the reason why osamu installed tvs at the restaurant was to support his friends by showing their matches, no matter if it were the olympics, v. league, or vnl. if there weren’t any matches, the tvs would remain off, unless requested, but now, with the world cup …
“osamu-chan, could ya turn on the tv?” one of his regulars asked. “we don’t know where ta watch.”
he might as well rebrand to a sports bar instead of an onigiri restaurant, at this point.
every seat is filled. he’s sent a worker outside to manage the crowd and turn away potential customers with apologies because the kitchen is slammed. nearly all his staff are on deck, either on the floor taking and delivering orders, or in the back, preparing ingredients to keep the service alive. osamu leads the fray, sleeves rolled to his shoulders, hat askew, towel around his neck while his hands work, work, work.
unlike a certain somebody.
he jumps at the collective shouts and fists slamming the table. “he missed!” someone shouts. “that net was wide open!”
“needs ta get his eyes checked, that one,” another grumbles. “this is what happens when ya rely on the young’uns too much.”
“aw, don’t say that.” atsumu leans in close, cheeks puffed with rice, seaweed stuck to his fingers. “if ya don’t let the young’uns play, how’ll they get experience ta win?”
“atsumu-chan, yer just talkin’ ‘bout yerself,” shimano-san slurs, waving his empty beer mug in air. “boss, get me a refill! if japan ain’t stoppin’, neither am i!”
osamu suppresses his irritation. “junpei,” he calls out. “can ya help shimano-san?”
he places the last onigiri on the plate and places it on the counter. “table four, service!”
that’s just one order out of so, so many. osamu reaches for his water bottle, draining the cool liquid in two gulps, slamming it down when he catches the empty plate out of the corner of his eye. atsumu looks at him expectantly. “we could use extra help,” osamu says, monotone.
“yeah, i bet.” atsumu doesn’t break eye contact.
“ya know, someone who can work the counter, or somethin’.”
“that’d be helpful, yeah.”
osamu feels his eyebrow twitch. “maybe someone who has a runnin’ debt an’ can work it off.”
“good luck tryna find 'em.”
by the end of tonight, he will be an only child. “listen, ya ungrateful bastard-“
another round of shouts and slams interrupt him. atsumu twists toward the table, shrieking because he missed japan’s goal, has to watch the replay. it’s a pretty impressive shot, osamu hears the others say, but he doesn’t bother, just grabs another handful of rice to start another order. as tempted he is to not show future matches, capitalism whispers into his ear about the financial benefits, the beautiful shade of green that’ll appear on his spreadsheet.
but then rationality points out the importance of his staff’s wellbeing, and his own. while they have days off, he’s lucky to sleep six hours a night.
closing time comes and goes, but the match continues. his servers take a final round of orders, dozens more onigiri to nourish the spectators until the final minute. he steps away for a minute, needs to sit after ten hours upright, hides in his office to splat against the table with a groan. think o’ the business. think o’ all the renovations i can do, now. after all, there are no better customers than rowdy middle-aged men with alcohol in their veins and rice in their stomachs.
once the match is over, the riffraff leaves with his customers, a few of them stumbling underneath the noren with flushed cheeks. osamu locks the door behind them, pivots to stare at the mess of his restaurant, has to put it together to open in twelve hours – less than that, if he dawdles.
the sound of chairs scraping the floor shake him from his stupor. atsumu is stacking chairs against the wall, junpei sweeping underneath the tables. matsuda is cleaning the counter, ueda is wrapping containers to put in the fridge– “i thought i sent y’all home,” osamu blurts out.
“ya think we’d leave ya by yerself?” matsuda shakes her head at him. “if anythin’, ya shoulda gone home since ya hafta open tomorrow.”
“it’s okay, boss,” junpei adds. “i don’t have class until four tomorrow!”
osamu feels a wave of gratitude, which quickly dissolves at the sight of his brother. “what ‘bout ya, idiot?” he’s nothing but derisive. “thought ya’d head out with the rest.”
“listen, i ain’t that inconsiderate.” atsumu stacks three chairs at a time. “kill me fer wantin’ ta enjoy the match with everyone else. will helpin’ with clean-up clear my debt?”
his brother hums, propping the noren against the wall. “we’ll see.”
with atsumu and his staff, they finish in record time, saying good night to each other on a darkened street. osamu half-expects atsumu to run off, especially since he has practice tomorrow, but he doesn’t, just walks with him. “i didn’t think that many people would come,” he comments, arms folded behind his head. “guess folks just like watchin’ fer the sake o’ watchin’.”
“s’a good vibe! was it like this durin’ the olympics?”
osamu nods, can barely keep his eyes open. at least he lives nearby.
they arrive at his apartment. osamu doesn’t bother to turn the lights on, just kicks his shoes off, stumbles through the darkness to his bed, falling face first onto the mattress. “love my bed,” he mumbles, eyes falling shut. “don’t wanna leave.”
“at least shower, scrub,” atsumu calls out from somewhere.
yer gonna hate yerself if ya don’t.”
as much as he wants to argue, it’s true – he doesn’t sleep well without showering first. with great reluctance, he slides off the bed, slinks into the bathroom. the cold water’s never felt more refreshing.
when he steps outside, the lights are on. atsumu is in the kitchen, plating a simple dish of fried rice with leftovers in the fridge – green onion, salmon, chicken. osamu catches his eye, who gestures at him to sit and eat despite the midnight hour. aside from showering, he also needs to sleep on a full stomach.
oh. this is how he’s repayin’ that debt.
whether atsumu stays or not, osamu doesn’t know. instead, when there’s another full house on a match day and atsumu is sitting at his counter, he’ll just slide him some otoro onigiri, no questions asked.
loosely inspired by this meme:
and also the group of middle-aged men watching the switzerland vs bosnia and herzegovina match at the vietnamese restaurant my dad and i were at. they were very enthusiastic.
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