Chapter Text
As he does one more pass through of the dining room, Atsumu smiles at the newest addition to the walls in Onigiri Miyas, a birthday gift from Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi had hired a famous artist to make paintings of his father’s old photographs, which were too delicate and grainy for photocopying. Oil on canvas, one for their Inagawa location and one for their Tokyo location, memorializing Miya Hikaru’s wide smile as he stood in front of his restaurant.
“Closing for a few days, Dad, gonna go spend Christmas in Tokyo,” he says quietly, touching the frame with gentle fingers, “Keep Ma company okay? Though she’s gonna hang out with a bunch of her alcoholic shogi playin’ buddies all week in Kobe, so I think she’s gonna be fine.”
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, walking into the dining room, “Where’s my—”
“Bento is on the counter, and I packed snacks in my bag, Omi,” Atsumu says.
“And—”
“Presents for yer family are in the blue suitcase,” Atsumu grins, “And yes it’s the big one so you can bring back all yer fancy teas and shampoo.”
“What about—”
“Samu said yer suit arrived, and I packed yer favorite tie and shoes. Can’t have my Omi lookin’ anything but the sharpest for his book signin’.”
Kiyoomi sniffs, “Very good.”
“Thank you, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says, “I try my best to be your attentive valet. I also told Suna if there’s a speck of dust in his apartment, I’ll sue him for intentional infliction of emotional distress.”
At this, Kiyoomi smiles, walking over and draping himself sloth-like over Atsumu’s back. They look at the painting together, breathing in unison.
“Your father had much better design taste than you,” Kiyoomi comments, “It took Suna to get your restaurant looking like adults run it. I almost defied Motoya and didn’t go into Onigiri Miyas when I first saw the storefront.”
“Omi that’s hurtful and we all know you would never defy Toya-kun. But as soon as you saw this handsome face, you knew ya had to eat with us, right? Love at first sight, right Omi, right?”
“You can tell yourself that,” Kiyoomi says.
“It was for me, so it has to be for you,” Atsumu pouts, “Them’s the rules.”
“The only thing I remember from my first visit is the buckwheat pancakes,” Kiyoomi replies, pulling away, “When I got back to Tokyo, I couldn’t even remember your names.”
“Omi, that’s not true,” Atsumu wails, “And you came back, like, the next day.”
“It was four days later,” Kiyoomi hisses, “And it was only because of the matcha marshmallow. I was worried it was a special and would no longer be available. You should be honored I came from Tokyo specifically for them.”
“Omi,” Atsumu says shocked, “Omi, you told us it was because you were already in the area. Are ya sayin’ you came from Tokyo to eat dinner at Onigiri Miyas?”
Kiyoomi freezes, turns red, and stalks away.
Atsumu chases after him, “Omi-Omi, you did fall in love, you did. At least with our food, you sly dog, I gotta tell Samu. Does Toya know? I bet he gave you so much shit.”
“I’m heading to the train station,” Kiyoomi announces, slipping on his backpack and putting his sunglasses on before storming out of the restaurant.
---
“Atsumu, we’re here.”
Atsumu blinks awake, lifting his head off Kiyoomi’s shoulder and looking around blearily as their train comes to a slow stop. Kiyoomi sighs, pulling out a wet wipe and dabbing at the corner of Atsumu’s lip. “You were drooling,” he says.
“Ah shit, did I get anythin’ on yer shoulder?” Atsumu asks.
“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi says, “I still can’t believe you slept the entire trip.”
“Couldn’t sleep last night, was too excited,” Atsumu says, standing up and stretching.
“Don’t forget your bag on the train this time.”
“I won’t, Omi,” Atsumu moans, “No one’s gonna let me live that down. I just wanted to see ya faster, Omi, what’s so wrong with that? Samu obviously wanted to see Suna too, so he was a scrub and wouldn’t go back and get my bag for me even though I asked real nice.”
They make their way off the train, and Atsumu immediately spots Osamu in the distance; he makes his way directly toward his twin.
“Samu,” he shouts.
“Tsumu,” Osamu grins, as Atsumu tackles him in a hug, “Did ya forget yer bag?”
“Stop makin’ fun of me about that,” Atsumu glares, “Omi’s learnin’ from you how to be mean to me.”
“I don’t need Osamu’s help to know how to be mean to you,” Kiyoomi says, joining them and giving Osamu a pat on the shoulder.
“Where’s Suna?”
“Couldn’t find any parking, so he’s circlin’. I’ll give him a call. Tokyo around Christmas time is mad,” Osamu says, pulling out his phone and heading to the exit of Tokyo Station.
Atsumu takes Kiyoomi’s hand, gripping tight as they fight their way through the crowded station. They wait at the pick-up for Suna to arrive, Osamu directing him on the phone.
“What was that, Omi?” Atsumu asks when Kiyoomi grumbles something.
“We’re spending Christmas in Inagawa next year,” Kiyoomi mutters, glaring at a child who ran into his leg.
“I’m sure we can bargain that with Samu and Suna,” Atsumu replies, overjoyed at the idea of Kiyoomi already planning for another year together. The rest of our lives, Kiyoomi had once said. With each passing day, Atsumu could feel this future becoming more and more certain. He had already explained to Osamu how he planned to propose to Kiyoomi. He had kept the capsule that had previously housed his Nickit keychain. He would order a gacha machine for Onigiri Miyas and hide a coin in one of Kiyoomi’s meals and then point him toward the gacha machine and there would only be one capsule inside and Kiyoomi would get it and open it and cry and say yes. Osamu had pointed out many flaws to his idea, namely that Kiyoomi would not cooperate with this elaborate set of steps, but Atsumu would workshop the plan.
“Atsumu, Suna is here.” Kiyoomi tugs at his hand, confusion on his face at Atsumu suddenly turning into a statue.
“Ah, sorry Omi,” Atsumu says breezily, heading toward Suna’s familiar car. He jumps in, patting Suna on the head.
“Take us to our lodging, chauffeur,” he says.
“I’m droppin’ you off at the nearest dumpster,” Suna replies, taking off as soon as Kiyoomi closes the car door.
---
“He looks soooo uncomfortable,” Motoya whispers.
“He really does,” Atsumu replies, watching as Kiyoomi adjusts his tie and glares at the forming line. Akaashi had chosen a small bookstore for Kiyoomi’s book signing, expecting a quiet crowd, but he had apparently underestimated the legion of fans that Kiyoomi had built since his days at Tokyo Shimbun.
“Who knew that so many people would want to meet the author of a rice book?” Suna asks.
Atsumu rounds on him, furious. “It’s an amazing book, Sunarin, these people are fuckin’ lucky that Omi—oh you fucker, stop tryin’ to rile me up,” he says when he sees Suna’s teasing grin.
“Well, Samu and I are gonna go stand in line, talk up the book a bit with people outside,” Suna says, “Let us know if Sakusa is about to combust, I’ll pull the car around.”
“Thanks Suna,” Atsumu nods gratefully, turning back to watch as Kiyoomi tries his best to smile at the first customer.
Three customers in, and Atsumu sees Kiyoomi tugging at his ear, the signal they had established for Kiyoomi needing Atsumu. “Already, Omi?” Atsumu giggles, then makes his way toward his partner, sitting down in the seat next to him and smiling widely at the next patron.
“Oh you’re Miya Atsumu,” the girl says excitedly, “Of Onigiri Miyas and Bakery Miyas.”
“In the flesh,” Atsumu nods, “Where are ya from, darling?”
“Nara,” she says eagerly, “I came up with my mum a few days ago and had dinner at Onigiri Miyas Tokyo yesterday. C-can I have your autograph too?”
“Of course, and I’ll sign for my brother too, hope he was good to ya yesterday.”
“He gave us free dessert,” she says.
“Good,” Atsumu says, signing with a flourish and handing her the book after Kiyoomi signs as well.
He spends the rest of the morning with Kiyoomi, stepping in to handle the chattier customers, accepting gifts for Kiyoomi on the writer’s behalf, poking Kiyoomi in the side when his smile turns into more of a grimace when customers ask for a photograph. As Kiyoomi gets more and more tired, Atsumu turns up his charm, letting Kiyoomi just focus on signing books and answering questions quietly.
Akaashi joins them around lunchtime. “We’re almost out of time and there’s still a line around the corner,” he says quietly.
“I’m okay, I can keep going,” Kiyoomi replies.
“You sure, Omi?” Atsumu asks, worried, “Want me to go grab ya coffee or somethin’ to eat?” He stands, but Kiyoomi looks up at him, face terrified.
“Stay,” Kiyoomi says, putting a hand on Atsumu’s leg.
“I’ll get Samu to bring us some treats,” Atsumu says, sitting back down. Kiyoomi nods, taking a deep breath and smiling wanly at the next person in line.
---
Atsumu nibbles on a rock-hard scone (not enough butter and overworked dough), looking around at the small gathering at Kiyoomi’s parents’ home on Christmas Eve. Kiyoomi had given him the “I want to leave” signal multiple times, and Atsumu had rejected them all. “A little longer,” he had mouthed, and Kiyoomi’s pout had become more pronounced each time. His partner is currently stuck in a conversation with an uncle about whether Inagawa has potable water. Atsumu giggles at the furious look on his face.
He feels a touch on his leg and looks down to see Kiyoshi’s children looking up at him wide-eyed. Quickly, Atsumu pulls out some homemade candies from his pocket, handing one to each of them. They smile at this, then hold out a copy of Kiyoomi’s book.
“They want you to read it to them,” Kiyoshi says, “We’ve been reading a bit of it every night, and we’ve just got to the part about Onigiri Miyas. I told them they’d see Uncle Atsumu today, so they’ve been asking for you to read it to them.”
“It would be my honor,” Atsumu smiles, patting his lap. Immediately they launch themselves onto him. He adjusts them then opens the book to the chapter he’s read himself a hundred times.
He begins to read.
In the small town of Inagawa in Hyogo, you’ll find the restaurant, Onigiri Miyas, where the vast majority of Kita Shinsuke’s rice finds its way to the enigmatically-named Rice Room.
There is something special about Onigiri Miyas rice. It comes out perfect and glossy and firm each time; every kernel can be picked up individually and tastes like a summer’s day. It’s the base for most of their meals, a filling complement to the array of comfort food the Miyas effortlessly make. Readers of my articles in EJ Publishing will know of my infatuation with the Miyas’ cooking. But I haven’t given enough credit to their rice yet. Their rice is not, as in many restaurants, meant merely to offset over-salted main dishes. It’s a dish itself. I’ve often found myself starting with the rice, eating an entire bowl of goodness, finding satisfaction in the flavor of good rice alone.
This author spent many weeks wondering what the Miyas’ secret is to cooking good rice. Is it the Inagawa water, rumored to contain the magic of silver in its river veins? Is it the splash of cheap sake the Miyas add to each of their rice cookers in the morning? Is it the soaking time or the cooking time or something special about the clay of the donabe they use to finish their dishes? Is it something about the Rice Room itself, some layout that the gods favor? (I once peeked into the Rice Room and regretted it. It’s chaos, surely not something gods would bless).
Every time I’ve seen the Miyas make rice, it’s different. They don’t measure rice or water, don’t poke or prod with their fingers based on some old wives’ tale involving knuckle sizes. They never set timers for their rice cookers. It’s infuriating, to be perfectly honest.
When asked how they make rice, the Miyas respond with “It’s just a feeling. The rice tells us.”
(If you wonder at this point whether the Miyas are witches, rest assured the same thought has crossed my mind.)
When pushed a bit further, Miya Atsumu will say, “We can hear what the rice needs and when it’s done. It’s the sound of the last gasps of steam, it’s the tiniest crackle of scorch. Omi-Omi [an unfortunate nickname], when you’ve made a million bowls of rice [an exaggeration], you can hear what the rice wants to say. Every kernel is different, just like every mushroom and chicken and bok choy is different. We watch the cookin’, we don’t stare at a recipe. Food will tell ya when it’s ready and delicious because it wants to be eaten at its best.”
Is that it then? The secret to good rice, to good food overall? Adaptability, observation, focus, knowledge, experience, care. Does it have to be so difficult?
“Omi-kun,” Miya Atsumu will say, “Here’s the secret to good food. A well-seasoned wok, ingredients that led a happy life, and love for who yer cookin’ for. [trite and unhelpful but the statement made the author smile nonetheless because this author knew that would be Miya Atsumu’s answer].”
Atsumu blinks back tears and looks up to see Kiyoomi watching him. His partner gives him a half smile, which Atsumu returns. He glances down to see the two children fast asleep.
“Yer writin’ puts little kiddies to bed real easy,” Atsumu says to Kiyoomi, handing them back to their father.
“It’s not meant for children,” Kiyoomi sniffs, “Can we leave now?”
“Yes, Omi-Omi, but we have to say goodbye to yer folks, no sneakin’ out. It’s against the holiday spirit.”
Ignoring Kiyoomi’s grumbling, Atsumu makes his way to Kanako, then to Kiyoomi’s parents, who tell him stiffly that his Christmas present will be delivered to Onigiri Miyas because it is too large to take back on the train. Then, they find a tipsy Motoya and drag him to his car, tossing him in the back as Atsumu slips into the driver’s seat.
“You haven’t had anything to drink tonight, have you?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Not a single drop, which I think is very courageous of me when I had to explain that Inagawa does have a school system to your uncle completely sober. The drinks looked good too, which is more than I can say for that ham.”
Kiyoomi shudders, “Christmas in Inagawa next year definitely. Can Motoya come too?”
“Of course he can,” Atsumu says, looking back fondly at Kiyoomi’s cousin, then focuses back forward again when Kiyoomi squawks at him to keep his eyes on the road.
---
The next evening, Atsumu drags Kiyoomi to Onigiri Miyas, intent on making up for the mediocre Christmas Eve dinner from Kiyoomi’s well-meaning, but taste bud-less, parents. Osamu and Suna, who had moved into a small studio above Onigiri Miyas Tokyo, and Motoya are already there, dressed in the festive sweaters that Atsumu had ordered everybody to wear on Christmas Day. They lounge at the bar, the restaurant closed for the holiday.
“Yer present,” Suna says, tossing a lumpy bag to Atsumu and then one to Kiyoomi.
“Usual trashy t-shirt?” Atsumu asks.
“One says ‘I put out for Santa’ and the other says ‘I’m Santa,’” Suna grins, “I’ll let you two decide who gets which.”
Osamu clips Suna over the head, then hands a gift bag to Kiyoomi and gifts Atsumu with a punch on the shoulder before handing him a carrot.
“What did Atsumu get you?” Osamu asks Kiyoomi.
“He hasn’t given it to me yet, he’s being very mysterious,” Kiyoomi shrugs.
“He probably hasn’t bought it yet,” Suna grins, “Last Minute Atsumu as always.”
“It’s still in the mail, ya asshole,” Atsumu glares, “I got somethin’ custom and it’s been delayed for freakin’ weeks.” He glares at the carrot as he peels it. Kiyoomi had gotten him a new fucking grill for Christmas, and Atsumu’s tiny gift is still wandering around Tokyo post offices. With his luck, it won’t be delivered until after they leave.
“I don’t need a gift, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi sighs.
“Well, I need to give it to you, Omi,” Atsumu pouts, “In the meantime, lemme make it up to ya. What do you want for dinner? Toya already asked for fried chicken, as KFC as possible, which I’m assumin’ you don’t want.”
Kiyoomi thinks for a moment, then says, “Oyakodon.”
Atsumu smiles to himself. Kiyoomi asks for oyakodon sparingly, and Atsumu has only made it for him a few times thus far. It’s a special meal for Kiyoomi, he knows, and Atsumu always puts the utmost care into making it.
“On it, Omi. We’ll make some starters too, all yer favorites.” He sets to work in the Onigiri Miyas Tokyo kitchen. Everything is laid out just the same as it is back home, and he and Osamu easily fall into rhythm as the other three chat.
“How was dinner last night?” Osamu asks.
“Fine,” Atsumu shrugs, “They want us to come back for New Years, and I politely dodged the question. How was yer quiet Christmas Eve with Sunarin?”
“Good, we watched stupid movies and ate pizza,” Osamu laughs.
“Jealous,” Atsumu sighs, “That sounds way better than tryin’ to make conversation with hella weird people.”
“You should be used to it by now,” Osamu replies, throwing a glance over at Kiyoomi who is folding a napkin into smaller and smaller triangles, face full of concentration.
“Some weird people are just cute,” Atsumu says.
“So Kiyoomi got you a new grill?”
Atsumu moans, “It’s so amazin’, all high tech, like it can tell ya what the temperature is inside accurately. I’ve been too scared to look up how much it costs, it must be a fortune. I need to talk to him since he didn’t get the memo that Christmas is supposed to be freakin’ lowkey. What did you get him?”
Osamu shrugs, “Tickets to the Osaka Aquarium. He mentioned he was lookin’ for date ideas to do with you.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Atsumu groans, “Take it back, let me give those to him.”
“No way, scrub, you don’t get to steal my gift ideas,” Osamu grins, “Go get the chicken from the back, it’s been in a buttermilk brine since yesterday. We’ll see if Toya will ever be able to have KFC again after he eats our fried chicken.”
Atsumu gives him a high five, empathizing with the competitive edge in his brother’s voice, “No one can ever go back after they’ve had the Miya twin’s version.”
“Don’t take KFC from me, please. What am I supposed to do when you two aren’t around?” Motoya interrupts, begging.
They laugh, exchanging knowing glances as Osamu gets the oil heating in a pot that he had stolen from Inagawa after complaining at length about the bad results he was getting from a fancy new fryer he had purchased. (“Can’t see the oil properly in it, can’t tell when it’s hot enough.” “It has a temperature reader,” Suna had said. “I don’t think it’s right.”). Atsumu had understood how he felt, himself preferring to just see the right shimmer on the oil to know when it was ready.
As Osamu works on the fried chicken, Atsumu prepares oyakodon and Suna’s requested soba noodles. He pulls out an old pan with curved edges, then moves to listen in on the rice, nodding when it sounds ready.
Kiyoomi is watching him now, and Atsumu begins to cook performatively, chopping green onions with a flourish and giggling when he hears Kiyoomi’s snort.
“You’re going to cut your fingers off,” Kiyoomi says.
“Will you still love me if I don’t have fingers, Omi?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi replies, not batting an eye at the joke. Atsumu’s heart flares, and he glances up, holding Kiyoomi’s gaze for a loving moment before turning back to cooking for his partner, his favored act of love.
---
When they make it back to their hotel, tired and full, Atsumu is called over by the hotel concierge, who hands him a small package. He squeals happily, then shoves it under his coat to avoid Kiyoomi’s questioning gaze.
“Shower, shower,” Atsumu says when they reach their room, then furiously tries to wrap Kiyoomi's present while his partner is in the bathroom.
When Kiyoomi emerges after the fastest shower Atsumu can ever remember him taking, Atsumu sits nervously on the edge of the bed. Kiyoomi holds out a hand imperiously, and Atsumu hands him the gift.
Kiyoomi opens it slowly, as Atsumu holds his breath.
His partner just stares for a few moments at the custom-made picture book that Atsumu had spent long nights designing.
“I mentioned beetles to Motoya once, and, er, he told me about the story your aunt used to tell ya both. And then I remembered when you called me a beetle bug, so I bugged, haha, Motoya about it. And he told me about a conversation he had with ya when Samu and I first visited you in Tokyo. And I thought it would be nice as like a storybook for kids.” He gasps. “Oh fuck, Omi, this is not me tellin’ ya I want kids. Just, thought it would be cute to remind ya how I feel about you like this. Oh no, do you hate it, Omi?”
Kiyoomi’s face is blank as he looks down at the book. Then, he slowly begins to turn the pages.
Once upon a time.
There was a snail and a beetle.
They lived in a shoebox by a small river.
The snail and the beetle would sit together.
Watching the world pass them by.
A duck and her ducklings floating in the current.
A dog fetching a stick for his owner.
A fish swimming upstream.
The river was full of beauty and peace.
But one day, the snail looked up at the sky and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” the beetle asked.
“I’m sad because I wish I were big,” the snail said.
“To me, you are big. Isn’t that enough?” the beetle replied.
Tears track down Kiyoomi’s cheeks, and Atsumu feels as though he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. He looks down at the childish drawings, the sad look he drew on the beetle’s face. Why did he make the book so depressing? He was hurting Kiyoomi with his present.
“I’ll get you somethin’ new,” Atsumu says hoarsely, “I’m not a writer, yer the writer, gimme some more time to come up with somethin’ better.” He tries to extract the book from Kiyoomi’s hands, but Kiyoomi grips it tightly and continues reading.
“I’m sad because I wish I were fast,” the snail said when he saw a bird fly past.
“To me, you are fast. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m sad because I wish I were beautiful,” the snail said when a butterfly landed nearby.
“To me, you are beautiful. Isn’t that enough?”
The beetle hoped the snail would one day run out of things that made him sad.
They continued to sit in their serene slice of home, settling closer each and every day in their small shoebox.
One day, the beetle saw two humans on the other bank, holding hands and laughing together.
“I’m sad because I wish I were easy to love,” the beetle said before he could stop himself.
“To me, you are easy to love. Isn’t that enough?” the snail asked quietly, a tiny smile on his face.
“It will always be,” the beetle replied, warmth like the noon sun on his body, “Always and forever, being loved by you will be everything to me.”
“Omi, it’s stupid,” Atsumu mutters, “It’s childish. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He’s stopped by Kiyoomi breaking into sobs, holding the book against himself as he cries. “Omi,” Atsumu moans, “Omi, I’m—"
“Atsumu, I will cherish this,” Kiyoomi chokes out, “This— you—” He dissolves further into tears. “You make me feel so much,” he finally says brokenly, as he reaches for Atsumu’s hand.
“D-do you like it, Omi? Is it okay?” Atsumu asks, daring to hope. Kiyoomi nods, once, twice, then Atsumu pulls him into his arms, letting him cry. “You got me our love story in a book and all I got you was a stupid grill, it’s Motoya’s rice cooker all over again,” Kiyoomi says, sniffles interrupting each word.
“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says, rocking him back and forth, “Omi, stop it, silly.” Tears gather in his own vision as he gazes down at his partner. Kiyoomi’s face is splotchy and red, his hands white-knuckled as he clutches the book in one hand and squeezes the feeling out of Atsumu’s hand with the other. He looks beautiful and perfect. Atsumu tells him this, sending Kiyoomi into another series of sobs.
“You switched the beetle and the snail for the last one,” Kiyoomi moans, holding the book close as Atsumu adjusts them back onto the bed.
“Well, it’s true for both of us, isn’t it?” Atsumu asks, “I’m yer beetle, yer my snail. Both of us, easy to love to each other.” He brushes Kiyoomi’s hair out of his face, giving him a watery smile. Even in this sterile hotel room, being with Kiyoomi feels like home.
“Can we choose different specimens to represent ourselves?” Kiyoomi sighs when his crying eventually subsides.
“Tarantula and cockroach? I’ll let you pick which one ya want to be.”
Kiyoomi stabs him with a bony finger.
“Somethin’ cute then. Fox and…” He looks down at Kiyoomi wrapped around him like a long slinky. “Fox and weasel.”
“No. Why did you choose weasel? They’re rodents.”
“No they ain’t, Omi, but fine, I’ll workshop it,” Atsumu shrugs, “But the book stays as is. I ain’t drawin’ another page. Took all of my creative juices just to draw a snail.”
“The book stays as is,” Kiyoomi nods.
“Where should we put it when we go home?” Atsumu asks, thinking about their cozy Inagawa house. They had converted the guest bedroom to a living room of sorts and office for Kiyoomi, installing a kotatsu in the room. Kiyoomi spent most of his time there, rather than at his desk, letting Atsumu snuggle with him on cold winter evenings as he wrote. (Kiyoomi’s next endeavor was a book about mushrooms after developing a fascination with the mushroom garden Atsumu had put in the backyard).
“On the bookshelf, because it’s a book,” Kiyoomi says.
“You don’t want to display it somewhere? We could put it in the restaurant.”
“It’s for us,” Kiyoomi says simply, “Just for us.”
“Fine,” Atsumu sighs, “But I expect you to read it every day for the rest of our lives.”
“I will, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi replies, lacing their fingers together and cuddling impossibly closer, squeezing his long limbs around Atsumu.
“I haven’t showered yet, Omi,” Atsumu whispers.
“You smell fine.”
“How romantic.” In response, Kiyoomi grabs onto Atsumu’s shirt and inhales, a small smile on his face when he lets go. “Spring Breeze and oyakodon,” he mutters, “It means Atsumu and home.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, surrounding all his senses with Kiyoomi, just his Omi-Omi, and murmuring words of affection and love until they both fall asleep.
---
A book sits on the kotatsu, old and worn down by time. “Easy to love” is written on the cover, along with a few stains and pen marks. There’s a post-it note above one of the stains that states: “Atsumu did this.” The date on the post-it note is from fifteen years ago.
Life happens around the book—slippered feet rushing when their owner realizes lunch service starts in ten minutes, stories about food written by its side into the middle of the night, an array of baked goods to be sampled placed around it. Whispers and shouts of “Omi-Omi” and “Atsumu” and an occasional disapproving “Miya.” Sometimes the room where the book rests is completely quiet for a few weeks, the occupants of the home visiting restaurant locations in Tokyo, Nagoya, Fukuoka, even a pop-up in Seoul. But always the owners return, filling the room again with joy and love.
“Omi-Omi, wanna try this new sauce?” “Yes please Atsumu.”
“Atsumu, come read this, does it sound weird?” “Comin’, Omi-Omi.”
“Samu and Suna are visiting tomorrow.” “Is their room clean?” “Already on it, Omi.”
“I hate interviews, they’re so draining.” “C’mere, let me kiss ya and rub yer feet, Omi.”
“Omi, you gotta stop yellin’ at people on the internet when they trash talk us.” “No.”
“I’m home.” “Welcome home.”
“I love you.” “I love you.”