stillunsurfacing
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Summary
Each careful, quiet word a green root through the soft earth of Osamu’s heart. Each smile a tight springtime bud exploding into bloom. No one’s ever given Osamu flowers before.
Miya Osamu, in pursuit: of the perfect cut of A5 Kobe-gyu. Of Akaashi Keiji. Of happiness.
Bookmarked by stillunsurfacing
14 Oct 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
yamabato you've done it again. omg i HATE OSAAKA I HATE THEM AND I HATE THIS AUUUMMGGGHHHH
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The unspoken I’m sure of you that perpetually lingers in the air between them, there whenever either of them needs to reach for it.
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Osamu takes a moment to look at him against the backdrop of the dining room’s sun-bright blond wood, paint-splattered jeans sagging off of his hips (they’re Osamu’s), sweater pushed up over his elbows (it’s Osamu’s, too).
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Sakuradai, shimmering scales pink as new love. Fukinoto, clean, green springtime. A burst of color on the clean white center of a plate. I just came up with this. It’s 2 AM. I’m thinking about Akaashi Keiji. Everything’s singing, singing.
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Osamu feels the weight of his love like a physical thing. His heart’s a gripping fist in his chest.
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It’s hard work, cruel and grueling and so easy to fail, and thinking about it makes his heart race and his palms tingle like it’s something that he wants to chase. So he’s gonna.
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“Kita-san,” Osamu says, once they’ve shucked their muddy boots in the genkan and settled at the low table in the center of the living room. His voice feels too loud as it cuts through the warm, serene air.
“Can I show you the ring?”
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Atsumu’s known since that day at the festival; had laughed, then, rolling around in the grass and clutching his stomach at the way Osamu’d mumbled this is it for me, he’s it for me into the sleeve of his yukata, red-faced and mortified. It’s probably the only secret Atsumu’s ever kept.
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Through him, Keiji realizes once they’re close, the dark looming shapes of the cliffs pressing closer as the road narrows between them. Miya hadn’t been staring at him at the train station; he was staring through him. Like he’d been trying to imagine the landscape back into place without Keiji interrupting it. Like Keiji wasn’t there at all.
On coming and going, and going.
Bookmarked by stillunsurfacing
22 Sep 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
it is currently gloomy at this hour, at this moment, where i am. but i can feel it---rays of gold peeking through the seams of chest. only this fic has ever made me feel this way. jesus.
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“You misunderstand me, Miya-san. We’re not here to discuss the legality of your… melons."
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Osamu's home garden gets the attention of the municipality's building and lot code compliance office.
Bookmarked by stillunsurfacing
16 Jul 2024
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For Atsumu, sadness always starts in the wrist.
Or, the pitfalls of mistaking your teammate for terra incognita.
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Bookmarked by stillunsurfacing
17 Jan 2026
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Atsumu de-seeds everything from watermelons to tomatoes for Kiyoomi — carefully, painstakingly, with the very tip of a teaspoon, or, whenever that won’t quite do the trick, with a toothpick — and the fact that Kiyoomi doesn’t actually need him to is his best-kept secret to date.
Or, Sakusa Kiyoomi vs. a public trash can, one memory at a time.