open the door, to another door [Haikyuu, Hanahaki Fake Dating, Osamu x Akaashi]

walk, but in a garden

Cold concrete pressed against Miya Osamu's palm as he leaned against the side of his Tokyo restaurant in the alley, peering down at the mess of flowers that littered the ground. Gardenia petals, blood, and roots covered the pavement. He sought a haggard breath, to fill the hollow space the garden had left behind in his chest. The cool air burned as he sucked in, lips cracking from the effort of heaving and the dry air that surrounded them.

He couldn't go back inside, not yet. This happened almost every time. He thought it'd change, or that he'd learn by now, but it hadn't and he didn't. A cycle, much like the ones that continued growing in his chest for the past eight years, give or take, with no hope for reprieve. He continued to engage in unhealthy behavior feeding his emotions and he'd paid the price.

He turned around leaning his back against the wall to let the cool night breeze wash over him in hopes that he'd lose some feeling in his body. Maybe he'd go numb if he stayed out here -- his old dri-fit under a branded company t-shirt was not going to keep him warm enough. And yet, that's all he's ever wanted was to be numb to the effects of love, Hanahaki Disease, and the unrequitedness of it all, but he was never afforded the privilege. Instead, he'd settle for his body going numb instead. He leaned his head back on to the cold wall, closing his eyes, blowing visible heat from his mouth, trying to dispel the taste of iron as he licked his lips.

As common as unrequited love might have been, it was still not the most respectable emotion to share; those afflicted were often pitied, preyed upon with quick-fix scams, or worse, shoved into matchmaking schemes. It's why many hid their disease, sharing it only with a select few. It's why he was surprised to find himself face-to-face with someone else now throwing up pale yellow petals in his alley.

Someone in a tan overcoat and maroon scarf, phone in hand, hunched over, grabbing at his chest and neck, expelling a mess of blood-streaked petals, hacking and gasping for air. For as romantic as the media made Hanahaki sound, it sure was a messy affair. The beautiful man stood up straight, having caught the eye of Osamu, who turned his head to observe the display, hidden only so well from the main street, as the light from the ally shone on him.

They made eye contact as the man pulled a stray petal from his mouth with a face, wiping his lips from any further debris. Osamu knew the feeling all too well, the feeling of disgust at one's self, self-pity, and anxiety around your self-worth. He could read it in the man, in Akaashi Keiji's expression. In his best customer's face. In his friend's grimace.

As all of those emotions registered, a new one hit -- Keiji's eyes grew bigger as he stepped back. Brief panic now flashed on his face before he readjusted his glasses. They stared at one another.

"Onigiri for yer thoughts?" Osamu finally spoke up, still leaning against the alley wall.

Clearly still unenthused about being caught, not looking to divulge much more of his emotions, he huffed, "Anything to get the taste out of my mouth, I guess."

"Aw, I thought ya actually liked my cookin'," the chef jeered at him with a smile on his face.

"I wouldn't keep coming back here if I didn't. Especially now, it's better than this ." He flicked the petal at Osamu. The weariness on his face showed; he was clearly too tired to put up a front. "I sure haven't made it any easier on myself." He looked at the phone in his hand briefly and shoved it back into his pocket.

"Looks like we have somethin' in common," he kicked at the ground, showing his own set of sepals, petals, stems, leaves, and roots splayed in a bloody, tangled mess by his feet, giving Keiji cause to raise his eyebrows. Opening the backdoor to his restaurant, Onigiri Miya, without another word, Osamu gestured his number one customer into the kitchen of his shop, following closely behind.