miya’s eyebrows rise a fraction, surprisingly soft; then, instantly, his face flattens. If Keiji had not been so surprised by it, he would have thought he imagined it.
“That’s a cute tradition,” Miya says, professionally listless once again. “What can I get for the two of you?”
Between Keiji and Shirofuku’s extensive individual orders and those of the rest of the team, Miya has them wait at the side of the booth while his staff prepares their batch. Keiji pays for two side orders of umeboshi for them to snack on while they wait, and savors the pleasant sourness of the pink-red fruit as he watches the crowd mill past.
“I didn’t know you were friends with someone from Inarizaki, Keiji-kun,” Shirofuku remarks in her light, lilting way as she chews on her fourth umeboshi.
“We’re only acquaintances,” Keiji replies, at the same time that Miya calls from his booth, “We sure are, ma’am.”
Keiji stares at Miya. Miya’s expression does not change at all.
“Speaking of high school, Miya-kun,” Shirofuku says over Keiji’s shoulder, “Isn’t Rintarou Suna of the EJP an Inarizaki graduate like you?”
Miya gives her his polite, closed-mouth customer service smile, then returns to restocking the hot food display case. “Yes, we were in the same year, along with Akaashi-kun.”
At this, Shirofuku’s chewing halts. Keiji is certain of her thoughts: during Keiji’s third-year captaincy, Fukurodani had lost in straight sets to Inarizaki in the Spring Interhigh quarterfinals, in a crushing end to Keiji’s volleyball career. It had devastated Keiji at the time; Miya had not even remembered Keiji’s name two weeks ago, so Keiji presumes that he barely registers the memory.
The last dregs of resentment might dwell somewhere in Keiji’s heart, but the loss hasn’t truly bothered Keiji in years. There are newer, more pressing aspects of Osamu Miya to make Keiji wary.
“Inarizaki defeated us quite soundly at my final Spring Interhigh,” Keiji offers up plainly, preferring momentary awkwardness to allowing the issue to fester. “As far as setter-captains go, it’s no surprise that Atsumu-san came out on top.”
He watches Miya straighten to his full height, and train his eyes on Keiji. He knows now what pity looks like on Miya’s face; he does not find it there.
Another joust?, his expression suggests instead.
“Dunno how you two compared as captains, but Tsumu was awarded best setter that year,” Miya replies, tone indecipherable. “Are you askin’ me to apologize on his behalf? ‘Cause if I start apologizin’ for all the things that Tsumu’s ever done, we’d be here a long time.”
Keiji allows himself to smile a little at the prospect.
“No, I don’t think it’s necessary for winners to apologize, especially in sports,” Keiji says as he pokes through the remaining umeboshi in his container. He selects one, casual, and adds, “But if you’re feeling remorseful, it would console me, even all these years later, if you just opened a Tokyo branch of Onigiri Miya.”
Miya lets out a short, startled puff of laughter at the sudden request. Keiji pops another umeboshi into his mouth and congratulates himself on breaking Miya’s composure first: another joust in his favor. Miya, arms akimbo, shakes his head and sighs.
“I told you already, Akaashi-kun, we’re thinkin’ about it,” Miya repeats, without any real heat behind it.
The tension between them breaks quietly, like heat in the evening: not all jousts are won with brute force, Keiji thinks. They both know where to dig in to hurt, but sometimes the soft lob of an unanticipated joke is enough to tip the balance.
“Shirofuku-san is a fan of your onigiri too,” Keiji adds. “Does that convince you any further in your plans for a Tokyo branch?”
“I am a fan of your onigiri,” Shirofuku repeats emphatically. Keiji watches a profound strand of recognition—a connection between fellow gourmands and large eaters—pass between Shirofuku and Miya. What an unexpected understanding. Perhaps Keiji would get a Tokyo branch after all.
The corner of Miya’s mouth just barely angles upward, like an inside joke, like a secret, and he says, “Well, how ‘bout we just say that a Tokyo branch is on the table, and leave it at that for the day.”
A truce for now. Truthfully, Keiji wonders why either he or Miya feels the need to frame their interactions so antagonistically: Keiji isn’t particularly competitive in matters of social dominance, and he cannot imagine Miya sees Keiji as a threat. Perhaps, with only the volleyball court as common context, competition is the natural rhythm they fall into.
Or, perhaps, being seen is frightening. And the mutual knowledge that we see the exact same thing in each other—that our pursuits are the same—makes it all the more frightening still.
Ah. Keiji does not want to dwell on this thought.
“In the meantime,” Keiji asks, to tamp down his thoughts before he no longer can, “What brand of rice do you use, Miya-kun? I think I’d like to purchase it for myself.”
Closing the glass door of the display case, Miya frowns. “Akaashi-kun, do you think the thing that makes my onigiri so good is the brand of rice?”
“No,” Keiji replies, truthfully. He’s had enough onigiri in his lifetime to know that. “But if you’re not planning on a Tokyo branch any time soon, I think that buying the same brand of rice would be the closest thing. The rice in your onigiri is superb.”
Shirofuku, crumpling her container and throwing it into the nearby trash bin, nods. “It’s so fluffy and soft.”
“But it’s firm enough that every grain maintains its integrity, even when made into a rice ball,” Keiji continues, passing Shirofuku his own empty umeboshi package for disposal. “The rice is shiny, and the flavor is clean. Lately, because I’ve been eating your onigiri more often, I’ve noticed how much the rice I typically buy pales in comparison, though that may be the fault of my own preparation.”
When Keiji looks up, Miya is still staring at him—but this time, Keiji finds that he can’t quite read the expression. Keiji furrows his brows. He wonders if he’s again wandered into some unexpected, delicate territory.
“Don’t worry, Osamu just gets stupidly intense about his rice,” a voice calls from the other end of the booth. Two figures, caps pulled low over their masked faces, bow their heads at Keiji and Shirofuku from behind Miya: one slouching forward with his hands in the pockets of his jersey, and the other counting coins in an outstretched palm.
“Are players allowed in general admittance areas?” Miya asks, and the slouching figure snickers.
“Washio-san’s probably getting chewed out on our behalf, but Komori said he needed his Onigiri Miya fix,” Rintarou Suna replies, tugging his facemask down over his chin with a crooked finger. He knocks Miya lightly with his elbow, hands still planted in his pockets. “And quit frowning at your customers, Osamu—though I guess you of all people would have an existential crisis about rice in the middle of work.”
“It’s because it’s Kita-san’s rice,” Miya mutters as he accepts Motoya Komori’s coins in exchange for two salted kombu onigiri.
Kita-san? There is something familiar in the name, but Keiji, so many years removed from the high school volleyball circuit, can’t quite place it.
“And I heard him say nothing but good things about Kita-san’s rice,” Suna replies evenly. “Like, extensively. I thought you were the only one who could go on about rice like that—well, you and Kita-san, nowadays.”
Keiji finally hooks the name out of his memory. Shinsuke Kita. A stillness, serene, among the vivid flashes of black, white, and maroon.
“Kita-san? Your captain from Inarizaki is a rice farmer now?”
Suna and Miya both turn to Keiji simultaneously, and the sudden magnitude of their attention startles him.
“Yes?” Miya says: less an answer, more a challenge.
Osamu Miya’s tender spots are not where I expected, Keiji thinks, a little alarmed. Atsumu-san, and rice, and his old captain from Inarizaki.
He spares at glance at Shirofuku, perhaps the most lost in the conversation among them, before carefully and honestly replying, “I think it's fortunate that you can continue to support each other all these years later. Agriculture is an admirable profession, especially for our generation. Farmers are far more essential to society than, say, a manga editor like myself.”
Keiji pauses to study Miya’s face again, quite certain that there was a right response to defuse the situation, but unsure if he had found it. Miya is not inscrutable, but he does not have Bokuto’s evident, dramatic expressions either: Miya’s are composed of millimeter, millisecond shifts, just flickers of candor that break through like something dangerous in deep water.
“In any case, you’re all definitely more essential than volleyball players!” Komori interrupts cheerfully from behind Suna and Miya. He smiles at them with rice-swollen cheeks, round eyebrows high and friendly. “If Suna and I died, society would be totally fine!”
“You’ll throw up if you eat too much right before a match,” Suna advises coolly.
“I’m only gonna eat one,” Komori replies before bending forward to look more carefully at Keiji and Shirofuku. He grins, half-apologetic, and says, “Sorry if I guess wrong, but—Fukurodani, right?”
Komori's smile brightens when they nod, and he paws at Suna’s shoulder. “Aw man, that’s so nice! Remember Washio-san mentioning that he was gonna get hotpot afterwards with his old volleyball club? Sakusa said he’d only eat dinner with me if the Raijin win!”
Suna’s calculated expression is more difficult to read than even Miya’s, but Keiji senses in Suna’s posture that his response from earlier had been enough to mollify him. Suna loosens, lolling a bit toward Keiji in a way that feels nonchalant rather than threatening, and says, “In any case, Fukurodani-san, Kita-san’s based in Hyogo. He’s still pretty localized to Kansai, so he might not sell this far north. Right, Osamu?”
Miya nods affirmatively.
Keiji is surprised by the intensity of his own disappointment, and Komori laughs good-naturedly at the dip in Keiji’s shoulders. Komori turns to Miya and pipes, “C’mon, Osamu-kun, can’t you ask your ex-captain to ship a couple of bags of rice to Tokyo?”
Miya glances from Komori to Keiji, crosses his arms, and tips his head back to consider the ceiling. “Kita-san’s my supplier now, though. Askin’ a business partner for too many personal favors is kinda unprofessional.”
Snorting, Suna mutters, “Little Osamu-kun’s worried about being unprofessional.”
“Then, like, as an ex-teammate!” Komori persists, winking at Keiji encouragingly. “You can ask him for a favor as one of his beloved juniors, right?”
“Bad idea, the Miya’s were goddamn terrors as Kita-san’s underclassmen,” Suna says, smirk only widening.
Miya, restocking his paper napkin dispenser with disinterest, replies, “Don’t you have warmups or somethin’ to get to, Rintarou?”
Suna cackles, delighted at the rise he got out of Miya, just as one of Miya’s staff members wheels in a cart piled with two cardboard trays. Her eyes widen, starstruck, at Suna and Komori standing at the corner of the booth.
“You can ignore those two,” Miya says to her, lifting the order from the cart. “The customers are on that end.”
Keiji adjusts his backpack straps and accepts the larger of the cardboard boxes from Miya’s hands, mouth almost watering at the smell of rice and roasted seaweed. As the weight hefts into Keiji’s arms, Keiji looks at Miya over the frames of his glasses and says, “I’d rather not disturb your relationship with Kita-san, so please just convey my and Shirofuku-san’s appreciation to him, if you could.”
Another shift in Miya’s expression—a millimeter, a millisecond. Keiji isn’t quite familiar enough to interpret it, even if he does catch it.
“I’ll pass along your regards,” Miya simply replies.
Keiji turns away and fishes his phone from his coat pocket, typing a quick message to Sarukui about where to meet up to find their seats. Soon, Shirofuku is at his side with her own box of onigiri.
A drawn-out sigh sounds from behind them.
“Wait,” Miya calls after Keiji, a shade of defeat in his voice. “Gimme your contact information. I’ll ask Kita-san if he can make an exception.”
Keiji surprises even himself with the speed at which he returns to the booth to offer up his phone, all while balancing the bulky cardboard box on one arm. His face warms in his excitement. “Thank you, Miya-kun.”
Miya reaches his phone across the counter to put in the radius of Keiji’s and taps at the screen to transfer their information. “No promises that it’ll happen.”
“I appreciate the effort regardless,” Keiji replies as he draws his phone back to scan over the new contact. Osamu Miya: cell phone number, business number, LINE contact, email. As he locks his phone, Keiji spots Shirofuku hungrily eyeing the onigiri in her box, and quickly adds, “Thank you again, but our friends are probably wondering where we are, so please excuse us.”
Miya tips his hat at Keiji. Keiji nods. Then Keiji strides away, calculating the best way to distract Shirofuku from devouring their onigiri before the match even begins.
※ ※ ※
Suna leans over Osamu’s shoulder, squinting at the phone screen.
“That’s a weird way of spelling ‘Keiji’,” he remarks. “Oh, but look, his ‘ji’ is the same character as ‘Osamu’.”
※ ※ ※
At the hotpot restaurant afterward, Bokuto wedges himself between Akaashi and Suzumeda, blithely ignoring all of Konoha’s protestations.
“I want to sit by Akaashi,” Bokuto insists, bracing himself around Keiji’s arm like a vice. “Akaashi’s the only one who’ll trade his meat for my vegetables!”
“Eat your own damn vegetables, you’re an adult and a pro athlete! Besides, I don’t want to be at the same pot as both you and Shirofuku and Akaashi—I won’t get to eat anything!” Konoha shoots back, livid. “Onaga, switch seats with me!”
Onaga, the most junior in the group, looks nervously at the rest of his seniors. Washio wordlessly wraps a protective arm around the back of Onaga’s chair.
“Konoha, be a good upperclassman,” Komi says sternly. “Just grin and bear it.”
Konoha nearly screams.
Keiji, ignoring everything but the familiar weight against his side, presses the call button for a waiter, and orders himself, Bokuto, and Shirofuku extra bowls of rice.
※ ※ ※
[December 02, 2018]
OnigiriMiya
[10:45] Hello Kita-san
[10:45] I have a personal favor to ask you
[10:45] It isn’t urgent, please get back to me when it's convenient for you
KitaShinsuke
[11:38] Hello, Osamu, I hope you’re doing well. No need to be so formal. What can I do for you?
OnigiriMiya
[11:40] I have an acquaintance in Tokyo interested in your rice
[11:40] Not for business
[11:41] For home use
[11:41] He’s a pretty big fan of it
[11:41] Is there any chance of you shipping a couple of bags to Setagaya for him?
KitaShinsuke
[11:42] If you, Osamu, say that your friend enjoys my rice, then I’m sure he must be rather fond of it. I currently don’t ship to Tokyo, but I have some colleagues who may be willing to add a few bags to their shipments up north. I will have to talk to them first, but it shouldn’t be a problem.
OnigiriMiya
[11:42] Thank you, Kita-san
[11:42] I’ll email you his info so you can write up an invoice for me
KitaShinsuke
[11:43] You’re welcome, Osamu. How are you? As well as Atsumu? Neither of you have visited Hyogo since Obon, I believe. I’m sure your family must be missing you both.
OnigiriMiya
[11:45] We’re both keeping busy nowadays
[11:45] I’ll be back for New Years
[11:45] And Tsumu’s gonna head home for the mid-season break
[11:45] He’s doing great this season, the Black Jackals are definitely going to make it to the Final 6 this year
KitaShinsuke
[11:46] That’s exciting, please extend my congratulations.
OnigiriMiya
[11:46] Suna and Aran’s teams are doing pretty well too
[11:47] I’m sure Aran told you about the Red Falcon’s win against VC Kanagawa yesterday
KitaShinsuke
[11:47] He did, and I watched the televised match last night as well. And how are you, Osamu?
[11:54] ?
OnigiriMiya
[11:55] Sorry
[11:55] Business is good, I’m keeping busy
KitaShinsuke
[11:56] I’m glad to hear that your business is doing well. I’ve been meaning to visit Osaka to talk to some of my vendors. I’ll drop by your shop while I’m there.
OnigiriMiya
[11:57] You’re always welcome to visit, Kita-san
[11:57] But I’m sure you’re busy
[11:58] You don’t have to do that
KitaShinsuke
[11:59] Certainly, I know I don’t have to. However, I don’t think it’s strange for me to occasionally want to visit a junior and friend. I would much rather speak to you properly in-person than over phone messages or email.
OnigiriMiya
[12:00] Sure
[12:00] I’m looking forward to it
[12:00] Thank you, Kita-san
[12:00] Really
KitaShinsuke
[12:00] You’re welcome.
In Setagaya, Keiji returns from work to a note in his apartment mailbox:
Akaashi-san,
The grocer from Kobayashi Market dropped off a delivery for you this afternoon from “Shinsuke Kita-san, Hyogo”. It’s quite heavy, so I didn’t want to leave it outside your door in case it was an expensive purchase.
Please accept your package from the front office at your earliest convenience.
※ ※ ※
In Setagaya, Keiji stores the convenience store bento he had purchased for dinner in the fridge, and cooks a pot of Proper Hyogo rice.
※ ※ ※