MIXED BLOG

i have returned

That's it people

This has indeed been a good year to me and this puts a cherry on top 😭

WELCOME BACK CHIBSSSS ❤️❤️✨✨

HDSAJDHSAJ 😭😭 HOW LONG WERE U WAITING OR EVEN EXPECTING

GLAD YOUR YEAR'S BEEN GOOD!

miya twins week day 2: "why does it feel like we’re drifting apart?”

granny used to say that twin telepathy was a gift from the gods as a way to reaffirm their bond. it can be used for anything between the mundane to the serious, from asking each other answers on their tests, soothing nightmares, echoing sentiments. it can work across long distances, although they never tried it, or close proximities. the only time it fails is when the bond starts to weaken.

or so osamu thinks.

it starts in their second year of high school, from their argument about their diverging paths. “if yer so damn sure that ya’ll be the happier one,” he snarls, gripping his brother’s collar, “come back when we’re geezers! wait ‘till then ta laugh in my face an’ say ya were happier!”

atsumu stares at him, anger in his eyes. “if that’s what ya wanna do, yer on.” he shoots to his feet, gripping his shoulders tight. “i’m gonna turn an’ look right in yer face, an’ say i had the happier life!”

they never recovered after that. after graduation, osamu went to university in tokyo; atsumu was scouted by the jackals in osaka. he sent a ticket to his debut match, but osamu had an exam and couldn’t attend. osamu sent an invite to his graduation, but atsumu was overseas. atsumu sent a ticket to a game between the jackals and ejp, but osamu was busy preparing for his restaurant’s grand opening. when the doors opened for the first time, he saved a spot for atsumu, but he never made it.

he doesn’t notice when the telepathy stopped. he doesn’t notice when the messages between him and his brother gradually stop. so, when he hears his name echo in the back of his mind during the busiest hour of the day, he doesn’t question it and simply responds back.

‘samu.

it’s faint. osamu, in the middle of preparing rice, slows. ‘tsumu. he’s the only one in the kitchen, the rest of his staff busy with front of house. his eyes dart around the industrial equipment, the window cracked open, the fans whirring.

oh. a weak chuckle. it still works, huh?

whaddaya mean? osamu frowns.

he doesn’t get an immediate response. when he does, it’s fainter. onigiri miya, huh? it’s a nice name.

osamu was never the best at listening for emotions, but it’s different with telepathy. it’s just them, stripped of their external bodies, left with their inner mind’s voice. atsumu’s is mournful. regretful. apologetic.

‘tsumu, what’s wrong?

it’s that chuckle again, the self-conscious one that starts at the back of his throat, accompanied by a sheepish smile. osamu can imagine it, hear it echo from their childhood, adolescence, to now. sorry that i never came fer the grand openin’. it woulda been cool. i saw the pictures. business is boomin’, huh?

cut the shit, ‘tsumu. osamu has stopped, hands braced on the counter. why’re ya talkin’ ta me? we haven’t talked in years. they don’t follow each other on social media. they haven’t texted since high school. they haven’t called even longer. why, when you have telepathy?

telepathy. used for anything from the mundane to the serious. osamu’s blood runs cold. ‘tsumu, tell me where ya are, right now.

there’s no way ya can make it ta osaka.

watch. osamu is storming out of the kitchen and into his office, ripping his apron off, throwing his hat on top of his laptop. where are ya?

pause. i didn’t believe granny when she said twins could talk ta each other with their minds, thought it was some folktale. but when i heard ya cryin’ fer me after those bullies hit ya, i believed it. we promised each other that we’d be there, right? i completely forgot, an’ i gave ya so much shit fer wantin’ ta follow yer dreams. i’m sorry.

don’t do this ta me, ‘tsumu. osamu is checking shinkansen departures. i’m bookin’ a ticket, i’ll be there soon, don’t ya dare go dark–

i wish i coulda visited once.

he freezes. a chill runs down his spine, feels something in his mind suddenly sink into the darkness. ‘tsumu? ‘tsumu, answer me. ‘tsumu! his phone falls from his hand, vision blurring. ‘tsumu, don’t do this ta me. don’t leave me. ‘tsumu?

don’t leave before i can say sorry.

--

he learns, later that night, that atsumu was in a hit-and-run. a cyclist witnessed it and called for an ambulance. he was barely conscious by the time it arrived, drifted off before reaching the hospital. the surgery went through the night. the doctors aren't sure when he'd wake.

osamu takes the first shinkansen to osaka. when he reaches the hospital, he crashes into his ma’s waiting arms, sobbing into her shoulder. “i’m sorry,” he sobs. “he- ‘tsumu, we talked, but he didn’t- he-“

she shushes him. “baby, it’s okay. yer here, an’ that’s all that matters. shall we see him?”

atsumu’s head is wrapped in bandages, with plenty more around his limbs, hidden beneath his blanket. an iv is inserted in his vein, oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. his expression is gaunt, but his heartbeat is steady. osamu reaches for his hand, the uninjured one, and grasps it between his. “how did we drift so far apart?” he whispers.

ma sits beside him. “he never stopped talkin’ ‘bout ya, whenever he visited. he was even talkin’ ‘bout makin’ a trip ta tokyo ta surprise ya, but…” her breath catches in her throat. “i’m sure he’d love ta have yer food.”

“he can have all the onigiri he wants,” osamu croaks. “every last bit o’ it.”

they stay, take turns stretching their legs, taking calls from friends and family, eating out of the vending machine in the main lobby. the black jackals visit, along with old friends from inarizaki. when night falls, his ma leaves to sleep at the hotel, but osamu stays. he doesn’t let go of atsumu’s hand, not even as he drifts off.

‘samu?

he startles awake, but he doesn't have the strength to open his eyes. ‘tsumu. listen, i’m so sorry–

i’m sorry that i made ya come all the way here. i woulda liked ta show ya the sights, sneak ya into the gym, make ya hit my tosses.

ya idiot. ya can still do all that. yer gonna be fine. i know ya will. osamu squeezes his hand. an’ yer gonna come ta tokyo, an’ we’ll do all the tourist shit ya like. yer gonna eat at my restaurant an’ sleep on my couch, an’ complain ‘bout yer back the next mornin’, an’ we’re gonna do it all again–

a faint laugh. not that self-conscious chuckle, but the quiet, exasperated yet amused laugh that comes when he doesn’t want to acknowledge his brother, yet still does. i’m still sorry ‘bout what i said back in high school.

we’re adults, now. it doesn’t matter. we’ll start again. right?

right.

osamu dares to open his eyes, and stares straight at his brother, who returns his gaze. his lips move beneath his oxygen mask, though no words come out. he hears him, loud and clear.

love ya, idiot.

love ya too, scrub.

--

inspiration: this comic of twin telepathy!