The knife barely misses the tip of Osamu’s finger as your voice, one of his regulars, slips through the crowd.
Onigiri Miya is packed with people watching tonight’s MSBY match and Osamu spares a quick glance your way.
You’re staring heatedly at the game with a few of your friends and tracing the rim of your glass.
“As if he’d let you,” one of your friends says with a smirk.
You snort. “Of course not. But god if he did, I’d lick him clean.”
Your friends laugh.
Osamu wants to know who you’re talking about but the crowd swallows the rest of what you’re saying.
Damn.
Obviously it’s a Jackal because you’re always in their merch but there’s never a name. No number. And you’re one of the few regulars-and-MSBY-fans who hasn’t tried to weasel their way into meeting the team through Osamu.
He enjoys having you in the shop because you get along with everyone and you’re one of the few people he considers a friend outside of the business owner-patron relationship so he can’t help it.
He’s curious.
He waits for clues as to who you were talking about but you don’t give anything away; you shout and cheer for everyone.
He fills more orders, deftly manages his staff, and takes an opportunity to walk the floor.
“How’re the boys doin’?” he asks when he stops by your table.
Your group shifts to include him, a few of your friends hungrily eyeing his fitted black t-shirt. “Not as good as you, handsome.”
He smirks appreciatively. “Obviously.” Then he juts his chin at the screen. “But they’re in the lead, at least. ‘Tsumu givin’ them any trouble?”
You snicker. “Nothing more than usual.”
Osamu nods, trying to hold back another smirk as he asks the group “did I hear somethin’ about one of them sweatin’?”
Your friends crow salaciously and turn to you as you suck your lips in, eyes bulging.
“OOOH, He heard y-” One of them breaks off with a lurch like you’ve kicked them under the table as another jeers.
“Why? You jealous, Miya?” They wiggle their eyebrows. “You miss being oogled?”
He chuckles lowly and puts a hand on the back of your chair, noticing the way you’re avoiding his eye. “And who exactly are y’all ooglin’? Better not be ma dumb brother.”
“Never!” One of them leans forward as if they’re going to gush but you flick their forehead.
“No one.” You insist with a threatening smile to your friends. “You didn’t hear anything.”
Osamu snorts. “Sure I didn’t.” Feeling high from the thrill of your friends’ flirting he can’t help himself. “I must’a just imagined that comment about someone’s thighs.”
Your friends let out a synchronized cheer and you drop your forehead into your hands.
Osamu laughs but one of his workers calls him away before he can give you any more trouble.
The Jackals win and–to Osamu’s relief–you and your friends stay after the game. A lot of people do, too, caught up in the high of victory as interviews with the athletes play.
Osamu sneaks a text to his twin.
The restaurant’s still full when the team comes in to a raucous cheer and more rounds are ordered. Energy picking up like a second wind.
Atsumu greets his twin with a hug and whispers "which one?”
When they part Osamu directs him to you and your group of friends; Atsumu flicks his brow with a grin and Osamu feels like he’s back in high school.
“Heard we have some fans here,” he says sauntering over as your group shifts to welcome him like you did for Osamu. “Did y’all watch?”
“Of course we did!” one of your friends replies with a starry expression. “You were amazing!”
“Thank you, thank you.” He beams. “It was a very ex-thigh-ting game, if I say so myself.”
Osamu guffaws and chokes on a laugh as your blazing eyes immediately flick to him; your friends’ laughter encourages the setter.
“Did ya see my startl-lick-ing row of service aces in the second set?”
Their laughter roars and your eye twitches, expression scrunching at Osamu who looks away pointedly, torn between guilt and enjoyment.
“Sweat-sational, I’d say. Wouldn’t all of you?”
Osamu cringes internally; that one was a stretch but it was the final straw for you. As your friends break down to tears laughing you shove your chair back and storm away from the table making a straight line toward Osamu.
“Really?” you demand hotly and Osamu feels a fleeting moment of doubt. “You had to tell him?”
“Dunno what yer talkin’ about.” He shrugs innocently. “I didn’t hear anythin’.”
“Obviously you did,” you say tersely, dropping your voice leaning in. “Did you tell him just to make fun of me?!”
“No,” he says trying to sound lighthearted, “I was just try'na get them here so ya could meet whichever athlete it was ya wanted to be licking.”
For a moment he savors the way you gulp under his heavy, hooded gaze until a smirk slowly spreads across your own face.
“I wasn’t talking about an athlete.”
Heart pounding he looks down at the onigiri in his hands. “Oh no? Well who, then?”
You lean over the counter a little further, lowering your voice for only him to hear. “You, obviously.”
Your last year of high school should have been filled with little moments like this one as you and Oikawa stroll the city streets, conversation flowing naturally.
These kind of carefree and mundane moments that weave into the elaborate tapestry of youth. Of friendship. The kind of moments that so often build into something more if given the chance.
This was how it should have been.
As Oikawa gets a brain freeze and he curses, face scrunching and rubbing his forehead, you laugh. You can almost hear a younger Iwaizumi griping at Oikawa for chugging his slushie. Unrestrained and deep you cackle. Oikawa pouts at you in mock offense, unable to hold back his own little smirk.
This was how it should have been, Oikawa thinks to himself. Willing to be dramatic and foolish just to see you smile, to hear you laugh.
~
This is how it is, Oikawa reminds himself.
Though you've had some fancy translators from your first day here--a going away present from an old athlete...Mikage, was it?--you didn't want to rely on them so you enrolled in Spanish lessons and despite learning to read and write at an impressive rate you found your tutor, an old and very strict woman, to add more stress when it came to speaking.
Oikawa leapt at the chance when you asked for help.
Only a few weeks after he asked you to be friends you asked him to go for a walk and practice conversational Spanish. It was a relief to see you again, to have your time and attention in an uncomplicated context, and it was a relief for you to have a bilingual tutor so determined to be patient.
And so it evolved that once or twice a week, depending on your schedules, the two of you would wander the city. Sometimes shopping or picking out a treat, other times using the public transportation to get to different parts of the city, all providing opportunities for you to practice your Spanish with a safety net.
He scrolls through the pictures on his phone, smiling to himself as he lays in bed and thinks about your parting words from two nights ago:
"Okay...we can be friends."
The words bounce around your mind, too, as you lay in bed across the city looking at your own camera roll.
You exhale slowly.
Focusing on who Oikawa is, not who he was, you give the strange knots of past pain permission to slacken, soothed by acceptance and recent experiences as you remind yourself, this is how it is.
~
This is what I want all the time, you catch yourself yearning as you and Oikawa cook dinner.
Somewhere along the way your Spanish lessons had become an excuse to hangout, an excuse to explore the city and go sightseeing and do a variety of things Oikawa had no interest in doing before.
Then, as the two of you busied with the start of seasons, it slipped into hanging out at home. Staying in when neither of you had the energy to go out, sometimes nothing more than keeping each other company.
It's made Oikawa feel more at home here than he ever has.
And one night, when you fall asleep at his table mid-report, he stays on the couch after tucking you into his bed and, to the image of you on his pillows, under his blankets, feels his heart wishing this is what I want all the time.
~
How ironic,
that months after you fell asleep for the first time at his house,
after you started spending the night on purpose
until every night became a night together,
leading the two of you to pick a new matching address
Oikawa turns a sour eye on his best friend as they weave through the stands to their seats dressed in casual clothes, not identifying with either team. "Besides your commitment to using that insulting name? No."
Iwaizumi smirks, ignoring him. "When I found you watching the Karasuno-Shiratorizawa match in high school."
"This is nothing like that," scoffs Oikawa with a petulant expression. He angles his head down so the baseball cap covers his face as they side-step in front of people until they get to their seats.
"No?" Iwaizumi asks watching Oikawa from the corner of his eye.
"For one, I have no vested interest in the outcome of this game." He catches Iwaizumi's look. "What? I don't."
Iwaizumi slowly shakes his head with a resigned smile. "Sure you don't."
"I don't." Oikawa crosses his arms and sinks into the seat a little bit. "I'm just here to support an old friend."
Iwaizumi cocks an eyebrow remembering the hours he's spent listening to Oikawa complain about lackluster dates with no spark, the number of failed relationships he's had because no one gets him, and the way he called Iwaizumi immediately after that interview to proclaim that he'd evened the score but would he like to go watch the Japan vs Argentina men's soccer match so they could catch up before Oikawa has to go home and no it has nothing to do with the fact that it's your team, it's Japan and Argentina so there's nothing weird about the two of them going to watch the game--
A loud voice cuts off Iwaizumi's deliberation to berate his best friend or not; the game's starting.
They watch through the opening ceremonies and Iwaizumi pretends not to notice the way Oikawa sits a little taller at the announcement of your name.
Neither of them know anything about soccer but they don't need to. The game is intense and engaging. It doesn't take much to draw them into the game play but they're also both watching you.
Iwaizumi ignores the way Oikawa withdraws. He can see it written all over Oikawa's face: he's remembering what it was like to have you on their sideline. The sharp-eyed, even sharper-tongued manager who made them feel like they could do anything.
Oikawa starts to implode seeing you in action again like this.
They watch you watch your team, seeing the way your eyes dart from player to player until, triggered by some minute detail hone unseen by the thousands of other eyes, you snatch your bag.
A moment later there's a whistle and the game stops as everyone notices a white-haired player on the ground clutching his ankle; you're already sprinting onto the field.
After a tense few minutes of what feels like the world watching you examine the player you sit back on your heels.
Your relief is palpable from here.
His teammates help him up with a few inaudible but teasing-looking comments and he pats your head.
"Manager-chan," Oikawa whispers to himself.
You jog away as the positive outcome, no injury, is announced in the stadium.
Only slightly louder, just for Iwaizumi to hear as the applause of the crowd swallows his words, Oikawa whispers "I really made the wrong choice...didn't I?"
Iwaizumi grumbles "no shit, dumbass."
A camera zooms in on you and your invigorated expression, putting you on display for the crowd on the giant screens as you leave the field. The match commentators announce your name and thank you for supporting the team.
Game play resumes and Oikawa tries to get back into it but he's too focused on you. Iwaizumi leans over to ask him something that he doesn't hear; someone texts him at the same moment. He's about to ignore it and ask Iwaizumi to repeat himself when he gets another text.
And another.
His phone starts rapidly going off until he pulls it out and silences it, intending to make the most out of this chance to watch you until he notices--
Hanamaki.
Matsukawa.
It's the infrequently used but long-standing Seijoh group chat he shared with them and Iwaizumi who takes out his phone, too, as Oikawa's unlocking his to see--
himself.
Ooooo, you still got it bad don't you captainnnn????
Hanamaki's teasing text follows a picture of a TV with himself and Iwaizumi in these very seats on the screen.
They exchange a worried look as Oikawa fires off a rapid reply--
What the hell is that
You're there to see our old manager, aren't you? Maki quickly says followed by Matsukawa who, more helpfully answers,
Hosts for the live broadcast cut to you after they showed our old manager leaving the field...referenced that interview you gave the other day 😏
Oikawa slowly looks up at Iwaizumi. No one around them has noticed
yet.
But the world outside, the one getting raw commentary as the match progresses, has had the dots connected and knows he's here and, given that recent interview, it's probably to see you.
i cant explain it but the haikyuu "monster generation" is so so cool like omfg,,, the line of them all gathering in the v league division one. the specific word choice of gathering. the idea of them all having so much history and ups and downs and they loved each other and now theyre adults with little mismatch teams and theyre living their dreams and they still love each other augh im not okay
hope we all know that this isn't just any paul aron who we're gonna see as the f1 reserve next year…
it's the paul who's been in love with racing ever since he was a baby, who wanted to race just so he could grow up to be like his brother. the paul who travels around to support his brother or his team even when he's got a weekend off.
it's the paul who finished third in his first-ever season of formula 3, who was in the fight for the title up until the last round (and would've had a much better chance if not for the team's mistake in spa).
it's the paul who fit so well into the mercedes profile, who expressed his gratitude to the team and their work whenever he could, who fought so hard to make them proud.
it's the paul who was always going to be put behind kimi in toto wolff's eyes, no matter how well he performed.
it's the paul who had to leave everything he had grown up with, his team of many years, his close friends and staff members, and move on. who had to let go of everything he knew from before and go alone.
it's the paul who went into his first full formula 2 season with hopes and dreams instead of expectations; who said he was there to learn and grow, and then he would see where that would take him.
it's the paul who failed to get into the top ten in qualifying for the first round of the 2024 season, but still managed a p5 in the sprint – and a podium in the feature, despite a time penalty, and got to celebrate in parc ferme with his brother and trainer.
it's the paul who, as a rookie, went onto the podium every round in the first seven rounds. who's been consistent like few others in a series (and team) known for its inconsistency.
it's the paul who never forgets to credit and thank his family, team and trainer, acknowledging that every success is thanks to a team effort – and that even if things don't go as well as planned, the team still did their best to help him out.
it's the paul who thanks to his determination and hard work managed to impress his f2 team principal, oliver oakes, so much that the latter thought "i need this guy on my team" when he became the alpine f1 principal.
it's the paul who fights every setback with an attitude of revenge instead of hopelessness; despite everything he's been through, he never gives up. he wants to prove everyone wrong.
it's the paul who turns every heartbreak – from mechanical failures to tactical missteps – into fuel for his fire. it's the paul who reminds us that success isn't a straight line; success is the product of unwavering determination and the courage to keep going.
it's a paul who's learned so much, grown so much stronger; who's been through so many hardships and said "you know what? i'm going to learn from this and come out stronger on the other side", and that's exactly what he did. i'm so proud to have gotten to follow him on this journey, and i can't wait to see where this next chapter of his life will lead him.
how can seven boys be so ruthless on the field but so shy around the ones who won their hearts? but one thing is the same: they won’t stop until they’ve won.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
this idea came to be from me sending a tiktok to @quokkacore because hyuck looks hot playing sports (whether the ball he was holding was a soccer ball or a basketball, no one really knows), and now we’re here! updates will be sporadic and all of the fics will be under 5k :) you can read the fics in any order that you want, but the chronological order is donghyuck, jeno, mark, renjun, jaemin, jisung, then chenle.
if you would like to be tagged, please reply to this post or send me an ask!
soccer player!mark lee x tutor!fem!reader
the profile:
the oldest | #4 | center defender
i’m fluent in your love language
mark lee is anything but dumb. but he sure does pretend to be when he finds out his crush is the new foreign language tutor. will he finally be able to sweep her off her feet after all these years?
miya atsumu is the type of man who still gets flustered when you flirt with him. regardless of how long yall are together, he still turns into a flustered mess if you flirt especially out in public
miya atsumu is the type of man who will shamelessly yell "i love you!" when he drops you off at work. he's aware everyone knows about your relationship so why not embarass you a lil bit? saying "i love you" back is nice and all but the real satisfaction comes when you tell him to shut up and run inside the building <3
miya atsumu is the type of man who will hold your heels for you. he always has an extra pair of shoes in his car if you ever feel like switching but if you're out he doesn't mind giving his shoes for you to wear and going barefoot for a while.
miya atsumu is the type of man who wears shorts a lot. at home, during practice, even when you're going out together, that's his go-to outfit. he has an infinite amount of them in his closet. it drives him mad (in the best way) when you wear them too.
miya atsumu is the type of man who will take a lot selfies on your phone. not just one or ten, oh no, his selfies can fit a whole other album. and it's all these unflattering pictures of him he'd never dare post to the public.
miya atsumu is the type of man who will cut you off with a kiss. like when you're rambling or nervous about something, he'll give a quick peck to make you pause and take a breather. or when you look too pretty for a date night out, he can't help but capture your lips and make sure you know what kind of effect you have on him. either way, it's a win win situation.
notes : been feeling kind of down this past week but this man is my comfort character so reading all the fluff in the tags made me feel better <3 i actually might do this w mattsun next huhu
Summary: Osamu befriends an old man obsessed with taiyaki
Word count: 2.1k
Genre: tbh, idk? maybe a little wistful? fluff adjacent?
Osamu had never expected this to be a part of his job. Food service, he assumed, entailed just that. He realized early on why the industry is unappreciated. What they serve is a necessity. It’s not the dishes that he painstakingly shapes with his hands; that’s passion. What they provide is humanity, snapshots of hope in an other poignant experience in life.
He sells moments, an experience. It’s the common interactions, the shallow conversations and finer details, that people thrive on. There’s nothing deep to the connections that Osamu makes, just observed minutiae that he puts to good use and sometimes that’s just as appealing as his good food.
“Boss, Grandpa’s on the line.”
The chef’s laugh is facetious. He doesn’t look up from his clipboard, merely holds out an open palm for the phone to drop in.
“Miya Osa–”
“I want my taiyaki!”
“Oh, Jiji,” Osamu glances up at the clock and notes it’s not even noon. He’s rather early for his usual outbursts, “how many times do I have to tell ya? Onigiri. I sell onigiri. I ain’t got taiyaki in here.”
He smiles at the disgruntled noise the old man makes, obscenities muttered all together as if in a single file line. “Beats me how you’re still even open without taiyaki on the menu.”
Osamu sidesteps out of the way of one of his runners with an apologetic nod. They’re just as contrite as he. Jiji’s reputation precedes him and though it’s only Osamu who he gives a hard time, the store phone, one of his first buys from a secondhand shop, is no match for the old man’s tirades.
“Beats me how ya even have this much energy in the morning, Jiji.” He shuts the door to his office behind him and sprawls out onto his desk chair. The back bends and he leans his head against the plush of the seat, mussing his hair to fluff it back up again. “Aren’t ya a hundred years old or something?”
“A hundred years old and probably livelier than you. You sound like a beat up truck on its last legs.”
Osamu shamelessly laughs. It’s true. “I got a bit more mileage on me, Jiji. Ya don’t gotta worry.”
“I’m not.”
“But ya calling a bit early, ain’t ya? Ya crush didn’t show up at the rec center yet?”
The old man literally harumps. Osamu’s never met Jiji, at least not in person, but he can picture his face clearly. Surly, wrinkled, probably with his arms crossed, and that smart, old mouth on him. One of the new kids he’d hired ran to the back, eyebrows drawn and pleading as he explained that there’s an irrational old man on the phone disappointed with his delivery of taiyaki. Quick wit whipped back and forth like watching a tennis match and he’s called ever since.
He welcomes the exchange. Osamu has a certain fondness for foul mouthed creatures, an acquired taste thanks to that twin of his and he likes to think that he’s doing an everyday decency. There’s no harm in entertaining an old guy who probably has no one to talk to. He loses nothing and gains more entertainment than primetime television.
“I told ya,” Osamu teases. “Ya should have been more upfront about it.”
“Hey, watch your mouth, kid. I’m the old man with the experience, here.”
Osamu bounces his foot on the ground so that he may sway back and forth in his seat, “Ah, what’s the advice for today, Jiji?”
He surprised him, the younger one realizes when there’s a lengthy silence on the line. He chooses his answer carefully, wit set on the backburner. It makes Osamu sit up, as if the realization that he is in the presence of a respected elder finally dawns on him, and waits expectantly for the answer.
“What you think about before bed,” he starts slowly as though every word he speaks is fragile, “will be your greatest regrets if they aren’t already.”
Talking to an old man about regrets of all things makes his heart grow heavy. So he turns the conversation around before it can weigh him down. “This about ya crush, Jiji? Come on, don’t lose hope. We can fix this mess.”
Osamu doesn’t think about the old man until later that day when he’s in bed. Alone again, he seriously wonders if the old man is too.
Osamu’s outside of the rec center on his next day off with a satchel across his chest and faded Atsumu merch on his back from his twin’s rookie years. He might have done some innocent sleuthing knowing the old man would never give up his location. Osamu called the rec center and asked for an old man with a clever mouth and obsession with taiyaki. It was easy enough, the reputation of his infamous as the front desk ladies eagerly offered his everyday schedule, probably in hopes that he could take him off their hands just for a moment.
Finding him is even more effortless. Osamu is led to the game room and before the employee points him out, his eyes immediately lock onto an old, crotchety man seated in a chair along the sidelines. He’s burrowed into himself, dour and hunched over a cane as he stares off at everyone else in the room playing their board games with a bitter indifference.
“Jiji!” Osamu calls from the entrance of the room. His head picks up, speculative, a defensive scowl marring his face when it lands on Osamu. The younger man takes it in stride, a beaming grin on his face as he waves at him. “Hey, Jiji, it’s me. Osa–”
“Onigiri man.” He states blandly. Now that he’s closer, though the frown pulls at his worn lips, Osamu witnesses a lively glimmer in his eyes.
He welcomes himself to the seat across from him, “came to visit ya, Old man.”
“You look as dumb as I thought you would,” he observes.
“Now, now, that ain’t something ya should say to someone who finally brought what ya been asking for.” Osamu pulls a paper bag from his satchel and plops it right on the table between them.
He’s hesitant, eyeing it, but there’s a bristling excitement that brews underneath Osamu’s skin and he knows his older counterpart feels the same.
Jiji’s hands play with the handle of his cane, gripping and releasing it. He finally glances up at him, tentative, “taiyaki?”
Osamu slides his butt to the edge of the seat so he can lean back and stretch his legs. This must be what his childhood heroes must feel like. A tightness pulls at his chest, one that reminds him of the power in little things.
He thinks of how Atsumu would blow on his cuts after every fight, careful even though he’s the cause of them. He thinks of his Ma who lights up at a simple phone call. He thinks of this old man in bed, staring at the ceiling with that glimmer in his eyes.
“Ya haven’t stopped going on and on about them. Decided to give ya a reason to finally shut up about it.”
Hands dotted with sun spots reach for the bag and carefully unravel it. He pulls one of the fish shaped snacks out but once out of the bag, his expression immediately sours. Osamu watches, captivated, as Jiji brings it closer to his eyes, as if sight has failed him. He runs his hands along it, takes two sniffs, and finally, he has the courage to take one small nibble.
The old man immediately spits it out and Osamu is bellyover, cackling.
“You precocious brat!” Grandpa lifts his cane up as if to smack him. Osamu holds his hands out in defense, still shaking in amusement.
“Can’t believe ya fell for that, Jiji!” Osamu’s wiping tears from his eyes as the old man growls in his spot, looking at the crisp rice in his hands with enough disdain it could burn even further. “Told ya I sell onigiri.”
“This isn’t onigiri.”
The innovative chef shrugs, “taiyakigiri. Asked the shop next door if I could borrow their maker just so I could prank ya.”
“Boy,” he points a shaky finger but Osamu sees past his bluff. He sees frown lines and reads an inverted smile instead, “you’re even dumber than I thought.”
“Grandpa!”
“Ahh, drats.” He’s back to slumping into himself and Osamu turns around, finding someone his age who is equally weary as they are horrified.
You’re scolding what Osamu believes to be your grandfather the moment he is within earshot. “What are you doing calling strangers dumb?”
“That’s no stranger,” though he’s defiant, he can’t look his grandkid in the eye.
Your gaze turns to him, sizing him up.
“Miya Osa–”
“Onigiri Man.”
You light up immediately at the sound of his pseudonym, “Onigiri Man! Oh wow, I thought my grandpa was going senile when he’d mention you. Did you know you’re this guy’s best friend?”
He heats, the idea of being Jiji’s best friend embarrassing and endearing.
Jiji forcefully pokes your calf with his cane, beckoning you to take the seat beside him. “He’s nothing of the sort. This man tried to feed me rice disguised as taiyaki. I ought to call consumer affairs for this.”
His complaints go unheard when you dive into the bag, admiring Osamu’s handiwork. “Grandpa, you fell for this? That’s hilarious.” Then eyeing Osamu, “good job. Sometimes this guy needs to be knocked down a peg. Speaking of–” You turn back to your elder relative, “what happened to being patient? I told you I’d take you anywhere you want after I finished my work. You’re harder to round up than a herd of cattle.”
“Take a guess who you inherited that from, Kid,” he mutters discreetly but softens the moment you sigh.
“You make me worry, Grandpa. Anything could happen, and you’re all I’ve got left.” Osamu feels like he’s witnessing a private conversation, but his stomach grows heavy at the implication. Osamu, even when born, has never been alone. Loneliness might be plaguing him, but the idea that he has no one to fall back on, well, the idea sounds unbearable.
He drops another bag onto the table and disrupts the tension. “Check inside, Jiji.”
“I don’t trust you.”
You nudge the man, “be nice.”
The old man finally eats taiyaki that day. He breaks rice and bread and shares it with his best friend and grandkid. You spill all of Jiji’s embarrassing secrets like how he’s been requesting onigiri for lunch lately. Osamu talks about his friends and his job and so do you. The two of you are not from here, you having moved because of a job and Jiji following. The old man challenges Osamu to a game of chess and you spectate, witnessing his spectacular loss.
Jiji ends up falling asleep right in his chair with your jacket draped over him. Conversation flows and eventually, Osamu’s realized that he’s spent his only day off at a rec center three wards from his with a crabby old man and his overworked grandkid that likes to laugh at all his jokes.
You walk him out, Jiji left behind, and hand him a piece of paper at the entrance.
He unravels the wrinkled thing and looks up at you in surprise.
“My phone number,” you explain, “just in case. For my Grandpa.”
He nods slowly. Right. For Jiji.
“I think he calls you more than he talks to me.” It’s not an attack, possibly just a jealous observation.
Osamu ruminates for a moment, thinking of the old man and all that he’s inadvertently passed onto him with what Osamu once thought were pointless phone calls.
“That old man’s bored,” Osamu says, eyeing your expression carefully. “He’s looking to run his mouth, not get it run on him. I’m sure at the end of the day when he’s in bed, you’re the one he’s thinking about. Not Onigiri Man.”
Your smile brightens and when Osamu walks home, he thinks of you and the grouchy taiyaki fiend. He thinks of the two of you again when he slides into bed - first your smile and then Jiji’s inverse. He gets up and goes to his hamper. Searching through the pocket of the jeans he wore that day, Osamu finally decides to listen to Jiji in earnest.
His question came suddenly, the weight cutting through the tv show you’d been watching. It was quiet for a Saturday, Osamu had gone shopping with their mother for the day and in the stillness of the air, something must have stirred Atsumu’s brain into conjuring a story that wasn’t true.
Without looking from the documentary, you pop a few more pieces of popcorn into your mouth, “constantly. Why?” To amuse him, you throw a few kernels at his head, grinning to yourself when he grumbles and bats them away in your peripheral.
“I’m being serious.”
“I am, too.”
“Oh my god-“
“What has gotten into you?” You say, chuckling softly to hide your concern. “Neither of us has said a word for 45 minutes, I haven’t even made one joke about your brows- so what gives with the existential crisis and the pouting?”
He says nothing, and when you finally cast him a look, he looks… sad. He’s playing with the callouses adorning his hand, a nervous trait he’s developed, only dropping them in his lap when you swat it away with a “stop picking.”
“Where is this coming from, ‘Tsumu?” You ask finally, not finding enjoyment in his turmoil anymore. You pause the tv and place the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, turning to face him and your heart squeezes at the sight.
He’s pouting, literally pouting his bottom lip out like a toddler, his eyes a little glassy and his nose flaring as he tries to keep any tears at bay. “‘Tsumu, you can tell me anything… what’s going on?” You reach out to lay your hand on his hair, fingers gently carding the blond locks soothingly; he’d always found comfort in it, and just by the look on his face, you knew he needed it.
“You know you can tell me anything, yeah?”
Atsumu bites his nail while his head angles into your touch, all before letting out a shaky sigh and casting you a look. “I just… I know ‘m not the most… coddl-y person in the world, so…”
“Well yeah, but it’s what makes you, you. You’re not coddl-y, you laugh when kids fall on their face, you steal my snacks after I tell you no, and I’m convinced you still don’t know my birthday- and it’s you. You’re Atsumu.”
“But don’t you think you deserve… better?”
“We’re not married, miya, if I wanted you gone, I’d be gone.”
He pouts and shuffled closer to you to rest his head on your shoulder, whining softly, “I just… think you should be with friends who make you feel good… like Aran, or… Suna, or Osamu-“
“Oh my god, are you dying?” You snicker, your arms wrapping around him to squeeze him lovingly, relieved it’s not anything too serious. “Atsumu, you really don’t have to worry about these things. I’m friends with ‘Samu, yes, he’s one of my best friends. But that has not much to do with you. You’re two different people, I don’t lump you both together, dude. And you do know I love Rintaro and Aran, sure, but they have their own ways of showing that they appreciate me. Just like you.” You hook a lock of hair behind his ear, “in your own ridiculous, freakish way.”
Still pouting, he curls up in your side and slowly closes his eyes, your fingers still carding his hair. “Don’t call me dude,” he grumbles, and you roll your eyes to try and hide the fact that his newly found affection and dropping of the topic is just one of those ways he shows you his appreciation.
“Youre a mean spirited, self absorbed, disturbed little weirdo,” you hum, giving his side a little squeeze, which he squawks and jerks away from. “But for whatever reason I decide to keep you around, you are still my best friend.”
The air is calmed around you both, the frown on his face finally being turned into a smile as he stays settled into your side. You know better to expect a thank you, but you know for a fact that this is how he shows his appreciation- he trusts you. He knows he can curl into your side and take a nap, or rest his head on your shoulder when he’s sad, he can reach for your hand when he’s stressed, all without fear of judgement. You want to tease him, you do, but for now, you let him indulge in the closeness and relish in your promise to be there for him no matter what.
“You need to take a shower,” he yawns out. “Ya fuckin’ reek.”
You almost felt bad for the poor unsuspecting employee that you’re almost positive you’d passed so many times in the store for having to answer your call. He sounded nice, sounded much younger than Osamu or yourself, and you’re just as positive he wasn’t ready for the next phrase to fall from your lips. “Get your bitch ass boss on the phone, please.”
You practically hear the shaking of his hands as he says “o-okay uhm… let me uhm.. let m-e-“ a pleasant music plays over the telephone line as you’re out on hold, only making your blood boil more as even at work it seemed, Osamu was going to test your patience.
“Miya Osamu speaking-“
“I swear to God, I will divorce you.”
“Oh. Hey, honey,” he chuckles, and you hate that you can practically see that handsome face splay out into a grin over the phone. “What can I do for ya? You want your usual-“
“I want a divorce.”
“Yeah, unfortunately we’re not offering that. Ever. Something else I can do for you?”
“Osamu,” you growl between your teeth. Your head ducks back down into the fridge, eyes scanning furiously over the shelves. “Where. Are. My leftovers?”
“What leftovers?”
“I will throw every one of your things in a fire and run off with Shinsuke, fuck around and find out.“
“Baby, what leftovers? From where?”
“From Atsumu’s ass, where do you think from!” You growl, and once again, you can hear him stifle his laughter at your dramatics. “You, dickhead! My leftovers from the dinner you made me last night!”
“I put all that was left from dinner in the fridge, my love-“
“Don’t you ‘my love’ me,” you snarl. “Because I made a plate for myself so I could enjoy today, and now I’m looking in the fridge and what do you know! They’re not in here.” You raise your brows accusingly, “I think you, however, might’ve taken them and not told me, my love.”
You hear him scoff, and you know it’s just to match your dramatic energy, but you’re not about to let him make you smile after stealing your food. “Hey. I am nothing but honest about my food theft- I replace what I take, or I leave you a ridiculous note so you’re more inclined to come in and order from here- this isn’t my first rodeo, babe.”
“Seems awful wordy for someone who could’ve just said ‘no,’” you hum, still holding an accusatory lilt in your voice. “You got something you wanna tell me, ‘Samu? Love of my life? Sweet husband of mine?”
“Well now I’m going to eat your fuckin’ leftovers,” he says back without missing a beat.
“I knew it! I knew you took them!”
“Babe-“
“Fuck, I can’t have shit in this house!“
“My love?”
“Don’t be surprised when you find holes in your shirts-“
“Sweetie?”
“WHAT!”
“Check the crisper drawer,” he says cooly. You roll your eyes with a snarl, but there’s a sinking feeling in your gut when staring back at you, surrounded by vegetables and nestled on a plate with cling wrap, was your leftovers, complete with a sticky note that has your name with a crudely drawn heart.
“Oh…”
“Yeah oh,” he snorts, letting out a sigh. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”
“Yeah… I love you too; I’m sorry ‘Samu…”
“It’s alright,” he promises. “I’ll put you back in your place when I get home.”
“What-“
“Enjoy lunch, babe.”
“Wait, Osamu!”
The phone line clicks off, leaving you to your leftovers and the coldness of the fridge suddenly making you feel weary and uneasy in the silence of your house.
He’s a walking cliché, this, you tease him for constantly. He cooks when he’s mad, cleans when he’s depressed, and searching for you to show you what he’s done for you when he’s sorry for being so… him.
More often than not, if it’s an argument between you both, or a fight he feels went unresolved, he bakes sweets, something that you can share and wrap up and not have to worry about reheating if he’s gone. Something he can make for you, an act of service to show that he still loves you.
The smell of muffins is exactly what woke you up.
Thankfully, it was the smell of muffins first, because when you pat his side of the bed, only to feel it empty and cold in your palm, you could feel your heart sink in your chest. It doesn’t last long though, what kind of intruder bakes muffins before robbing a house? Only Osamu would be up at 2:30 in the morning to make fucking muffins.
Slowly, you swing your legs out from the bed and toe on some slippers to keep your feet warm from the floor, and sleepily shuffle out of the bed and towards the kitchen. It’s dark, save for one light above the stove, and he’s ferociously grunting as he stirs batter and chocolate chips, while next to him, a dozen blueberry muffins sit prettily on a plate. Behind that, a dozen banana muffins- Shinsuke’s favorite, Osamu’s probably bringing some to him to apologize for being late for the pickup.
“Smells good,” you hum nonchalantly. Your words are interrupted with a scream and a jolt from your boyfriend, his head shooting up and slamming into the cabinets with a groan of pain. You have to stifle your laughs as a large paw comes up to hold the now throbbing part of his head.
“Not funny,” he chides, still not turning to face you. You call his bluff though, for his body physically relaxes at your voice.
“Well deserved,” you chide back. You slowly approach him, not entirely sure if he even wants you to. “You do know that I’ve forgiven you though, right?”
His shoulders tense right back up. His hand starts to beat the batter again. He says nothing.
“We both said some stupid things, but…” you chew your lip. “I didn’t like waking up without you next to me. I never do.”
“Told me to sleep on the couch-“
“Yeah, and you told me I’m an asshole, so,” you offer him a shrug of your shoulder, even if he’s still facing from you. “We both said shit we didn’t mean.”
He says nothing. He starts to beat the batter again. But this time, his shoulders sulk. “I really didn’t mean it.”
“I know you didn’t,” you whisper, stalking even closer. You’re close enough where you rest your head in the dip of his broad back, your hands hooking over his shoulders with your thumbs stroking soothingly. He smells like stale cologne and a light cling of sweat. “If you did, you’d be dead by now, and they’d never find the body.” This, causes him to laugh softly, his shoulders shaking slightly. “But I know you didn’t; so I forgive you. Just like how I didn’t mean I wanted you to sleep on the couch.”
“Well, to be fair,” he says softly. “I never… uh.. really went to bed. Kinda just jumped to muffins.” You snort and wrap your arms instead around his torso, squeezing him like he’s a big teddy bear, so warm and snuggly and with a new mood to the air, you feel like you could fall asleep nuzzled right against him.
“Come to bed,” you mumble. He shakes his head, “can’t until my chocolate chip muffins are done.”
“Can’t you finish it tomorrow?”
“Can’t I finish it tomorrow, do you not appreciate a grilled muffin in the morning?”
“Are the other two-dozen muffins not good enough?”
“If you’re going to make fun of me, you can just kiss freshly baked muffins goodbye.” He’s full of it and you know that, but who were you to deny spending time with the love of your life?
“Fine- can I at least help?”
Even if you can’t see his face, you practically hear the smile easing like butter over his cheeks. “You’re already helping more than you could know.”
You're at a rooftop bar in the heart of Kyoto when you first ask Kuroo a question that's been burning on your mind since you initially began seeing him. It's the liquid courage coursing through your veins that allows you to ask what you want to; the slightly teasing question rising up to be as playful as Kuroo is with you.
You take a sip of your kamikaze, tilt your head to the side to take in all of your boyfriend's features, and pause for a beat.
"How do you get your hair to look like that?"
The look Kuroo gives you—or the look he tries to give you, rather—is sly like a fox. But in his nature, he can only hold it for a few seconds before guffawing loudly, clutching his belly with his free hand while his other arm stays wrapped around your shoulder.
"Tetsuro, I'm serious," you say with a light-hearted smack to his shoulder, although you can't help but begin to laugh a little with him now, too.
"I know, I know," Kuroo says as he wipes away an imaginary tear from his eye with the back of his index finger. "Ah, that's too good," he finishes with a content sigh once he pulls himself together.
He pinches your cheek with the hand that rests around you, laughing even more when you giggle and squirm, and then he shakes his head before he leans in to kiss your temple.
"It's a secret. But maybe someday I'll let ya know the details," he says pulling away with a wink and a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Someday" is a week later when you stay the night at Kuroo's place for the first time.
You slept on your side while Kuroo slept on his stomach, and his hand reached out to rest on your hip for most of the night. It stays like that more or less even when you wake up, and as you blink awake for bleary eyes, you discover the long awaited answer to your burning question.
Apart from Kuroo's hair just "being like that" which Kenma once mentioned to you when you first noticed him at a party, you began to realize that Kuroo didn't even style it like that on purpose. But what he did do was push it together like that on purpose, what with two pillows smushed onto both his ears and his hair. Stifling a giggle, you put a hand up to your mouth to hold in your laugh as you try to wonder when and how he did that in the middle of the night.
And although the sight makes you laugh, it also makes your chest stir with a feeling of adoration. It's too soon to feel that way, but you can't deny the buzz dancing across your scalp, the jolt in your heart, or the tingle in your lips, and it's not long before the laughter bubbles out from you.
It wakes Kuroo up almost immediately as he lifts his head up to investigate the sound. One of his eyes is closed as he tries to get a better look at you, but when he does see you, he shoots you a lazy grin.
"I wanna laugh, too," he mumbles, putting his head back down onto pillow to shake the sleep off of himself before tossing his second pillow away.
Your laughter is louder now as Kuroo fully begins to wake up, and he leans on his side so that his arms can reach out to you, tickling your ribs in the meantime.
"Come on," he chuckles with you, "what's so funny?"
"Nothing, nothing," you protest through giggles as you push his hands away and take them into yours. "I just—" you stop to catch your breath, locking eyes with Kuroo who's still smirking at you. You smile back. "I figured out your secret," you say with a last laugh, playing with his messy bedhead, which you now realize is his regular everyday hair.
Kuroo looks up at your hand, pauses, and goes "pfft," before pulling you into his chest.
"You know I've got other secrets for you to figure out," he says slyly.
"Oh yeah?" you tease back. "Anything I should be concerned about?"
And it's then that Kuroo's face grows serious. You recognize it as the look you gave him earlier when a buzz danced across your scalp, your heart jolted, and your lips tingled. You hold your breath for a second, and Kuroo gives you a genuine smile this time, devoid of all slyness or mystery.
Atsumu was the type of kid to tease you and pull your hair when he had a crush on you. Of course, he would do it with pure intentions and a heart of gold, but still be so annoying with it.
This would, obviously, correlate to adulthood: he would shoot you teasing grins, sling an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer to him, mischievously tucking your head under his chin as he sways you back and forth. His heart pounding in his chest as you’d grin back at him, easily getting him back by pinching his cheek and cooing at how cute he looks.
Then there’s Osamu, who would pick you flowers at the park, make you little cards, and share bits of his lunch with you. He would always save you a seat next to him (meaning that, of course, Atsumu would be in the spot next to you) always with a sweet smile on his face.
This would, obviously, correlate to adulthood: he would cook you your favorite foods, always surprising you with it without having to even ask. Sheepishly scratching the back of his neck as he’d let out an airy chuckle, adoring the happiness that overtook him at the sight of your happiness.
