Archive of Our Own

Snow was always your favorite part of winter, and witnessing it in Tokyo is a rather peculiar sight. Beautiful, but peculiar.

It doesn’t happen often, with only a sparse layer sprinkling the asphalt; powdered sugar that is to be melted away by the next morning’s winter sun. Fleeting—a rare glimpse that reminds you of the snowfalls back in Hyogo, back home.

Such rareness that it catches you off guard, looking around the city with twinkling curiosity. The first snowfall of the season. You hold a hand out, a flutter of ice landing in the center of your palm. It soaks into your skin like sugar finally meeting water, leaving a cooling dampness.

Perhaps you were the only one who didn’t bother checking the weather report today; it was always your bad habit. Within seconds, umbrellas rise, and it makes you feel smaller than you should—makes you huddle in on yourself, seeking a warmth that couldn’t be given even with a million layers on.

Throngs of people skirt around your still frame, wordlessly, as if you are but another speck of ice to avoid.

Snow catches onto the crown of your head, and with it, a sense of deja vu as a shadow crosses over from behind. A tall shadow. A familiar presence—one that makes you long for comfort and the taste of rice.

And like all those years ago—when you were standing outside the gates of Inarizaki High, hours after school had ended—you turn around. It’s the same scene: a held breath, a skip of a heartbeat, a rising hope as you look up and meet gray eyes.

The entirety of him swarms you, his cologne filling your senses. Savory, warm, welcoming. There’s a certain pull that tugs you to him, one that makes you instinctively step closer. Closer than necessary underneath the umbrella he holds that shrouds you both.

He always did protect you without meaning to be a shield, always found you in times you needed it the most.

You want to berate the butterflies erupting in your stomach when he smiles—a lazy, almost-there grin, a side of his lip that curls up. Funny, how the sight can hold you together but pull you apart at the same time, unraveling emotions you try to bury deep in your heart.

But then comes his voice, with a certain calmness to it, a certain directness to it. A low chime that makes you remember why.

Snow was always your favorite part of winter—

“You didn’t bring an umbrella or somethin’? Or do ya just like standin’ in the snow?”

—and it was all because of Miya Osamu.

You remember it vividly, the day you saw snow on a humid summer day.

A year had passed after you graduated from university, a year since you decided to stay in the big bustling city of Tokyo. Perhaps it was to find yourself, or maybe it was your stubbornness, but the taste of new beginnings never felt so stale.

It was hard; Tokyo made it harder. That day, the summer heat clung to your skin, heavy and thick, suffocating you in its embrace.

Insufferably hot, stifling. Your tongue craved for something cold, something refreshing. It made you raise your gaze, the hush of the crowd growing like emerging from a pool of water. You squinted at the beaming sun, the voices of tourists and locals flooding your ears. More tourists, less locals.

Shop after shop passed you, steps faltering when you near a grand opening sign.

That was when you saw it. It was to your left; you remember that clearly. A small little sign with an onigiri graphic plastered on it. A simple one: white, circular, fluffy.

Like snow. Besides the strip of seaweed down the middle.

A split-second memory flashed in your mind then. One from back in Hyogo, of small gloved hands forming snowballs, only to be hurled a second later; bittersweet laughter ringing in the air. It caused the corners of your lips to tick up just slightly, eyes darting to the window of the quaint shop.

Onigiri Miya, you read on the glass, in fresh calligraphy characters. The shop was new. You would know since you passed by this street every day, and if the grand opening sign was any indicator.

Miya…

At the time, you eyed the character a little closer, with a slow tilt of your head. And it was in that precise moment someone shuffled behind the glass, behind the character. Your vision blurred, then focused, then met oddly familiar gray ones, widened to match your own.

Your heart stuttered, more than you’d like to admit, realization mingling with shock hitting you. Still in shock as the familiar man behind the glass curtly raised his hand, beckoning you to come in, almost as if he was expecting you all this time.

You wondered if he noticed how you hesitated. To this day, you’re still not really sure why you did.

As you walked through the clear glass doors of Onigiri Miya, it came like a snowstorm. A flurry of nostalgic memories: crossing the gates of Inarizaki High, volleyballs slamming onto gym floors, shoved bento boxes.

In particular: clinging onto the back of a burgundy track jacket, looking up in fascination at freshly dyed gray hair, the natural shade of his undercut peeking below.

The rush of the shop’s air conditioning felt nice. Refreshing, as the summer heat rolled off of you in waves. A small smile lifted across your face when you pointed to the characters plastered on the glass, now backwards from where you’re standing.

“Onigiri… Miya?” you read without looking, without breaking eye contact.

There was a stretch of silence as your finger trailed from the window to the man in front of you.

“Miya Osamu?”

At the name drop, he—Osamu smiled, one that lingered more with his eyes than his mouth. His initial impassiveness starkly resembled his demeanor back in high school, only more mature now. More grown, with the weight of a couple of years settling nicely on his features.

“That would be me,” he says frankly, in a voice that was slightly deeper than his younger self, still tinged with a straightforward tone that was just so him.

An older him, you reminded yourself. Because now, the burgundy track jacket was replaced with a black shirt, with his own restaurant logo on it. And his hair was no longer dyed gray, the natural color that used to peek under now overtaking his entire head.

Frustrating, how the only thing that didn’t change was how handsome he was.

“Finally branched out here into Tokyo,” he followed up, still holding your gaze with wet stone eyes. “Didn’t expect to see ya this soon though.”

This soon?

“You knew I was in Tokyo?” you blurted out.

Osamu only blinked.

“Why wouldn’t I know that?”

Then you blinked, taken aback.

Seconds passed until he sighed, rounding the tables. Your neck craned as he drew closer, standing in front of you.

He’s taller now, too.

Osamu perched one hand on his hip, the other swiftly coming up to your face. You reel back when he pokes your forehead.

It’s immediate: your grunt of disapproval, the glare thrown his way, the lazy grin appearing on his face. A scene like old times, of two teenagers who bickered on the empty grounds of their high school, hours after everyone had left.

You pouted at him, feigning annoyance to hide your oncoming nostalgia. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around then?”

Osamu frowns. “Look at what Tokyo did to ya. Yer accent’s slippin’.”

“Well, I haven’t been home in a while—”

He cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.” His frown didn’t let up, and his eyes searched yours, unnervingly so. You looked away before it unsettled you further.

Osamu hummed at your silence before stepping back. “Stop by. Don’t just see me around.”

You hoped he wouldn’t notice the slight dip in your eyebrows, how your lip wavered for a second at his words.

It’s been a year since you graduated from university, a year of being swallowed by the big bustling city of Tokyo, looming loneliness and all. You remember it vividly because on that day, an odd warmth in the form of snow thawed your insides.

On that humid summer day, the snowstorm that was Miya Osamu blew back in.

A new beginning that tasted a little less stale, and a lot more like rice and vinegar.

Two weeks later, you found yourself at Onigiri Miya again.

Osamu’s voice sounded from the kitchen, muffled. “Tokyo’s been treating ya alright?”

You hummed, crossing your legs from where you sat on a barstool. It faced the kitchen directly, the lower half of his body seen from underneath the noren. “It’s been alright. Just taking it day by day.”

“Ya don’t seem to like it,” he deadpanned.

Indifferent, you shrugged your shoulders. “It’s got a certain charm to it. Easy to get lost here, though. I’d imagine it’s like that with most major cities.”

“Hm. Really?”

Osamu emerged from the split of the noren, his head pushing aside the fabric. You raised your eyebrows in surprise as he placed a plate in front of you, before straightening his back. A pop of a bone cracked in the air, and he shot you an annoyed look when you chuckled.

Ignoring it, your eyes darted back down, biting back a smile.

Two onigiris. One umeboshi. One tuna.

Mumbling a soft thanks, you scooted forward in your seat. And with shy but excited hands, you grabbed one, lighting up when the familiar taste filled your mouth. A ratio of ingredients that he mastered throughout the years, and you were the first guinea pig.

It wasn’t much different from back then. Slight adjustments, if anything.

With the rice grains carried memories, of Osamu appearing outside of your classroom, right before lunch started. Of him steering you away from the cafeteria, only to shove a bento box in your hands. Of him being pulled away by his twin, flashing you a look of irritation before pointing at his phone.

I’ll text you later, his eyes always seemed to say. And he would, in fact, text later. He always did.

The acidity of the vinegar carried memories as well. Pungent, sour, flashbacks of teenage high schoolers messing with you. Half of the time, you ignored them. The other half, a certain Miya was there. You wouldn’t go as far as to say he intentionally protected you. But he always showed up, a six-foot shield that walked you to and from classes.

You didn’t know when it started. The day after you two met, he walked beside you once. Then twice. Then all the time. His presence made your heart beat a little faster, but it was never that type of relationship—it couldn’t be.

Osamu just showed up one day and never left. Not until you fled to Tokyo.

Embarrassment crept up as the sudden urge to cry welled inside you. A sting in your nose, an odd burning of homesickness, and the gravity of all those lost years came forth.

You pushed it down hard, going for another bite instead.

“Yer taste never changed, y’know. Same old stuff ya used to eat back in the day.”

You mumbled through a full mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Osamu braced his hands against the counter, leaning forward, eye level to you. Your eyes remained on your hands holding the onigiri.

“Taste good?” he asked. Curtly, but with a softened edge.

The sound settled deep behind your ribs, tugging—warming. By now, he for sure had to know you were avoiding his gaze, but he didn’t say anything.

Osamu waited. Calm, collected, patient. Back then, people would’ve described him differently. Perhaps laidback, blunt, or even irritable.

But you knew him like this, and it crushed you in more ways than one that this hasn’t changed either.

After swallowing your bite, you murmured. “Yeah.”

Your throat felt tight, almost dry, and you knew it wasn’t from the rice. Despite that, your hands grabbed the other onigiri, pausing before it was lifted to your mouth—

“Tastes good.”

From then on, Onigiri Miya became a part of your weekly routine, a pit stop after work. You told yourself it was because the onigiris were good—tastier than other shops. Raging reviews of its grand opening and the long lines of customers would say so as well.

The man behind the counter had nothing to do with it. Most definitely not.

Though you had to give it to him. All those times he absentmindedly talked about new recipes, or when he looked at you during practice and mouthed I’m hungry, it meant something. It led to something.

It’s clear to anyone: Osamu’s changed, you’ve changed. But somehow, he still felt like home. A grounding force in this too-big city. A friend; nothing more, nothing less.

He probably felt the same as well, longing for remnants of Hyogo. Perhaps this was an unspoken agreement to him, a connection to hold onto until he settled into his life here.

A poke to your forehead brought you out of your thoughts.

“Still with me? You been spacin’ out for the past twenty minutes.”

You pouted, rubbing the spot he nudged, still feeling the lingering press of his finger. “Why do you keep doing that? It hurts.”

Osamu raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Does it? Sorry.”

Grumbling, you finished the onigiri, wiping your fingers on a napkin he passed you. Your skin brushed against his for a split second, and you tried to ignore the tingling sensation blooming from the contact.

“You never said sorry back then,” you pointed out. Not as a jab, but as a fact.

He was quick to respond. “Yeah, well, that’s when we were kids.”

You didn’t say anything, letting the soft hum of the shop take over.

Customers milled about, chatting over rice balls and the latest gossip. It was white noise to you at this point, as you perched on your undesignated designated barstool, watching Osamu wipe down counters.

“Hey.”

At your voice, his monotonous movements paused. “Hey.”

“Remember back then, when Atsumu dropped the carton of milk on my head, from the second floor?”

Osamu pursed his lips, a wince on his face. He looked down again, continuing his motions, the worn rag swiping rice grains onto the floor. “Yeah, I do. That idiot always fucked around too much.”

You chuckled. “He did. But you were worried for me back then, weren’t you? You kept looking over to me when Kita was lecturing him. Even gave me your jacket.”

He scoffed, a ghost of a smile on his face. “You were drenched. Like a soggy cat.”

“Also bruised,” you mumbled. “It was a full carton.”

Osamu glanced up, gray eyes almost shining. “Why’re ya bringin’ that up now? Trip down memory lane?”

An answer didn’t come out right away. For a moment, even you were surprised at the memory resurfacing, confused that it was voiced out loud. Shocked when honesty left your lips in the next second, spoken and unable to be taken back.

Then again, he always managed to draw it out of you—honesty, straightforwardness.

“It’s nice having a friend here in Tokyo. It’s like I have a piece of home with me.”

You clamped your mouth shut as the last syllable rolled off your tongue, busying yourself by wiping down your area. The napkin was crumpled into your palm, picking up two grains of rice before sweeping at nothing. Still, you continued your unnecessary swiping.

At his silence, your cheeks warmed, eyes unable to meet his scorching gaze.

You’re expecting a jab, a scoff. Or maybe he’d dismiss the comment, say something generic, and move on. You didn’t know what would be worse.

After what felt like hours, Osamu finally spoke, above your bated breath.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says. Curt, low, and astonishingly soft. “Y’know, I was worried for a sec, not seein’ ya all these years. Yer a shit texter.”

Another stretch of silence settles in, barely noticed underneath the rattling of your heart. You couldn’t decipher the atmosphere. Was it awkwardness? Fondness? Tension? It left you confused: biting your lip, fidgeting with your fingers.

Then comes,

“Tokyo ain’t too bad with you around.”

Osamu’s back was turned then, focusing on wiping down another counter. Good thing, for he would’ve seen how your mouth dropped into an O, paired with the absolute shock on your face.

Heat rose in your body, a joyous crawl that wormed its way up to your head. And when it was on the cusp of bursting, you laughed out loud. A genuine, relieving laugh that lightened loads off of your limbs, off your heart.

You saw him look over his shoulder, surprise etched onto his face before he turned away again. But you caught the small grin at the edge of his cheeks, and it made your smile all the wider.

“Look at us, being friends again,” you said through giggles.

It was a joke laced with truth. A joke because the whole situation seemed too serious for what it was. Truth, because you knew about the burned bridges behind you, and in the back of your mind, you were scared.

Osamu’s right. You were a shit texter. All for a new beginning that wasn’t as kind and easy-going as you thought it’d be. A little too naive and wishfully hopeful when you left Hyogo behind.

“Yer an idiot. When did we ever stop bein’ friends?”

You looked at him with a bitter smile.

With the rag forgotten behind him, Osamu walked up to you, leaned over the counter, and proceeded to poke you square in the forehead. His eyes were steady on yours as you glared at him, a complaint on the tip of your tongue—

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ of us in the city, but we were thinkin’ of you. Still do.”

He sighed, clearly exasperated, busying himself with the register.

Sudden guilt pooled in your stomach. You wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

While speechless, he grumbled. Perhaps he didn’t mean for you to catch it, but it rang clear in your ears, made your heart stutter a beat too fast.

Because in a directness that reminded you of old days, in an openly gentleness that you’re learning in the new ones, he murmurs:

“I know I never stopped.”

The gray skies of December hover above as you cross the empty school grounds. You’re exhausted, and the last one to leave your club as usual. Shoving your hands deep into your coat pockets, you pick up your pace as you see Inarizaki High’s gates from a distance.

It’s cold, bitingly so, your breath dissipating into the air as puffs of fog.

With the season always comes this sense of loneliness—gloomy, stagnant. Dreariness weighed on you, each step heavier as the end of the year drew near. Though you anticipate this feeling would extend beyond that, it somehow always does.

Perhaps a change of scenery would be nice. A new city after graduation. A new direction.

You pass the threshold from where steel meets concrete, brick pillars on each side of you. And a quick glance to your left is when you see it.

A flutter of snow, with the plaque that says Inarizaki High School as its background.

Your eyes widen, a gasp leaving your lips. Childlike, your hands break free from the warmth they’ve generated in your pockets, palms out and facing the sky.

One flutter became two. Two became more. And suddenly, it was all around you, flurries of snow rapidly covering the ground. The first snowfall of the season.

How pretty, you think to yourself.

Pretty, but cold.

Swinging your bookbag forward, you rifle through it, looking for the small collapsible umbrella you keep during these months. You dig through notebooks and pencils, frowning when you don’t feel the particular nylon anywhere.

You keep digging, peering into the bag. Snow starts collecting on the top of your head, melting coolly into your scalp.

A shiver passes through your limbs, frown turning into a scowl when the realization hits: no umbrella, and a very cold walk home.

Then suddenly, a shadow crosses from behind, your head whipping up to see an umbrella shrouding you. Your eyebrows wrinkle in confusion, hands slowly slipping out of its ravage in the bookbag.

You turn, eyes trailing the canopy to the metal spikes, then to the pole, until it lands on eyes a gray darker than the skies above you. A face you’ve seen in the hallways, and plastered on posters all throughout the school.

You know him, you think.

Second Year Miya Osamu. Twin of Miya Atsumu. Rising stars of Inarizaki High’s volleyball team.

He looks down at you impassively, staring with calm eyes of riverbed wetstones. Steady, solid, a certain hardness to them. You stare back, blinking once before tilting your head to the side.

“Miya-kun…?”

“Ya didn’t bring an umbrella or somethin’?” he says, a little clipped. “The weather report said it’ll snow today.”

“I don’t check the weather report.”

“I can tell.”

It catches you off guard, the way he speaks. A little too blunt, a little too comfortable to a stranger. You two weren’t friends, and he couldn’t have possibly known who you were; you only knew him because of the volleyball team.

You jolt slightly when he steps closer, unable to help the heat rising to your cheeks when his chest almost brushes against your face. Heart almost leaping out of your own when he calls out your name.

“Where do you live?”

“What?” you hurriedly ask, more confused. “Why?”

He blinks, before declaring, “I’ll walk you home.”

You look at him incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s gettin’ dark,” he simply states. Then repeats, “I’ll walk ya.”

He actually starts walking, only looking back when he notices you haven’t moved, frozen to your spot.

Miya Osamu calls out to you. “Come on—

It was odd. You stared at him. A boy whom you’ve never talked to before, a boy like Miya Osamu, offering to walk you home. It made your heart pound: the way he looked at you unexpectedly warm, the small grin creeping up on his lips.

“—or do ya just like standin’ in the snow?”

In a season of loneliness, of gloominess and brittle smiles, he came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.

Looking back, you’ve never really paid the snow much mind before. But it was probably in that year.

That year, when snow became your favorite part of winter.

Osamu was always handsome. You knew this, everyone knew this, especially back in the day. Underclassmen—girls, boys, everyone—would wait outside of his classroom in between breaks, linger near the gym during practices. It was especially prevalent during games, them adorning t-shirts and paper fans with his face plastered on them.

Oh, how they wished they could see him now.

Older, matured, seasoned. Not a boy, but a man. It was hard not to linger on the way his torso filled out his shirt now, stretching the fabric more than it could handle. Or the way his muscles rippled underneath his arm sleeves, highlighting rather than hiding. And his hair looked nice natural, a little too nice.

His face was the most unfair part: weighty, angled with years, pretty in a rugged way.

The perfect picture of a heartbreaker, really.

“So you got plans next weekend?”

“Yeah. My coworkers invited me out and I said yes. It’ll be fun, I think.”

Osamu hummed from where he was setting up the Christmas tree. It was small, settled in the corner of his shop, with only lights entwined in the branches. An open box lay next to it, garland spilling from over the edges.

Before you knew it, half a year passed and winter eventually rolled around. It became routine for you to stay after business closed for the night. That day was no different.

Just the two of you alone, with soft Christmas music playing in the background.

“What made you finally change your mind? They’ve been askin’ ya for months.”

You tilted your head, mumbling with your chin perched in your hand, elbow resting on the table. “Just thought that maybe it’ll be fun. Trying new things, surrounding myself with new people.”

Remarkably, you’ve been in a cheery mood these days. More willing. More content. Happier.

It felt nice.

Osamu barely glances at you, rummaging through ornaments. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

Out of curiosity, your head swiveled to look out the window. At this time, people still milled about, either for a stroll or just leaving work. Lights hung from sparse trees and on nearly every balcony, illuminating the streets with a particular holiday glow.

Fogs left mouths as they talked, its residuals lingering in the air.

“I hope it snows this year.”

“Ya always liked the snow, didn’t ya?”

You nodded despite not knowing if he saw, still lost in your thoughts.

“Did you know?” you found yourself absentmindedly saying. “That some people believe if you see the first snowfall with someone you like, it’ll lead to a long and lasting relationship.”

Osamu was quiet for a moment, fiddling in his little corner.

Then: “Do you believe in it?”

You paused before shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just like the snow in general, I guess.”

Just as you turned your head, you feel his body from behind, his chest brushing against your shoulder. You froze as he leaned over, grabbing the empty plate in front of you. And even as he quickly stepped back, remnants of his cologne and the smell of fresh rice still lingered in your senses.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. Prickling. Rising. Only stopping when he says,

“I’m goin’ back home soon for the holidays. You coming back too?”

Your response was immediate, giving him a courteous, but sad smile. “No. Not this time.”

Osamu frowns. “Why? Everyone’s dyin’ to see ya.”

A phrase that was familiar on your tongue rolled out. “Maybe next year.”

The clink of a plate hitting the sink echoed in the shop. “So you’ll be here alone?”

“S’not anything new. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Osamu looked at you from the counter, not saying anything. Just stared. Long and hard. What you would give to know what was running through his mind at that moment.

It was a bit unnerving, much too tense for your liking.

You looked away, opting to get up from your seat and head towards the unfinished Christmas tree. Peering in the boxes, you chuckled, bending down to rummage through the items.

Lifting an onigiri ornament, you smiled at him. “Really?”

Osamu sighed before smiling, making his way towards you. His hand came up to hold your own, bringing the plastic rice ball close to his face. You ignored the way his touch set fire to your skin, and the hard pound to your heart.

“Felt right to buy it,” he stated, seemingly amused. Then, with more push, “Put it on.”

“Me?” you asked.

Osamu nodded.

Giddy, you turned towards the tree, searching—combing for a good spot. When you finally settled the loop into one of the pine needles, you looked back at him with a wide smile.

“Good?”

Osamu’s eyes darted to the ornament, then back to you. A beat too long before saying, “Yeah. Pretty.”

Help me decorate the shop, he said to you then, nudging the box toward you. And what was once an atmosphere that bordered on discomfort, turned into the warmth of string lights and soft white garland. Everywhere. Along with more onigiri ornaments (it was a bulk pack), and shy laughter chiming with Christmas bells.

This was good. This was fun, easy.

For you couldn’t fully bring yourself to say more. To cross this delicate line of friends that should only embody good times. Not dreary, gloomy ones. This should be good. This should be enough.

Anything more would just feel like a rock tied to his foot, thrown deep into the murky waters of a desolate lake.

Osamu left around a week before Christmas, not that you were counting the days.

You hung out with your coworkers, and it was fun. More fun than you’d like to admit. But you couldn’t ignore the lingering emptiness in your chest, a sensation that carved out your insides, leaving just the shell behind.

You had thought that maybe this was the start you needed—trying new things, surrounding yourself with new people. That maybe this would turn the pit in your stomach upside down, filling the ache that had festered.

But it was still there. It wasn’t loneliness, per se. Not like how you felt before summer. You couldn’t quite decipher it.

No, not until the days passed by, when suddenly, the hollowness came full force when you walked by Onigiri Miya for the sixth time without going in. And rather than seeing a certain Miya behind the glass, you were greeted with the sight of his other workers.

They noticed your presence, eyes brightening in recognition as they waved at you. You waved back, with a weak smile and a sunken chest.

At this time, you would’ve been inside. Perhaps sitting at the counter, or looking over Osamu’s shoulder while he was washing rice. You knew you were just getting in the way when you were in the kitchen—his domain, but he never chased you out. Never.

Maybe you missed him, if only a little bit.

Just as the thought entered your mind, your phone rang in your pocket, buzzing with fervor. You slipped it out of your pocket, back straightening when you read the name.

Osamu

The relief that flooded you was akin to being dumped with a bucket of water. It drenched you in its entirety, shivering at the realization. At the almost-painful, selfish realization that the emptiness you’ve been feeling wasn’t, in fact, the loneliness you were so familiar with after all.

Because this feeling was so different. Everything was so different. Not unlike that silly little crush you had on him all those years ago.

It soared your heart only to yank it back down. Down to a middleground for birds who wouldn’t dare to fly too high.

You did miss Osamu.

Rather, the more conflicting part:

You like Osamu.

“You didn’t bring an umbrella or somethin’? Or do ya just like standin’ in the snow?”

Only a week has passed since you saw him. One week. Seven days. Just seven days. But the sight of him in front of you, close enough where you can smell his cologne and see the way his jaw tenses the slightest, unravels you.

Your voice comes out as a whisper. A hope if you listen clearly enough.

“I thought you went back home for the holidays. What are you doing here?”

Osamu shrugs, leaning his head forward. You gulp at his face just inches from yours, opening and closing clammy palms.

When did they get so sweaty?

“I wanted to come back.”

“But why? Wouldn’t it be better to be back home?”

Your words come out breathily—in disbelief. You just can’t seem to wrap your head around it.

Osamu is quiet, but not unattentive. Caring. Compassionate. Bright, in his own special way. He captures the hearts of those around him effortlessly and carries them with kindness.

He deserves to be back home, in this season of loneliness. In this season of bright holidays surrounded by warmth, by those who can uplift him in ways that matter.

So why is he here?

You don’t know how your expression translates to him, nor what prompts him to frown at you, almost exasperated.

“Quit lookin’ at me as if I would rather be anywhere than here. I came because there’s somethin’ I wanted to do.”

You retort back, voice harsher than you intended. “And what could that possibly be?”

Osamu raises his finger, ready to poke your forehead. Your eyes dart to it, unflinching, before he pauses just inches from your skin.

You wait for the oncoming nudge as his eyebrows furrow, hand hovering in the space between you two.

Then, he sighs. A long, borderline tired, sigh. One that makes you bite your lip, another accusing question on the tip of your tongue—

—as he plops his forehead against yours.

What was always his finger, is now his head. What was always his arm extending out to you, is now his body, close. Eyes the color of winter skies and wetstones peer at you. Steady, calm, unwavering.

You can feel his breath against your face, the fog tickling your cheeks.

Your heart, beating harshly against your ribcage.

“I wanted to take you out on a date,” he says. Direct as ever, but tender. Soft.

It wrangles your stomach into knots, another rush of heat pulsing up your neck.

Snow falls to the ground, people walk aimlessly, around this small bubble he created under his umbrella. A world of just the two of you.

“How about it?” he asks you. “Right now?

You purse your lips, forehead burning underneath his weight, nerves firing every which way inside your body.

And you nod.

“Osamu!”

Your yelp can probably be heard from across the entire ice rink, but you didn’t have the time to be embarrassed. Rather, you couldn’t afford to focus on anything other than not falling and cracking your head open.

Who knew? That ice skating was going to lead you to an early grave.

Osamu laughs from beside you, hands in his pockets as he glides around smoothly. A stark contrast to your flailing body, churning up piles of ice from where your blades refuse to go anywhere but forward.

“S’not funny,” you grumble, hands staggering miserably to try to keep your balance.

“Nah.” He grins. “It’s cute.”

And that’s what nearly sends you to the icy ground again.

Osamu grips your arm that shoots out, attempting to steady you.

But the blades attached to your skates tilt—rock side to side. Your arms fly up in the air before your body propels itself forward, straight into Osamu’s chest. He catches you with a grunt, arms tightening around your frame as your cheeks flare.

“Sorry,” you mumble, scrambling to get out of his embrace, head tingling. Either from embarrassment or for your cheesy landing, you don’t know.

Osamu’s hands trail down your sleeves, and before you can fully pull away, he holds your hands. Tight.

And wordlessly, he skates backwards, gently tugging you along.

His hands are warm.

“There ya go,” he says after a couple of minutes. “You got it.”

Biting your lip, you nod, unable to meet his gaze, opting to focus on the ice underneath you.

“Hey,” he calls out. “Look at me.”

Shyly, your head lifts, and you hope to the stars that he doesn’t see the blush obliterating your cheeks. If he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“Yer body goes in the direction it's lookin’ at. So keep yer eyes on me.”

You nod, again. You keep your eyes on him, reluctantly.

You think that if you keep looking at him, you’ll like him even more.

Osamu doesn’t really give you a choice.

The two of you do laps around the rink. And at some point, you graduated from two hands to one, with him tugging you along behind his back. It seemed more like a loss than a win.

There were many sounds: thunderous laughter, the scraping of blades against ice, vendors hollering about hot chocolate and taiyaki. But it all slipped into one ear and out the other.

At first, you thought you couldn’t focus on anything other than not falling and cracking your head open on the ice. Now, there was another issue. One so glaringly prominent and in the form of Miya Osamu.

It is both astonishing and devastating: the way you can’t take your eyes off of him. Even when you both came off the rink, and the ground turned from ice back to concrete, you just couldn’t.

You couldn’t bear to.

You didn’t want to.

Osamu finishes the last of his hot chocolate just as you throw your cup in the trash, remnants of sugar still dancing on your tongue. He cranes his neck back as he swallows, and your eyes can’t help but follow the motion, the way his Adam's apple bobs.

You like Osamu, and the thought pinches your heart.

The better half of your high school years were spent with him, and the short time he’s been in Tokyo easily bests the past five years you’ve been living here. Comfort and belonging always came with him, and you never had to ask for it.

He probably took you on this “date” because he knew you would be spending the holidays alone.

He just always gives and gives.

You like him. And it’s absurd. Absolutely ludicrous.

How scary it is. To like someone who’s become a pillar in your life. The line between selfishness and longing has never felt so thin. You couldn’t be greedy, not with him. Other factors led you to leave Hyogo, to leave “home”. And something you’ve always regretted was leaving him.

He was home, and it took you this long to realize it.

And what are you to do about it?

The drop of a cup landing in the trash makes you swivel your head, eyes meeting his in an instant.

“Let’s go?” he asks.

“Okay.”

The streets are lively today, filled with Christmas spirit and reindeer-shaped joy. Maybe it was the holiday season, but Osamu shone. With a presence that outweighs every brightly lit tree, every glitter-covered present. He was the star in his own night sky.

In your sky.

“—who will it be next, I wonder? Oh look! Another couple, folks! Right under the mistletoe!”

You jolt as cheering erupts from all around you. Claps, shouts, whistles. Confusion overtakes you in an instant, with strangers circling you and Osamu.

Your head moves from side to side, a sea of faces blurring with the noise. Then you whip towards Osamu as if he would have an answer; his face tilts to the sky, and your head follows his line of vision, eyes widening.

Right above the two of you hangs a bundle of leaves, clusters of white berries peeking in between. A red ribbon ties off the stems with a bow, the entire bouquet fastened to an arch.

A mistletoe.

Immediately, a bewildered scoff leaves your lips, because who in the world does this? Ambushing strangers with something as tacky and embarrassing as this? It’s laughable, you think. A scene that no doubt, Osamu would also find just as silly and ridiculous.

He would. He should.

Then why is he looking at you without saying anything?

Your eyebrows dipped, trying to decipher the puzzle pieces of his expression.

Not expectant, nor in disgust. Just…waiting, patient-like. Looking down at you with both hands in his pockets, unmoving. As if he had asked you a question and was waiting for an answer. As if the random people around you were white noise in his focus.

While you felt nothing short of uncertainty. Alarmed. Panic slowly filling the recesses of your mind.

Why is he just standing there?

Would he kiss you?

You don’t allow yourself to question it, breaking away from Osamu’s gaze in nervousness. Chants of “kiss, kiss, kiss!” ring in your ears, and it makes you want to bury yourself six feet under.

That is, until you hear Osamu’s voice break through the crowd.

“Please stop. We’re just friends, and this is makin’ us uncomfortable.”

We’re just friends.

Hollers turn into whispering, and perhaps smiles turn into looks of pity. But you’re less inclined to note the change of expressions, and more concentrated on holding yourself together. Your limbs felt itchy, aching—begging to run right this second.

How embarrassing.

Someone apologizes, you assume the host of whatever stupid game this is. Though all is lost on you as you feel Osamu’s hand slip into yours, and you’re promptly tugged from where you’re frozen on the sidewalk.

Your heart rate climbs with each step you take, the feeling of wanting to jump out of your skin festering wildly. You truly don’t know what’s worse: the mistletoe, his reaction, we’re just friends—

or the fact that disappointment stabs you blaringly in the gut.

It’s dumb. This whole date was nothing short of that damn middleground you’re stuck flying in. Everything is just stupid, stupid, stupid—

“Are you okay?”

Without noticing, Osamu stops, and the sound of his voice makes you jerk your hand out of his. The cold that bites your skin is immediate, and you don’t notice his hand still hovering in the air, frozen-still from where you yanked back.

You look around. You’re in a park, alone, snow dusting over the playground where kids usually run around.

It reminds you of how childish you’re being.

“Y-yeah. I’m okay. That was just… sudden. Y’know?”

Osamu sighs, but you don’t look at what expression he’s donning right now. You can’t bring yourself to. Perhaps he’s confused. Or irritated. Maybe a little bit of both.

“Sorry,” he says. “Ya didn’t seem comfortable. Just thought it’d be best to leave.”

“Thanks for that. You’re right. It was kinda weird.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It only half works.

Still not looking at him, you point in the direction of the street. “Wanna head out? Snow’s comin’ down a little hard.”

At the cue, a flutter of snow drifts past your face. You swipe it away.

Osamu doesn’t move an inch from his spot, his voice echoing from behind. “Ya don’t seem alright.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Do you wanna talk about it—”

You cut him off. “There’s nothin’ to talk about. I just think it’s time to go home.”

Osamu pulls on your arm. You don’t budge. “Somethin’s wrong.”

“Nothin’s wrong–”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

A rush of emotions flares in your body, shivers running up your spine when your head whips towards him, tears rimming your waterline.

Osamu’s eyes widen in surprise, mouth clamping shut. You don’t even want to know the look on your face right now. All you know is that you feel frustrated. At yourself. At him. At everything.

An odd, heartbreaking devastation, taking on the form of unjustified anger.

“I’m lookin’ at ya right now. So, what? Ready to go home?”

His lips purse at your outburst. He seems perplexed, confused. Maybe a hint of frustration from the way his eyebrows dip inwards.

Great.

“What’s gotten into ya?” he asks, clearly exasperated. “I thought today was goin’ well. What happened?”

You huff out a breath. “I don’t know. Friends don’t usually take each other on dates. Maybe we should stick to that.”

His grip tightens on your arm. Not painful, but firm. Unyielding. For a moment, both of you stare at each other, fire in your eyes. His jaw is tense, as if he were biting back words, and you want to hear them as much as you want to shut them out.

Osamu sighs. “Is this about me sayin’ that we’re just friends?”

“Well, you weren’t wrong.”

“You’re angry,” he states.

“I’m not angry.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

He clicks his tongue. “I said we were friends because you seemed ready to bolt. Didn’t want to scare ya off. Would you have wanted me to confess that I liked you then and there?”

You immediately scoff. “Like lyin’ would be any better.”

“I wouldn’t be lyin’.”

“I don’t need your pity. I know you came back just ‘cause I was here, alone.”

Osamu opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He frowns, breathes out a haggard breath that blows in your face. Then faces the sky, and back down to you with hardened eyes.

You meet him with the same edge.

“Are ya really this dense?” is what comes out. Pointed. Almost agitated.

It stops you in your tracks, hands clenching rigidly, eyebrows wrinkling in disbelief. “What—?”

“I don’t pity you. I never did. I like you, and I always have.”

Osamu releases your arms, not before pulling to face you directly. Your body soundlessly complies, following his direction. His eyes are still hardened. But you notice now it’s not with anger or exasperation, but with honesty. A desperation so unlike him that it causes a longing ache to numb your being.

Shock wrecks your system as you try to process his words. It feels unreal. Almost fragile. And you can’t seem to wrap your head around the possibility that Miya Osamu would like you.

He’s always been confident—sure of himself. Someone who’s ambitious and commits to it. Someone who isn’t afraid to chase after what he wants.

You’re scared—utterly terrified. Because in the far back of your mind, you know he deserves more. He deserves better.

He should be without someone who’s as strong as him, who knows their path and can support him in the right ways.

He deserves someone like him. Someone who shines.

Someone, not like you.

“No.”

Osamu flinches, taken aback. “No…?”

“You can’t like me,” you choke out. “I’m not… I’m not you. I’m not kind. Or giving. I’m just—”

He cuts you off. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Words unspoken die on the tip of your tongue, and your eyes waver. He tries to search them, tries to decipher them. But you know he can’t read minds, nor do you expect him to.

You let out a ragged breath, voice shaky.

And your heart cracks the tiniest bit, spilling in between the edges.

“I left Hyogo. I ran away. I thought I would know what to do here, in Tokyo. But I’m still lost. And you deserve someone who’s sure of themselves. Someone who can give you the kindness you deserve.”

Osamu’s quiet, taking in your words. And the silence unnerves you, it always does.

You never want him to feel obligated—

“You’re you, and that’ll always be enough for me. I like you for you, not for what you think you should be.”

Your breath hitches. Your lips quiver.

Osamu is always direct with his words. Always straightforward. Always honest. If there’s one thing you can count on him for, it is always honesty.

It wrecks you, in more ways than one. With him, it’s easy. Too easy. And it terrifies you.

You like him. You like Osamu. You want to trust his words, but the devil on your shoulder just keeps insisting—

“You never have to earn anyone’s love. Especially not mine.”

At the drop, a soft sob unwillingly escapes you, your head falling forward onto his chest. He catches you, because he always does. Brings you flush to his frame, and rubs a soothing palm down your back. Hands that always warm.

You clutch his sweater with both palms, pressing your face into him. Finally seeking—taking his care that you’ve tried to deny yourself for so long.

It felt too relieving. Too forgiving.

You can’t find the words to speak, for you’re scared you won’t ever stop.

Instead, you cling to him, hard. Hugging—molding yourself to him as close as you possibly can. And you hope with all your heart that he feels it:

I like you, too. I want to be with you. Am I allowed to love you?

You think he does, for his embrace only tightens further. Locked into your frame like two puzzle pieces shaved to fit together.

You feel his voice before he speaks. A gentle rumble through his chest that lulls you.

“Y’know. Yer kinder than you think. And I’m more selfish than you take me for. After all, I came back for one reason and one reason only.”

Your voice comes out small. Almost fearful. A little too hopeful. “And what’s that?”

Osamu pulls back. Not entirely, but just enough so that he can look you straight in the eyes: steady, calm, unwavering. Paired with a voice just the same, he says:

“I came here to make you mine.”

And that’s when you feel your emotions burst from their delicate bubble. A soundless whisper from a desolate lake, having waited to be popped.

Miya Osamu came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.

After your tears met the winter-chilled air, and you crumpled into his embrace, he asked you:

Will you be mine?

And you nodded.

You melted into him like snow in the sun. Like sugar finally meeting water. Helplessly. Desperately.

Flurries of ice fluttered around you both then, a picture-esque sight that looked as enchanting as it felt. His voice cut through the powder to you, a sound you would never get tired of.

Did ya check the weather report today?

You muttered back lowly. No. I didn’t. You know I don’t.

He chuckled, and the vibrations clung to your heart, settling in your bones.

Yeah. Obviously.

You questioned him why—curious, and he looked at you with a twinkle in his eye.

Wanted to see ya like this. And it felt right to come today.

What do you mean? What’s today?

Osamu paused then. Gazing at you with eyes that enrapture, with a presence that forever comforts. With slow movements and without letting you go, he brought your hand up, kissing your knuckles softly.

And he says fondly:

It’s the first snowfall of the season.

On the other side of the snow…

Osamu recognized her. He didn’t typically memorize names, mostly faces, but he knew hers. Someone he saw fleetingly in the hallways, and occasionally at games. Though, it didn’t seem like she had a lot of fun at those.

He remembered her name because he heard a classmate call it out once. Twice. Then three times. All three times, she didn’t look up. All three times, someone else—him, caught the attention as if he owned the name and not her. As if the name was meant to be heard by his ears instead, and no one else.

The fourth calling was when she finally looked up. He noticed it instantly: glazed eyes that melted once it focused on someone else. Something else, other than the empty spot in front of her. He looked and looked, but could not, for the life of him, figure out what made that spot so damn interesting.

Osamu simply liked the sound of it at first—her name.

Then he kept hearing it. Kept seeing her. They say once you notice something once, you suddenly see it everywhere. He supposes that’s what happened.

Far away but never out of reach; never had a reason to reach. That is, until it snowed that one day, late into the evening after practice. Atsumu had left him earlier: claimed something dumb about meeting someone, threw him the umbrella, then ran off with red cheeks and the giddiest smile on his face.

She was alone, outside Inarizaki High’s gates, holding her hands out innocently as snow fell around her. He wondered if she noticed her hair getting damp from the ice. Or how her eyes, despite seeing snow, melted at the sight of it, a certain twinkle he never saw until that day.

Osamu blinked from where he stood, from far down the sidewalk. It was only by chance that he glanced back, but he’s glad he did.

Far away but never out of reach.

And finally, he found his reason.

That same reason leads him to today, watching the same girl—you, reach out for the snow like all those years ago. Umbrella-less, not even a hood to cover your head; typical.

Though this time, his heart races as he approaches you. Hands shivering, but not from the cold. Eyes blinking fast, but not from the wind. A deep yearning that’s been there for who knows how long, lurches at him then. And it really is a wonder how you haven’t noticed that simply seeing you—thinking of you—aches his entire being. Makes him clutch his chest for his dear fucking life.

Some people believe if you see the first snowfall with someone you like, it’ll lead to a long and lasting relationship.

He didn’t need the snow, really. It was a romantic notion, but not necessary.

For this time, he’ll make it count. This time, he won’t let you hold your pains bare to the world, alone, with hardly any protection and only wishful thinking. He’ll hold your hands, your palms that reach out to the sky, and let you know what he couldn’t say all those years ago.

I like you. I want to be with you. Please, let me love you.

I wish to be your first snowfall, every day, for as long as you’ll allow me to.