everlasting
Apr. 10th, 2021 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
softpunksmiya osamu/sakusa kiyoomi // ~1.5k
> Osamu and Kiyoomi figure out what it means to come home.
People talked because that’s what they always did. Osamu couldn’t blame them when it was supposed to be why he hung that picture on the wall of his restaurant in the first place—to get people to notice it, to get people to talk about it. According to Atsumu, it was good promotional material, and though Osamu was humble and he liked how his business was going, there was never anything wrong with seeing new faces.
The picture was, admittedly, one among the many, but it was the latest one, and what people cared about was the person in it anyway. Kiyoomi’s signature was scrawled at the side of the photo, but it wasn’t his idol signature, the one he’d put on limited edition albums or photo books and give to fans during fanmeets and concerts when he had the chance. This one was much cleaner and looked more like printed text, and it didn’t have his name. All it had was a date, a small onigiri drawing, and the comment, like coming home.
Kiyoomi could only be made out in the picture if people bothered to look. The photo in itself could not attract more customers, and the only reason it did was because Kiyoomi shared it on his mostly inactive Instagram account that was collecting dust more often than not. His fans had a field day about the post, and then they took interest in finding out why he shared it, leading them to wander into Onigiri Miya. They came for Kiyoomi but stayed because of Osamu.
In truth, the picture was old, but the printing was recent. Winter season was cold to Black Jackals because their entertainment company had planned back-to-back comebacks, but Atsumu escaped to Onigiri Miya to enjoy a weekend-long reprieve from the stress and good food (not for free), dragging an exhausted Kiyoomi with him. It was an hour after closing time, but Osamu gave them dinner anyway.
To commemorate the occasion, Atsumu took a picture of Kiyoomi and Osamu talking about historical dramas. It was a very mundane, unassuming photo, two grown men sitting across one another, speaking softly with empty plates of food and a half-full glasses of water and milk (Kiyoomi’s comfort drink; it was odd but Osamu never questioned it) between them. No one would notice how beneath the table, their ankles hooked together like it was natural for them to be touching. Mundane. Unassuming.
Osamu only got around to printing it two weeks later; when he showed it to Kiyoomi, he did nothing but smile softly. He shared it publicly a few hours after they parted ways, but that was a month ago, and Osamu hadn’t seen or heard from him since. It made sense, because the Black Jackals were busy with their latest comeback and Osamu was busy with the influx of customers. He was used to it. He didn’t text or call to ask for an update. He did not check social media or the latest celebrity news to know what was happening.
But the picture—not so much. Every now and then he’d catch himself staring at it during work in the brief moments when business moved slowly. There was always that lingering, irrational, hopeful thought that if he looked at it long enough, something would materialize and make him feel at ease.
Suna noticed it every time, and he always seemed to know. When he caught Osamu glancing at the wall for what might have been the seventh, tenth, twelfth, for the day, he finally said, “Stop worrying. He’ll come back when he can.”
“I’m not,” Osamu replied, instead of saying I know, because it was stupid, but sometimes he wasn’t so sure about how true it was.
“Maybe not tonight though,” Suna added. “They’re recording for a music show right now. Wanna watch it later?”
“No.” Osamu finally looked away from the picture, returning to his task of making receipt copies. The only time he ever watched Jackals’ live shows was when Kiyoomi was with him, asking for comments on points for improvement as if Osamu was qualified to tell him anything, as if Osamu didn’t look at Kiyoomi onstage and think of him as anything but beautiful.
Right now, Kiyoomi was not here, so Osamu saw no need to do it. Right now, Kiyoomi was not here, and Osamu wondered idly if he ever would be.
They closed shop three hours later, exhausted but content because the customers were abundant in numbers and charm. Osamu lived right above the shop, but instead of heading upstairs immediately, he made his way to the grocery store across the street to buy a warm drink, not in the mood to make it himself. The store had a TV and it was broadcasting Black Jackals’ live performance, but Osamu wasn’t looking and only heard the audio of their latest title track through the air as he meandered through the aisles. Without thinking, he bought hot milk.
There was a figure in front of Onigiri Miya that Osamu spotted when he exited the grocery store. As he crossed the street, he realized who it was, sitting there on the bench meant for waiting customers who couldn’t yet enter the shop if it happened to be full.
He stopped right in front of the man. Kiyoomi looked up and blinked sleepily, looking even more exhausted than Osamu, but then his face relaxed at the sight of something—someone—that made him feel at ease. “Hi.”
Osamu didn’t want to do anything out of fear that Kiyoomi would disappear and he’d come to realize that it was all in his head, but his mouth betrayed him. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Kiyoomi only shrugged, and patted the empty space beside him. Osamu sat beside him; at their proximity, Osamu noticed how there was still some makeup on Kiyoomi’s skin, like he rushed to remove it before coming here. “I need to be back in twelve hours.”
“So why are you here?”
“Nothing important.” Kiyoomi slumped, still weary and not bothering to hide it. Osamu felt bad for him, so he handed him the milk he meant to drink for himself. It was still warm and it left a pleased look on Kiyoomi’s face, the same look he had when playing with a puppy or when a song of theirs scored a music show win. He shifted his body so their thighs would touch. Osamu suddenly felt hyper-aware of anything, but there still wasn’t something he was sure of.
“Kiyoomi—” Osamu began, but then the words fell apart when Kiyoomi sighed, set the milk down, and rested his head on Osamu’s shoulder. There was no one watching them, but the gesture, despite its intimacy, still felt mundane. It was not bad.
“It’s nothing important,” Kiyoomi continued. “I just wanted to come home.”
“Oh,” said Osamu. Kiyoomi hummed, and it took Osamu a beat to realize that it was to the tune of his latest song.
Osamu thought of all the music shows he would never watch because he didn’t like being reminded that they lived different lives and were far apart more often than they were close. He thought about how he was used to their sparse moments but never liked it, and he thought about how ultimately, it was okay, and it would be okay.
Kiyoomi was here now, presence steady and real and saying, I’m home, even if it would only be for a while. When it came down to it, there was really only one thing Osamu could do, could say.
“Welcome home,” Osamu told him. In response, Kiyoomi smiled up at him, and it was beautiful.
> Osamu and Kiyoomi figure out what it means to come home.
People talked because that’s what they always did. Osamu couldn’t blame them when it was supposed to be why he hung that picture on the wall of his restaurant in the first place—to get people to notice it, to get people to talk about it. According to Atsumu, it was good promotional material, and though Osamu was humble and he liked how his business was going, there was never anything wrong with seeing new faces.
The picture was, admittedly, one among the many, but it was the latest one, and what people cared about was the person in it anyway. Kiyoomi’s signature was scrawled at the side of the photo, but it wasn’t his idol signature, the one he’d put on limited edition albums or photo books and give to fans during fanmeets and concerts when he had the chance. This one was much cleaner and looked more like printed text, and it didn’t have his name. All it had was a date, a small onigiri drawing, and the comment, like coming home.
Kiyoomi could only be made out in the picture if people bothered to look. The photo in itself could not attract more customers, and the only reason it did was because Kiyoomi shared it on his mostly inactive Instagram account that was collecting dust more often than not. His fans had a field day about the post, and then they took interest in finding out why he shared it, leading them to wander into Onigiri Miya. They came for Kiyoomi but stayed because of Osamu.
In truth, the picture was old, but the printing was recent. Winter season was cold to Black Jackals because their entertainment company had planned back-to-back comebacks, but Atsumu escaped to Onigiri Miya to enjoy a weekend-long reprieve from the stress and good food (not for free), dragging an exhausted Kiyoomi with him. It was an hour after closing time, but Osamu gave them dinner anyway.
To commemorate the occasion, Atsumu took a picture of Kiyoomi and Osamu talking about historical dramas. It was a very mundane, unassuming photo, two grown men sitting across one another, speaking softly with empty plates of food and a half-full glasses of water and milk (Kiyoomi’s comfort drink; it was odd but Osamu never questioned it) between them. No one would notice how beneath the table, their ankles hooked together like it was natural for them to be touching. Mundane. Unassuming.
Osamu only got around to printing it two weeks later; when he showed it to Kiyoomi, he did nothing but smile softly. He shared it publicly a few hours after they parted ways, but that was a month ago, and Osamu hadn’t seen or heard from him since. It made sense, because the Black Jackals were busy with their latest comeback and Osamu was busy with the influx of customers. He was used to it. He didn’t text or call to ask for an update. He did not check social media or the latest celebrity news to know what was happening.
But the picture—not so much. Every now and then he’d catch himself staring at it during work in the brief moments when business moved slowly. There was always that lingering, irrational, hopeful thought that if he looked at it long enough, something would materialize and make him feel at ease.
Suna noticed it every time, and he always seemed to know. When he caught Osamu glancing at the wall for what might have been the seventh, tenth, twelfth, for the day, he finally said, “Stop worrying. He’ll come back when he can.”
“I’m not,” Osamu replied, instead of saying I know, because it was stupid, but sometimes he wasn’t so sure about how true it was.
“Maybe not tonight though,” Suna added. “They’re recording for a music show right now. Wanna watch it later?”
“No.” Osamu finally looked away from the picture, returning to his task of making receipt copies. The only time he ever watched Jackals’ live shows was when Kiyoomi was with him, asking for comments on points for improvement as if Osamu was qualified to tell him anything, as if Osamu didn’t look at Kiyoomi onstage and think of him as anything but beautiful.
Right now, Kiyoomi was not here, so Osamu saw no need to do it. Right now, Kiyoomi was not here, and Osamu wondered idly if he ever would be.
They closed shop three hours later, exhausted but content because the customers were abundant in numbers and charm. Osamu lived right above the shop, but instead of heading upstairs immediately, he made his way to the grocery store across the street to buy a warm drink, not in the mood to make it himself. The store had a TV and it was broadcasting Black Jackals’ live performance, but Osamu wasn’t looking and only heard the audio of their latest title track through the air as he meandered through the aisles. Without thinking, he bought hot milk.
There was a figure in front of Onigiri Miya that Osamu spotted when he exited the grocery store. As he crossed the street, he realized who it was, sitting there on the bench meant for waiting customers who couldn’t yet enter the shop if it happened to be full.
He stopped right in front of the man. Kiyoomi looked up and blinked sleepily, looking even more exhausted than Osamu, but then his face relaxed at the sight of something—someone—that made him feel at ease. “Hi.”
Osamu didn’t want to do anything out of fear that Kiyoomi would disappear and he’d come to realize that it was all in his head, but his mouth betrayed him. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Kiyoomi only shrugged, and patted the empty space beside him. Osamu sat beside him; at their proximity, Osamu noticed how there was still some makeup on Kiyoomi’s skin, like he rushed to remove it before coming here. “I need to be back in twelve hours.”
“So why are you here?”
“Nothing important.” Kiyoomi slumped, still weary and not bothering to hide it. Osamu felt bad for him, so he handed him the milk he meant to drink for himself. It was still warm and it left a pleased look on Kiyoomi’s face, the same look he had when playing with a puppy or when a song of theirs scored a music show win. He shifted his body so their thighs would touch. Osamu suddenly felt hyper-aware of anything, but there still wasn’t something he was sure of.
“Kiyoomi—” Osamu began, but then the words fell apart when Kiyoomi sighed, set the milk down, and rested his head on Osamu’s shoulder. There was no one watching them, but the gesture, despite its intimacy, still felt mundane. It was not bad.
“It’s nothing important,” Kiyoomi continued. “I just wanted to come home.”
“Oh,” said Osamu. Kiyoomi hummed, and it took Osamu a beat to realize that it was to the tune of his latest song.
Osamu thought of all the music shows he would never watch because he didn’t like being reminded that they lived different lives and were far apart more often than they were close. He thought about how he was used to their sparse moments but never liked it, and he thought about how ultimately, it was okay, and it would be okay.
Kiyoomi was here now, presence steady and real and saying, I’m home, even if it would only be for a while. When it came down to it, there was really only one thing Osamu could do, could say.
“Welcome home,” Osamu told him. In response, Kiyoomi smiled up at him, and it was beautiful.