Delectable | O.Miya

° 005

"We're here."

His voice tore you away from your troublesome memories as you took a glance at your surroundings. It was a nice apartment building in a nice area, much better than the place you were living in— yet another thing Miya had, that you didn't. Letting out a heavy sigh of defeat, you open the door and step into the pavement. This was your last chance to turn around— tell him you changed your mind... but there was so much at stake here for you to just give up now.

You had to do this for the sake of your business, and the sake of your livelihood.

"You gonna just stand there 'er what?" He asks, curiously eyeing you up and down as you grip onto your bag anxiously, feet planted firmly in the ground.

"No— I'm coming." You force yourself to snap out of it with a deep breath, trudging up the steps closely behind Osamu as he leads the way to his apartment.

Once you step inside, it's exactly what you expected— decently clean and tidy with minimalistic decor as most young-adult men would have it. The walls were decorated with a few sports posters of Atsumu and other MSBY teammates, as well as couple of awards that his Onigiri shop had accumulated.

You've never won an award.

Rolling your eyes, you allow yourself to move on to the only other decorated section of the home— on the wall in the hallway was a framed group photo of the Inarizaki volleyball team, off the side was you and the other team manager standing proudly next to coach Kurosu.

Your stomach fluttered, the thought of Osamu actually having a photo of you hanging up in his home made you feel— something; something you couldn't quite put a name to. Though the thought was fleeting, realizing you were being idiotic to dwell in the fact.

After all, you were just a small grain of sand in a sea of memories for Osamu from his years playing high school volleyball— his friends and teammates were the real stars of the photo here, whilst you were just... there, hardly existing.

Your eyes flit to another photograph, this one much more recent. It's a photo of Osamu standing next to a woman, his arm around her waist as they both smile for the camera. She's beautiful— long dark tresses cascade around her shoulders, dark brown eyes so lovely and kind... is this?

"Your girlfriend?" You ask the question out loud, although you definitely hadn't intended to do so.

"Hm?" He questions, taking a moment to put away his things before making his way over to where you stand. He takes notice of the picture you're examining, before his cheeks dust pink at your insinuation.

"Oh— no, she's not my girlfriend. She's my best friend, her name is Yukia."

You simply hum in response, but you're able to see it— it's an obvious observation, after all. You don't need to be a mind reader to see the way his eyes light up at just the mere mention of her name. It was a look you could have only wished to see in your wildest dreams all those years ago, it was a look that you've given him many times before.

He never looked at you like that.

You brush it off, trying your very hardest to prevent those old, painfully torturous wounds from re-opening. You can't let this effect you, not now.

Making your way over to the couch, you slump down into the cushions as you await further instruction— Osamu said he had a plan, you were anxious to hear it and hopefully be able to get on board with whatever he had in mind. First, he makes his way into the kitchen; one last attempt to make sure he's being a good host.

"Can I get you anything before we get started?"

You look down at your hands that are absentmindedly gripping tightly against one another— your nerves are shot to hell, a sickening churn in your stomach makes it uncomfortable for you to even sit complacent in his living room for a quick business meeting, and at this point your desperate to take the edge off.

"Got anymore of that wine?"