You're like a osmanthus.
When I woke up, Shoyo wasn’t next to me. The world was all white and bright, so I shut my eyes again, feeling a heavy groan escape me. My hand reached out instinctively to the cold, empty space beside me, telling me he’d probably gotten out of bed a while ago. Shoyo is the type who sticks to his routine, even on his days off, no matter how late we stayed up the night before. He’d have already gone for a run, done his strength training, stretched, and maybe even practiced some yoga. I admire that about him—it’s impressive, and definitely something I can’t do.
It was a pleasant morning. Judging by the light seeping through my closed eyelids, it looked like the weather was nice. I felt the flicker of shadows and figured it must be the curtains swaying in the breeze. Shoyo had probably opened the window after I fell asleep, since I remember closing it last night. It wasn’t too hot or too cold—a fleeting moment of perfect weather in a place where such moments come only briefly.
Feeling so comfortable, I pulled his side of the bedding closer, hugging it tightly. The faint trace of his scent lingered, and I took a deep breath. I can smell Shoyo. It’s not an unpleasant smell—if anything, it’s calming, something I can only describe as his scent. And there’s also a faintly sweet fragrance. What is it again? I know this scent.
As I drifted in and out, wrapped in that lingering smell, I heard the soft, padded footsteps of someone in socks coming closer. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was.
“Kenmaaa…”
His voice called out, gentle and bright, like the light filtering through my closed eyelids. I felt him approach, shifting from the hallway onto the tatami floor beside me, his presence hovering close as he crouched down.
“Kenma, you awake?”
“…asleep…”
“Sleeping, huh? But maybe it’s time to get up?”
His words held a hint of laughter, and I managed to pry my eyes open. Just as I expected, there was Shoyo, squinting down at me with a smile. So bright.
“Ugh…”
“Still sleepy?”
“…Yeah…”
“Keenmaa…”
“Mm…”
Shoyo, clearly used to my terrible wake-up habits, started patting me playfully through the comforter, not forcing me to get up but playfully ruffling my hair, peeking under the covers, and giving me a light kiss on the cheek.
I think—just maybe—he finds my sleepy, half-awake state kind of endearing. Even though I worry it might annoy him, he always seems inexplicably cheerful during these moments, stroking my hair, patting my head, holding me with the blanket wrapped around me, kissing me. But every time I’ve tried to pull him back into bed with me, I’ve failed miserably. I mean, it’s not like I could beat a top athlete in a strength contest anyway.
With a gentle hand, he started brushing through my messy hair, treating me like a sleepy pet he was fussing over, and I thought, yeah, this feels a lot like being doted on. Though, I’m not exactly “cute,” am I? Yet, when I put it into words, it feels like the most accurate description.
“Kenmaa.”
“…Hmm…”
“Breakfast’s ready.”
“…What?”
“The menu?”
“…Mm…”
“I made hot sandwiches. And a tomato salad with corn soup. The soup’s just instant, though.”
“…Hot sandwiches…”
“One has cheese and chicken, and the other’s tuna, mayo, and onion.”
At the mention of food, my stomach growled in response, and Shoyo laughed, amused, giving my stomach a playful rub. Stop that. It’s ticklish.
“Kenma’s tummy sure is lively this morning—good morning!”
“Don’t greet my stomach…”
“Breakfast is going to get cold.”
“…mff…”
“You might still be sleepy, but how about your stomach?”
“Ugh…”
I stretched my arms out, and Shoyo understood immediately, pulling me up. Blinking to adjust my barely-open eyes, I arched my back and stretched.
“…Morning, Shoyo.”
“Morning, Kenma!”
He praised me for making it upright, ruffling my bedhead, and I yawned, letting him do whatever he wanted with my hair.
“Should I bring breakfast in here, or do you want to come over to the other room?”
“I’ll come… Have you eaten yet?”
“Nope, I was waiting to eat with you.”
He could have eaten first, but he probably thought it’d be nice to eat together. I’m grateful he went through the trouble of getting me up, though. It’s not like I don’t want to eat with him—just that my body can be stubborn about sleep.
After a quick wash and a half-hearted attempt to fix my hair, I joined Shoyo in the back room where he’d set up breakfast on a small table by the garden window. I don’t usually eat in this room, but he seems to like it, so we often have breakfast here when he stays over.
“Looks good…”
“I think it’ll taste good too!”
“Thank you, as always.”
“You’re welcome!”
With a lively smile, Shoyo slid open the window, letting in a fresh breeze along with a faintly sweet fragrance. I blinked, recognizing it.
“What’s wrong?”
“No… I was just trying to remember what that smell was.”
“Oh, the osmanthus?”
“Ah, right. Osmanthus.”
With the mystery solved, I felt a sense of clarity. I vaguely recalled that there was an osmanthus tree planted near the back fence. It must be blooming, filling the air with its fragrance. It’s amazing how plants do that every year, without anyone telling them to, reliably blooming and giving off such a nice smell.
We clasped our hands together and said, “Itadakimasu,” before starting on breakfast. As promised, Shoyo had prepared hot sandwiches, salad, and soup—a rare, high-quality breakfast for me. Honestly, the only time I have more than one dish in the morning is when he’s here. Having something as basic as soup alongside breakfast feels like a luxury.
After a moment of indecision, I picked up the cheese and chicken sandwich first. It looked appetizing, with colorful ingredients peeking out from the toasted bread. As I bit in, the crunch of the bread gave way to the savory flavor of the chicken. The vegetables still had a bit of crunch, and the mustard added a nice kick.
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Really? I’m glad!”
“Mm.”
In our kitchen, there’s a hot sandwich maker that I have no idea who brought. Actually, a lot of kitchen gadgets are like that around here. There’s also a hot plate and a takoyaki maker that I never bought, yet they somehow ended up here. When Shoyo came over last time, he noticed these things and said he wanted to try them out, so I guess he’s putting them to use. I’ve told him he’s free to use any ingredients or tools in the kitchen, and even if I don’t know who left them, it’d be a waste not to use what’s here. Plus, the person who brought it didn’t mention anything about it.
Now, I’ve never used the hot sandwich maker myself, but it’s pretty great… It toasts the bread perfectly crispy, right down to the edges.
“This thing’s like a frying pan, right? The sandwich press?”
“Yeah, the hot sandwich maker. Do you like it?”
“Yeah. It’s tasty.”
“Wait, didn’t you buy it?”
“Nope. Must’ve been left by someone or maybe it was a gift.”
“Once you close the lid, it’s super easy! Just leave it alone. With direct heat, you can control it really well.”
“Washing it is annoying…”
“Just deal with it,” he says with a smile, taking a bite of his sandwich. Judging by the contents, it’s probably filled with vegetables and chicken breast. Very “high-protein, low-fat” hot sandwich. It must’ve been a bit of a hassle to prepare multiple fillings, but that’s so typical of him—considerate and thoughtful. It’s obvious why he wouldn’t want to eat exactly what I’m having; he probably thought I’d find his healthy option too bland. I appreciate the thoughtfulness, and whatever Shoyo makes is always delicious. Complaining about food someone else made would just be ungrateful.
We usually fall into silence while eating. Shoyo focuses on his food, and I don’t mind the quiet, so we just eat in peace. From the outside, it might look a little odd to see the two of us eating in complete silence, but there’s a calmness in the air, with the curtains swaying in the soft breeze. The light has that slightly sleepy quality, and the sky has deepened in color. Suddenly, I think to myself, “It’s autumn now.” Not too long ago, we were complaining about the heat, but seasons change so quickly, slipping in as if they’ve been there all along. I glance at Shoyo, wondering if he feels the same, and he gives me a puzzled look.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing… Just thought, it’s autumn now.”
“You’re thinking of autumn? Looking at my head like it’s a fall foliage tour?”
“Eh? Who told you that?”
“Atsumu-san.”
“Sounds like him.”
I can’t help but laugh. Shoyo’s hair doesn’t really remind me of autumn leaves; it’s more like a bright orange or a mandarin—like a citrus fruit. Actually, it kind of suits him. Though, to be fair, I got a pretty good whiff of it yesterday.
Or maybe… I glance at his hair again, that natural bright red, as he claims.
“More than autumn leaves… maybe it’s like osmanthus.”
“Osmanthus? Why?”
“The color, sure, but also… it’s small, but you notice it, you know?”
He gives me this expression, like he’s actually impressed by what I said.
“Should I get you a seat cushion for that clever line?”
“Yamada-kun isn’t here, though.”
“Need one of mine?”
“No, I’ll pass. It’s the thought that counts.”
He gestures like he’s about to hand me a cushion, and I politely decline, focusing instead on my second sandwich. This one’s tuna and mayo—an absolute classic.
“By the way,” he says.
“Mm?”
“The smell of osmanthus always reminds me of your birthday.”
“Really? Why?”
I mean, sure, it’s the season, but I don’t have any specific birthday memories tied to osmanthus… I don’t think. I tilt my head, and Shoyo makes a thoughtful sound.
“Once, we were talking on the phone, and the topic of birthdays came up. And you told me, ‘Yesterday was my birthday.’”
“Wait, that happened? When?”
“My first year of high school.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do! I was like, ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!’ And I think I actually said that.”
“What did I say?”
“I can’t recall exactly, but it was something like, ‘Why would I?’”
“Sounds like me.”
I honestly don’t remember, but I can imagine. It’s not that I dislike celebrating my birthday, but I never felt particularly excited about it. If anything, I used to find it a little uncomfortable. Back then, we hadn’t known each other for that long, so I probably thought telling him wouldn’t mean much. In hindsight, that wasn’t a great response, though. It makes it sound like I didn’t want to share it.
“That day, the osmanthus was blooming right outside my window, so now whenever I smell it, I think of that moment.”
“Scents really do trigger memories, don’t they?”
“Is that so?”
“Have you heard of ‘In Search of Lost Time’?”
“What’s that? A game?”
“No, a novel.”
I haven’t actually read it, but I think it’s called the “Proust effect” or something. Shoyo nods, sniffing the air as he gazes out the window, probably looking at the little orange blossoms of the osmanthus tree.
“I remember, it wasn’t just that you hadn’t told me your birthday. It was the fact that until yesterday, we were the same age, and… that made me feel kind of… like… ‘Ughhh!!’”
“Was that really so important?”
“To my fifteen-year-old self? Absolutely!”
The way he pouts, looking like he thought I was somehow leaving him behind, makes me laugh. I’ve always been right here, so if anyone’s been off in different places, it’s him. Not that I mind; it keeps things interesting.
“Fifteen-year-old Shoyo, huh? Pretty cute.”
“I’m still cute, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re cute, you’re cute.”
“Totally dismissive!”
“Ha ha…”
Back in the day, if I called him “cute,” he’d get all flustered and ask me not to. But now he says it himself. I guess he’s grown up a bit. Or maybe I just kept calling him cute so much that he’s started embracing it. These days, he even gives me this “Yes, I am cute” kind of look. Not that I intended it, but it feels like I may have accidentally leveled up his cuteness skills.
“…Well, it’s fine.”
“What is?”
“I’ll take responsibility.”
Shoyo tilts his head, confused, and I chuckle, narrowing my eyes. Somehow, the idea that he’s known my birthday for so long feels oddly comforting, like a piece of the puzzle that brought us to this moment.
I hear the soft rustling of leaves, catch the sweet fragrance in the air, and savor the taste of breakfast. Shoyo is right here beside me. It’s a morning that feels miraculously perfect.
“It’s a good season, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I like it too.”
“Kenma…”
“Hm?”
“Happy birthday.”
“Heh, thanks.”
----------------------------
written by Kicho
※This fanfiction is originally written by me in Japanese and translated with ChatGPT’s help.
※Do not reupload my fanfiction
It was a pleasant morning. Judging by the light seeping through my closed eyelids, it looked like the weather was nice. I felt the flicker of shadows and figured it must be the curtains swaying in the breeze. Shoyo had probably opened the window after I fell asleep, since I remember closing it last night. It wasn’t too hot or too cold—a fleeting moment of perfect weather in a place where such moments come only briefly.
Feeling so comfortable, I pulled his side of the bedding closer, hugging it tightly. The faint trace of his scent lingered, and I took a deep breath. I can smell Shoyo. It’s not an unpleasant smell—if anything, it’s calming, something I can only describe as his scent. And there’s also a faintly sweet fragrance. What is it again? I know this scent.
As I drifted in and out, wrapped in that lingering smell, I heard the soft, padded footsteps of someone in socks coming closer. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was.
“Kenmaaa…”
His voice called out, gentle and bright, like the light filtering through my closed eyelids. I felt him approach, shifting from the hallway onto the tatami floor beside me, his presence hovering close as he crouched down.
“Kenma, you awake?”
“…asleep…”
“Sleeping, huh? But maybe it’s time to get up?”
His words held a hint of laughter, and I managed to pry my eyes open. Just as I expected, there was Shoyo, squinting down at me with a smile. So bright.
“Ugh…”
“Still sleepy?”
“…Yeah…”
“Keenmaa…”
“Mm…”
Shoyo, clearly used to my terrible wake-up habits, started patting me playfully through the comforter, not forcing me to get up but playfully ruffling my hair, peeking under the covers, and giving me a light kiss on the cheek.
I think—just maybe—he finds my sleepy, half-awake state kind of endearing. Even though I worry it might annoy him, he always seems inexplicably cheerful during these moments, stroking my hair, patting my head, holding me with the blanket wrapped around me, kissing me. But every time I’ve tried to pull him back into bed with me, I’ve failed miserably. I mean, it’s not like I could beat a top athlete in a strength contest anyway.
With a gentle hand, he started brushing through my messy hair, treating me like a sleepy pet he was fussing over, and I thought, yeah, this feels a lot like being doted on. Though, I’m not exactly “cute,” am I? Yet, when I put it into words, it feels like the most accurate description.
“Kenmaa.”
“…Hmm…”
“Breakfast’s ready.”
“…What?”
“The menu?”
“…Mm…”
“I made hot sandwiches. And a tomato salad with corn soup. The soup’s just instant, though.”
“…Hot sandwiches…”
“One has cheese and chicken, and the other’s tuna, mayo, and onion.”
At the mention of food, my stomach growled in response, and Shoyo laughed, amused, giving my stomach a playful rub. Stop that. It’s ticklish.
“Kenma’s tummy sure is lively this morning—good morning!”
“Don’t greet my stomach…”
“Breakfast is going to get cold.”
“…mff…”
“You might still be sleepy, but how about your stomach?”
“Ugh…”
I stretched my arms out, and Shoyo understood immediately, pulling me up. Blinking to adjust my barely-open eyes, I arched my back and stretched.
“…Morning, Shoyo.”
“Morning, Kenma!”
He praised me for making it upright, ruffling my bedhead, and I yawned, letting him do whatever he wanted with my hair.
“Should I bring breakfast in here, or do you want to come over to the other room?”
“I’ll come… Have you eaten yet?”
“Nope, I was waiting to eat with you.”
He could have eaten first, but he probably thought it’d be nice to eat together. I’m grateful he went through the trouble of getting me up, though. It’s not like I don’t want to eat with him—just that my body can be stubborn about sleep.
After a quick wash and a half-hearted attempt to fix my hair, I joined Shoyo in the back room where he’d set up breakfast on a small table by the garden window. I don’t usually eat in this room, but he seems to like it, so we often have breakfast here when he stays over.
“Looks good…”
“I think it’ll taste good too!”
“Thank you, as always.”
“You’re welcome!”
With a lively smile, Shoyo slid open the window, letting in a fresh breeze along with a faintly sweet fragrance. I blinked, recognizing it.
“What’s wrong?”
“No… I was just trying to remember what that smell was.”
“Oh, the osmanthus?”
“Ah, right. Osmanthus.”
With the mystery solved, I felt a sense of clarity. I vaguely recalled that there was an osmanthus tree planted near the back fence. It must be blooming, filling the air with its fragrance. It’s amazing how plants do that every year, without anyone telling them to, reliably blooming and giving off such a nice smell.
We clasped our hands together and said, “Itadakimasu,” before starting on breakfast. As promised, Shoyo had prepared hot sandwiches, salad, and soup—a rare, high-quality breakfast for me. Honestly, the only time I have more than one dish in the morning is when he’s here. Having something as basic as soup alongside breakfast feels like a luxury.
After a moment of indecision, I picked up the cheese and chicken sandwich first. It looked appetizing, with colorful ingredients peeking out from the toasted bread. As I bit in, the crunch of the bread gave way to the savory flavor of the chicken. The vegetables still had a bit of crunch, and the mustard added a nice kick.
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Really? I’m glad!”
“Mm.”
In our kitchen, there’s a hot sandwich maker that I have no idea who brought. Actually, a lot of kitchen gadgets are like that around here. There’s also a hot plate and a takoyaki maker that I never bought, yet they somehow ended up here. When Shoyo came over last time, he noticed these things and said he wanted to try them out, so I guess he’s putting them to use. I’ve told him he’s free to use any ingredients or tools in the kitchen, and even if I don’t know who left them, it’d be a waste not to use what’s here. Plus, the person who brought it didn’t mention anything about it.
Now, I’ve never used the hot sandwich maker myself, but it’s pretty great… It toasts the bread perfectly crispy, right down to the edges.
“This thing’s like a frying pan, right? The sandwich press?”
“Yeah, the hot sandwich maker. Do you like it?”
“Yeah. It’s tasty.”
“Wait, didn’t you buy it?”
“Nope. Must’ve been left by someone or maybe it was a gift.”
“Once you close the lid, it’s super easy! Just leave it alone. With direct heat, you can control it really well.”
“Washing it is annoying…”
“Just deal with it,” he says with a smile, taking a bite of his sandwich. Judging by the contents, it’s probably filled with vegetables and chicken breast. Very “high-protein, low-fat” hot sandwich. It must’ve been a bit of a hassle to prepare multiple fillings, but that’s so typical of him—considerate and thoughtful. It’s obvious why he wouldn’t want to eat exactly what I’m having; he probably thought I’d find his healthy option too bland. I appreciate the thoughtfulness, and whatever Shoyo makes is always delicious. Complaining about food someone else made would just be ungrateful.
We usually fall into silence while eating. Shoyo focuses on his food, and I don’t mind the quiet, so we just eat in peace. From the outside, it might look a little odd to see the two of us eating in complete silence, but there’s a calmness in the air, with the curtains swaying in the soft breeze. The light has that slightly sleepy quality, and the sky has deepened in color. Suddenly, I think to myself, “It’s autumn now.” Not too long ago, we were complaining about the heat, but seasons change so quickly, slipping in as if they’ve been there all along. I glance at Shoyo, wondering if he feels the same, and he gives me a puzzled look.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing… Just thought, it’s autumn now.”
“You’re thinking of autumn? Looking at my head like it’s a fall foliage tour?”
“Eh? Who told you that?”
“Atsumu-san.”
“Sounds like him.”
I can’t help but laugh. Shoyo’s hair doesn’t really remind me of autumn leaves; it’s more like a bright orange or a mandarin—like a citrus fruit. Actually, it kind of suits him. Though, to be fair, I got a pretty good whiff of it yesterday.
Or maybe… I glance at his hair again, that natural bright red, as he claims.
“More than autumn leaves… maybe it’s like osmanthus.”
“Osmanthus? Why?”
“The color, sure, but also… it’s small, but you notice it, you know?”
He gives me this expression, like he’s actually impressed by what I said.
“Should I get you a seat cushion for that clever line?”
“Yamada-kun isn’t here, though.”
“Need one of mine?”
“No, I’ll pass. It’s the thought that counts.”
He gestures like he’s about to hand me a cushion, and I politely decline, focusing instead on my second sandwich. This one’s tuna and mayo—an absolute classic.
“By the way,” he says.
“Mm?”
“The smell of osmanthus always reminds me of your birthday.”
“Really? Why?”
I mean, sure, it’s the season, but I don’t have any specific birthday memories tied to osmanthus… I don’t think. I tilt my head, and Shoyo makes a thoughtful sound.
“Once, we were talking on the phone, and the topic of birthdays came up. And you told me, ‘Yesterday was my birthday.’”
“Wait, that happened? When?”
“My first year of high school.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do! I was like, ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!’ And I think I actually said that.”
“What did I say?”
“I can’t recall exactly, but it was something like, ‘Why would I?’”
“Sounds like me.”
I honestly don’t remember, but I can imagine. It’s not that I dislike celebrating my birthday, but I never felt particularly excited about it. If anything, I used to find it a little uncomfortable. Back then, we hadn’t known each other for that long, so I probably thought telling him wouldn’t mean much. In hindsight, that wasn’t a great response, though. It makes it sound like I didn’t want to share it.
“That day, the osmanthus was blooming right outside my window, so now whenever I smell it, I think of that moment.”
“Scents really do trigger memories, don’t they?”
“Is that so?”
“Have you heard of ‘In Search of Lost Time’?”
“What’s that? A game?”
“No, a novel.”
I haven’t actually read it, but I think it’s called the “Proust effect” or something. Shoyo nods, sniffing the air as he gazes out the window, probably looking at the little orange blossoms of the osmanthus tree.
“I remember, it wasn’t just that you hadn’t told me your birthday. It was the fact that until yesterday, we were the same age, and… that made me feel kind of… like… ‘Ughhh!!’”
“Was that really so important?”
“To my fifteen-year-old self? Absolutely!”
The way he pouts, looking like he thought I was somehow leaving him behind, makes me laugh. I’ve always been right here, so if anyone’s been off in different places, it’s him. Not that I mind; it keeps things interesting.
“Fifteen-year-old Shoyo, huh? Pretty cute.”
“I’m still cute, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re cute, you’re cute.”
“Totally dismissive!”
“Ha ha…”
Back in the day, if I called him “cute,” he’d get all flustered and ask me not to. But now he says it himself. I guess he’s grown up a bit. Or maybe I just kept calling him cute so much that he’s started embracing it. These days, he even gives me this “Yes, I am cute” kind of look. Not that I intended it, but it feels like I may have accidentally leveled up his cuteness skills.
“…Well, it’s fine.”
“What is?”
“I’ll take responsibility.”
Shoyo tilts his head, confused, and I chuckle, narrowing my eyes. Somehow, the idea that he’s known my birthday for so long feels oddly comforting, like a piece of the puzzle that brought us to this moment.
I hear the soft rustling of leaves, catch the sweet fragrance in the air, and savor the taste of breakfast. Shoyo is right here beside me. It’s a morning that feels miraculously perfect.
“It’s a good season, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I like it too.”
“Kenma…”
“Hm?”
“Happy birthday.”
“Heh, thanks.”
----------------------------
written by Kicho
※This fanfiction is originally written by me in Japanese and translated with ChatGPT’s help.
※Do not reupload my fanfiction
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