Chapter Text
His twenty-third winter.
“Let’s stop this.”
Red.
-Winter is Red-
The most easily recognizable color in the spectrum is red.
It’s a piece of information from his elementary science class, the only fact that remained with him after all these long years. His teacher provided a lengthy explanation about differing wavelengths and correspondent scattering levels, but he couldn’t recall much. He wasn’t an academically gifted student nor studious, and the specific mechanism of electric circuits and names of chemical bonds were the least of his concerns.
That particular statement stuck, however, for one simple reason.
Because he could see red.
Now, here’s a question: what is red?
Apples are red. Tomatoes and strawberries are red. Traffic lights are red. An ambulance beacon light is red. Blood is red. Cheddar- and barbeque-flavored potato chips packages are red. The list can go on forever, and you, who is currently reading this, most definitely can come up with more. That’s enough, though, as your answer doesn’t matter.
As for him, he can also list all those items like an ordinary, average human being. He’s not colorblind and is able to identify what is red and what isn’t. The question’s purpose isn’t to measure but to distinguish, after all.
Miya Osamu is different.
There is no positive or negative aspect to it. He is just different.
Apples, strawberries, blood. Red, sure.
Just that his first answer would’ve been,
“The string of fate.”
(Don’t laugh.)
Red, red, red. The world in Miya Osamu’s eyes is nothing but red. The color flutters in the air and is tangled by his feet in the form of thin threads that extend from the end of one road to another, to horizons he can’t reach. There are threads draped over tree branches, the fences of his neighbor’s house, the barbed wire surrounding their school’s soccer field, and the arms extending from tall communication poles. The red strings float across the widths of rivers, sit between the blades of verdant grass, and glow brilliantly on sunny days. Most importantly, they are hooked around the pinky of every person – almost every person, with a 99.99% percent chance.
There are exceptions. Everything has an exception.
Osamu scratches his pinky.
“What’s on your mind?”
He lifts his head. “Nothin’,” the web of strings decorating the classroom’s gray ceiling captures his attention. Mindlessly, he extends his hand and wraps his fingers around the neck of the older boy – and pulls. “What’s for lunch?” An answer doesn’t arrive as their lips join. The stranger’s name is Yosano, a second-year with tan skin and a buttery, saccharine voice. The strong, almost pungent tang of his minty cologne cleverly used to hide the lingering traces of smoke slithers into the gaps of his mouth, coating his teeth and tastebuds. He caresses Osamu’s spine, the bumpy joint of his middle finger traveling south along the smooth arch until he lands on the stiff edge of his leather belt.
“Not now,” Osamu whispers rather glumly, a fat slab of exasperation settling over his chest. “I toldja, ‘m just here to fool around before practice.”
“Gotcha, gotcha.” Yosano retracts and kisses his chin. “You just seemed to be in a foul mood. Thought I’d help.”
By pulling my pants off when all the windows are open? Sure, it’s easy to say. “I’m fine.” Instead, he cranes his head, angling it for swifter access to Yosano’s face. Yosano happily returns the act, lightly pushing Osamu backward on the teacher’s desk. The wet noises, the agape door, the wordless makeout session, and the empty classroom – red, red, red. Red for danger. He doesn’t miss the metallic ‘clunk’ of someone slamming their locker in the corridor, and instinctively retracts his arms from Yosano. The ‘tap-tap’ of the stranger’s footsteps gradually become inaudible.
“You’re really good at this, you know? I almost,” a satisfied grunt, “I almost wish you’d teach my girlfriend some tricks.”
Osamu snorts as he gently tugs at the dangling necktie, his breath tickling Yosano’s cheekbone. “And then what, tell her about how her boyfriend canceled a weekend date ‘cause he was too busy makin’ out with a first-year guy?”
“That’s a bit much to drop all at once, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Yosano shrugs and nibbles on the tip of Osamu’s ear. He closes his eyes and entwines his fingers with Yosano’s. “Ruri’s cute, you know,” he does, indeed. Satou Ruri, Yosano’s girlfriend, is a cute girl. Sort of popular and everything. He’s heard Aran and the others talk about her. “But you’re better at this.”
Better at this.
Osamu doesn’t have much to say. Better at this – it’s a vague description of his history. He’s not flattered nor affronted by the praise. It’s just what it is. “I don’t get why yer datin’ her, then. There are plenty of cute girls who are better at this.” And Ruri-san probably deserves better than you, he mentally adds. Besides, the thread knotted around Yosano’s pinky stretches outside the classroom, in the direction of the basketball court. Ruri is a member of the school’s mystery society, and probably knows nothing about basketball. I wonder when they’ll be sick of each other.
“Sure, but there aren’t many girls who want to keep things casual. Like you.” A crease appears between the elder’s brows, “They want relationships, confidence, solidarity – it’s tiring. And like I said, Ruri is cute. She’s a cute girlfriend.”
“And Ruri-san doesn’t want any of those?”
“Well,” Yosano looks elsewhere. “Hey, it’s four-thirty.”
“Shit.” Knocking off the desk, Osamu grabs his bag and leaps for the exit.
“Osamu,” Yosano hurriedly grasps his wrist, “don’t tell her, okay?”
Funny. He wonders what he’s so afraid of. Damning his reputation for the rest of his high school career? That would be an issue; Yosano is, despite his lack of sincerity, one of the smartest, most respected students of his grade, only a couple ranks behind their valedictorian. It’s a scoop his friend from the newspaper club would die to obtain – “Yosano Chiaki, picture-perfect star student, caught two-timing!” Although their advisor won’t approve, Osamu assumes. “I can tell her about yer smokin’ habit, then?”
“If you want me to spill to your coach about how you’re playing around with at least six more guys other than me – go ahead.”
He rolls his eyes at the threat. “It’s four, including ya. Get yer numbers right.” He doesn’t lounge around to wait for Yosano’s shrewd rejoinder; his feet move faster than light, sprinting down three flights of stairs in less than ten seconds. He ignores the mess of red strewn across the corridor, covering the entire campus ground.
If you want me to spill to your coach…
Hah.
A carmine blur is the last sight he witnesses before he barges into the volleyball court.
See if I care, bitch.
(This is not a story about fate.)
The red string of fate.
It has a very pretty, even amorous ring, pleasant to hear. Red, which typically symbolizes passion, fire, love, and fate, already sounds magical on its own. Together, they’re invincible. Destined love, soulmates, undying romance, and a connection of a lifetime – romantic, what else? People are infatuated with a concept they believe is fictional, and that merely goes to demonstrate how powerful its notion is. It’s not odd to be attracted to such ideas. There is a sense of undeniable comfort that accompanies soulmates, and Osamu fully understands. It’s reassuring to know that there is someone, a living person out in the world, that is bound to love you according to the universe’s mechanisms. In the end, you may refuse to accept it, as the decision is ultimately yours. However, that doesn’t alter the truth that there is someone. There will always be someone.
But why does any of this matter?
It’s not real, is it?
Too bad, it is.
Really.
Miya Osamu was able to see the strings since he was born. Never once – never once in his life, has he been liberated from red.
He remembers asking his mother about the thread tied around her pinky. His mother flicked his forehead and admonished that it wasn’t polite to mock an adult. He frowned but didn’t argue, blinking at the red string that linked his parents.
It was a few years later that he realized what the strings signified, and a millisecond that he noticed the inference of that epiphany, along with the fact that he didn’t have a string.
Miya Osamu was not born with the red string of fate tied around his finger; he was a part of the hypothetical 0.0000001%.
“Miya,” someone calls him, “the class rep was wondering whether you’ve finished your homework. She has to collect the workbooks by next period.” He stifles a yawn. “You haven’t done it, have you?” What’s his name again? Squinting at his classmate who is grinning at him mockingly, Osamu cranks his dozing brain. Suzuki? Satou? Tanaka? “Don’t trouble her too much.”
“Yeah,” what homework? The class rep, a meek girl whom he also can’t recall the name of, is peeking at him warily from the corner of the classroom. Her red string is tied into a petite ribbon. Osamu looks away and suppresses a groan, wondering how he should break the news to her. She hides her face behind an upside-down textbook at his reaction.
Finally, he rises from his chair. She was… she was… Ten… Tennouji? Right, Tennouji. “Tennouji,” she squeaks. Shit, isn’t that her name? Terasaka? Tenji? No, it was definitely- crap. “Tennouji?”
“Yes?” The class rep lowers her book with flushed cheeks. Osamu lets out a relieved sigh.
“Sorry, what’s the homework again?”
Tennouji adjusts her spectacles. “Thirteen pages in the English workbook assigned by Shima-sensei. But, um, since you haven’t turned in more than three of his assignments in the span of two weeks, you’ll most likely be asked to remain after school.”
“Right. I’ll go tell ‘im myself, so ya don’t hafta apologize or anythin’. Thanks for the notice. Oh, and sorry for, y’know, everythin’.”
Her stance relaxes. “It’s no problem.”
The bell chimes and they regress to their seats. Osamu takes out the textbook for class, opens it, and proceeds to stare out the window. He’s in a terrific location; the guy in front of him is the tallest first year, almost one-eighty-seven. The teacher usually forgets about Osamu’s presence when such an overwhelming student is in the way.
So, anyway – where was he?
The string, yes.
In the beginning, he didn’t think too deeply about it – his lack of a string, that is. A very tiny part of him hoped that he must’ve lost it. The string might’ve been torn off, too loose, or cut. In truth, he knew that that wasn’t possible. You could touch the string, feel it, and even tug at it very slightly, but it couldn’t be removed or grabbed – your fingers would slip right through the thread. A hologram, almost, but not quite. They were there, but they weren’t.
It didn’t bother him much when he was younger. Love was not a huge deal to Osamu, as he did not understand what it was. Incomprehensible concepts are generally disregarded by children; there were more intriguing elements in life, such as volleyball, his irritating twin, videogames, and so on. Love was abstract, vague, and complicated.
What you don’t have, though, is eventually meant to make you anxious. After all, if his parents, classmates, friends, relatives, cousins, and even Atsumu had one, then why shouldn’t he? It didn’t make any sense at the time, and to this day the question is left unanswered and unanswerable.
Nonetheless, it wasn’t an issue he could share with someone else. It was clear that everyone’s world wasn’t red like his – he was the odd one out, even with an identical twin. Who would believe him? It was akin to believing in unicorns, dragons, fictional characters. People only believed the reality they were living in at the moment, not considering other realities others could be going through. Osamu was simply a victim of that norm.
The buried secret began to rot in his veins. The wound festered over the years, and he clumsily patched the tear with dirty bandages.
(He is now here today, with a scar that will not be able to heal for many, many years, perhaps never.)
“Miya Osamu, please read the first page of the novel.”
The distributed novel lay on his desk. Flipping open the book, he settles his attention on the inked text.
“The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. The earth lay white under the night sky.”
“Detention? Seriously?”
Atsumu, his twin brother (who is shockingly the older one), rips out a mouthful of his stale cream cheese onion bagel that was meant to be his breakfast. Osamu stretches his legs on the bench, leaning on the tree trunk behind him. “It’s not really detention; Shima said he wasn’t going to leave a penalty mark on my records. I just hafta submit it by this evening, after school.” He chews on a packaged onigiri he purchased from the convenience store this morning. “Didn’t ya get a love letter in yer locker yesterday? I thought she wanted to meet ya at the back of the gym.”
His twin crinkles his nose in distaste. “Why the hell should I give a crap about what she wants? She might as well come and find me if she wishes to confess.”
He has it rich. Osamu doesn’t remember a week where Atsumu has lived without being confessed by a peer, regardless of their gender, occasionally even age. Osamu had his fair share of admirers, but none of them were as fanatical nor knee-deep as Atsumu’s. He prefers it that way, although Atsumu deems it a nuisance. “Ya could at least check out what she’s like. The letter was pretty lengthy.”
“Not interested.” Atsumu devours half of his bagel and then jerks up. “Hey, isn’t that Suna?”
Osamu twists his head to the direction Atsumu is pointing at. “Yeah, it’s him.”
Suna Rintarou.
A clubmate, also a first year, and not from Hyogo – a rarity. That’s all Osamu really knows about the guy. They’re in the same homeroom, but Suna’s desk is four rows ahead of Osamu’s. “He’s with a cute chick,” Atsumu leers, “ya think he’s hookin’ up with her?”
Said ‘cute chick’ is a girl from another class. She is clutching onto the hem of Suna’s blazer, cheeks tinged rosy pink and lips quivering. Her skirt flaps in the wind and her mussed ponytail tickles her neck. Osamu studies Suna’s expression. He appears indifferent as he lifts his chin at a slight angle, his brows furrowed, almost radiating a thin layer of irritation. Osamu flinches. After a short intake of breath, he mumbles something to the girl. Her face contorts into that of hurt and devastation as she fists his necktie.
“Oh,” Atsumu whistles, “an enthralling escalation of events.”
His eyes linger on Suna for another three seconds until he turns away, uncomfortable. “Don’t stare.”
“Ya can’t tell me what to do. Hell, she’s cryin’.” Osamu sighs. “And she dashes. Ya think that was a confession? Kinda too intense for a confession, right? Maybe he cheated on her or somethin’. Man,” Atsumu plops down on the bench beside him, gobbling up the rest of his bagel, licking the cream cheese off his fingers. “City kids are scary.”
“Aichi ain’t even that much of a city compared to Tokyo.”
“Well, it’s true that he’s hard to read.”
“So is Kita-san.”
“Kita-san is,” Atsumu is out of counterarguments. “He’s that of another breed.”
Osamu shrugs. They were better off breaking up, whatever that was, there was no red string connecting the two. He’s never seen a couple stick together for long when they weren’t even fated. “Tell the captain and coach for me that I won’t be at practice today. I don’t think I’ll complete thirteen pages that fast.”
“With yer pipsqueak brain, ‘m sure.”
“Yer average scores are lower than mine, fuck off.”
Atsumu throws him a nasty glare and stalks off to the restroom. Osamu steals a curt glimpse to where the pair was previously, but both of them have vanished. There’s an abandoned bag on the ground – what’s that? When he goes to retrieve it, he sees that it’s a bag of chocolates – which, to be frank, doesn’t seem too appropriate for the season, because it’s May. A perfumed tag is attached to the gift, and it reads ‘to Suna Rintarou’ in cursive alphabets. Really? He scans his surroundings; there’s no one. The bag is unopened and untouched, and the chocolates look perfectly fine to eat.
No, no, no, he shakes his head, I can’t eat someone else’s chocolates, Jesus.
Suna’s deadpan demeanor fleets across his mind.
City kids, the chocolates fit awkwardly in his grasp, are scary. You wouldn’t normally dispose a gift so outwardly, would you?
“Hey.”
He swivels around. Oh, it’s her. The girl who was rejected. Dumped? Wow, she’s a mess. Undried tears wet her swollen face. “Uh,” he notices that she’s ogling the chocolates. “Here.” When he extends the bag towards her, she clenches her hands and sniffles.
“You can have it.”
Blink, blink. “What?”
“You can have it.” Each syllable is enunciated with such aggravation and acridness that he reversely feels like the chocolates may be poisoned. She marches off to the water fountains where another crowd of girls is, leaving Osamu alone with a gift that isn’t even addressed to him. Okay, he scans the chocolate truffles. If she insists.
“What’re those?” Inquires Atsumu as he returns from the restroom. “Were ya confessed to while I was takin’ a shit?”
“As if.” He pops a piece into his mouth.
Very sweet.
Lunch ends in another ten minutes, and he decides to keep the chocolates in his locker. They won’t melt, right? A tiny flare of annoyance bubbles within as he slams the locker shut. I mean, these aren’t even mine. The last thing he yearned for was to become involved in a stranger’s relationship fallout. The truffles were delicious, but – they were delicious, alright, but you know. Someone smacks him on the back and hoots, “Miya, getting hot with the girls already? It’s too late for chocolates!” He doesn’t bother entertaining them with a response.
When he enters the classroom, Suna is perched atop his desk, scrolling down his phone as if none of that debacle occurred mere minutes ago. Osamu eyes the thickly woven red string that is wound around his pinky.
City kids, a voice that sounds too much like his brother echoes from afar.
At that exact moment, Suna looks at him.
Osamu nonchalantly heads to his desk.
Scary.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.
(Susan and Rose are walking to the park with their friend, George. George…)
(Choose the correct verb tense to fill in the blank for the question above…)
He drops his pencil with a groan.
He’s been wrestling with this page for the past hour, and the school is closing in the next forty minutes; he has five more pages to go and more than thirty questions. Shima said he wouldn’t dismiss him until the homework was submitted to his office. Club activities were over in the next five minutes, and Atsumu wasn’t going to wait for him, not with his trashy personality (to be fair, Osamu wouldn’t wait for him either). The lead of his pencil digs into the white sheet, threatening to snap as he releases his pent-up frustration. Who cares about what George needs to do?
Folding his arms, he melts to the desk and buries his head into the comfortable warmth. He can simply lounge until he had to leave; Shima can’t keep him imprisoned in the classroom forever. He might have to stay after school tomorrow as well, but that’s a problem he can deal with in the future.
“You’re still stuck here?”
The rackety noise of the door being dragged open resounds throughout the dead silent classroom. Yosano shifts towards his seat with a humored smirk. Osamu straightens his posture, “How’d ya know I was around?”
“Hm? Well, Aran told me that you weren’t at practice, so. And these are easy questions, should I help you?”
“No need.” Yosano hums and places his hand on Osamu’s shoulder, casual yet urging. There aren’t many reasons as to why Yosano comes to see him. In fact, there is only one outstanding reason, and it’s also Osamu’s reason for hanging out with the likes of him.
(Miya Osamu enjoys simplicity: white is white, black is black – that kind of easy logic. He prefers to keep things that way, whether that may be friendships, volleyball, academics, or relationships. He dislikes depth. He dislikes complexity. And moreover, he despises sincerity.
In summary, he likes what he has, and what this relationship essentially is.
No strings attached.)
Yosano grabs the collar of his shirt, and Osamu is yanked up from his chair and shoved to the windowpane. Chapped lips land on his own, seeking for raw pleasure and a realm beyond. Osamu grunts and claws at the back of Yosano’s scalp, angling his face more to the right so that their teeth don’t clash as they make out. His shoulder blades knock into the glass with a dull ‘thunk,’ and he shudders when Yosano sucks and licks the teeth marks on his bottom lip. The chair underneath tumbles over and collapses with a cantankerous clatter, and Osamu has to grip the windowsill for support. Sharp teeth gnaw at the softer parts of his flesh.
“Shit, Miya.” The second-year chuckles, “There’s no way you’re sixteen.”
“And yer seventeen, yer not that much of a fossil.”
“Take a compliment for what it’s worth.” Yosano’s fingers trace the bump of his zipper. A damp exhale seeps out of him automatically. “Can I touch you? There’s no one outside.” There really isn’t; the majority of the clubs are over, and the only people remaining on campus are the teachers and the security guard. A guttural groan escapes his parted lips when Yosano presses his palm over the bulge in his pants.
“Are ya gonna take responsibility if Shima barges in?”
“Shima’s forgotten about you. The lights of his office were turned off.”
Jesus Christ, you have to be joking. That means he could’ve gone home an hour ago. He swallows, feeling the tension in his pants increase, then nods. Yosano swiftly pulls down the zip, kissing him simultaneously. Osamu loses himself in the feverish sensation, his feet swept off the floor as Yosano’s ministrations continue. “You’re just being unfair, Miya,” he represses a moan when Yosano’s thumb caresses the root of his length under his briefs. “Tamura said you let him fuck you, what’s so great about him?”
That’s what this is about? He rolls his eyes. “He has a bigger dick than ya.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The laidback, crooked smile on Yosano’s face is wiped clean.
He can feel his erection shrink as Yosano’s ire becomes increasingly apparent. His arms drop to his side as he watches Yosano’s fingers hook into the elastic band of his underwear. Maybe I should kick his balls or somethin’. It’s definitely not too late. “Ya can go fuck yer girlfriend if that’s what ya want.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You wouldn’t, yeah.” There’s a derisive edge to Yosano’s tone, and it ticks Osamu off. That’s it. I’m kicking his balls and ‘m gonna go home because this is fucking stupid. I’ll finish the homework and submit it to Shima tomorrow afternoon. He moves his leg and prepares to aim it, his foot searching for its target. A mental countdown begins as Yosano makes another futile attempt to pry at his briefs, agitated, muttering a vile cuss as he grasps Osamu’s waist.
And then, Osamu senses it.
Another presence in the distance – no, right outside the classroom, that door.
Someone –
Staring at them.
Him.
His pupils dilate and his breath catches in his throat as he notices.
Suna Rintarou is there.
(Red – the sunset painted the classroom red.)