osamu comforts your daughter before her first music recital of the school year.
part six of the after school series, a friends-to-lovers AU featuring you, osamu, and the relationship you build solo-parenting two girls in the same kindergarten class.
"What on earth are you wearing?"
Osamu stopped short in the middle of the courtyard. Looked down at the baby blue button-up he'd thrown on in the rush to get here.
"Why?" he asked, inspecting the slightly wrinkled linen with a frown. "Did I stain it or somethin'?"
"No, I just..." Your brain short-circuited at the sleeves rolled past his muscled forearms, the fabric stretched across his broad chest. He'd even put a little product into his hair, from what you could tell. "I didn't realize you had other clothes in your closet."
A snort escaped him. "Trust me. I'd much rather be wearin' a t-shirt than this stuffy thing. Pretty sure it's Atsumu’s, actually."
"Well, you clean up nicely," you murmured, squeezing the supermarket bouquet you'd picked up on the way here. "Maybe you should steal from him more often."
“Yeah?” An amused, if not bashful smile ticked onto his lips. “He’s a lil’ slimmer, but I’ll see what I can do.”
You walked side-by-side toward the small gymnasium tucked into the heart of campus, where a throng of parents, grandparents, and family friends stood waiting to be let inside.
"For what it's worth, ya spruce up nicely yerself," Osamu added, gesturing his own bouquet to the patterned dress that hugged your curves, the dainty pearl necklace you'd worn to match. "Is that new?"
"What, this old thing?" You ran your palm down the red chiffon fabric and laughed. "Honestly, I feel a little silly. I haven't dressed up like this since before Misa was born."
His grey eyes scanned the sheepishness on your face. The slight tenderness there.
"Well, silly's the last word I'd use to describe ya right now."
"Okay," you snorted, although it didn't stop the heat from rising into your cheeks. "Did that shirt come with your brother's pick-up lines, too?"
Osamu chuckled as the crowd shuffled into the gymnasium, the scent of floor wax, air conditioning, and expensive bouquets rushing to greet you.
As part of Kimori's dedication to the performing arts, all students were required to participate in a semesterly strings recital as directed by the school's music instructor. The man himself, a composer by the name of Jules Bonneau, had been touted as Kimori's best-of-the-best, having sent multiple students to both national and international-level competitions. He was a prodigy, you'd heard from the mothers at the PTA. A modern-day Niccolò Paganini.
Osamu crinkled his nose. "Who the hell is that?"
"I have no idea," you said with a shrug. "Sounds impressive, though."
"I dunno," he drawled, filing into a vacant row toward the front of the room. "I don't doubt the guy's talented, but Misa and Kina just started school. What good's a couple months of lessons gonna do?"
"Who knows?" You plucked the program from your seat and eased in beside him. "Maybe one of our daughters will surprise us. Maybe we have a future prodigy on our hands."
"Well, I'd bet all my money that it's yours. I love Kina to death, but she can't sit still for five seconds without burstin' into flames."
"Yeah, well, I'm about to burst into flames if these people don't move their bouquets." You glared at the forty pounds of azaleas currently blocking your view of the stage. "Can a five-year-old even lift that thing?"
Before Osamu could open his mouth to respond, someone cleared their throat beside you.
"Excuse me, madame?" The elderly man greeted you with a bow. "Pleasure to meet you. I am Monsieur Bonneau, Misa's music instructor. You are her mother, yes?"
"I am!" You scanned his tense expression — the kind all teachers used when they were about to deliver bad news. "Is everything okay?"
“Yes! Just wanted to pop in and say what a joy it has been to have Misa in my class. She is wonderfully attentive, and I am excited for you to see all the hard work she’s put into the class performance.”
He kept that same, cheerful smile plastered to his face as he crouched down and looked you dead in the eye.
“That said, she’s currently undergoing a case of…how you say? Stage fright?”
You set your bouquet and program on the chair beneath you, flung your purse over a shoulder with all the determination you could muster. Meanwhile, Osamu stared at you with those steely eyes of his and asked, "Want me to go with ya?"
You blinked back at the question, the half-kind, half-blasé way in which he'd said it.
"I've got it."
"I know." He frowned. "That's not why I asked."
It wasn't often people accompanied you in situations like this. And if it were anyone else, you'd probably tell them not to worry. You'd spent the past five years of your life calming your daughter's storms, no father, grandparents, or hired help in sight.
But as you sank into Osamu's words — pictured him standing outside the classroom doing virtually nothing except being there — you felt your posture relax for a fraction of a second.
"...okay." You nodded, beckoning him out of his chair before you could think about it too deeply. "Come on, then."
It was all Osamu needed to hear before he set his own bouquet down and followed you out.
"Hey, kiddo." You crouched beneath your daughter's desk in the middle of her empty classroom, the scent of crayon shavings and Lysol already clinging to your clothes. "Mind if I join you?”
Misa reminded you of an armadillo when she was nervous — knees tucked against her chest, chin pressed into her sternum. You found her like this whenever thunderstorms rolled through your neighborhood, or dentists called for her biannual cleaning. Stage fright, however, was new territory for the both of you.
"There isn't enough room," she murmured.
"That's okay! I'll just stay here, then." You kicked off your glossy black pumps, laid belly-down beside her desk, and tried not to think about all the norovirus that lived on these floors. "I met Monsieur Bonneau this afternoon.”
"You did?"
You nodded. “Apparently, he’s a modern-day Niccolò Paganini.”
Your daughter frowned. “Who’s that?”
"Couldn't tell you."
She remained silent for a moment. Pensive.
"Is he mad at me?"
"Not at all. He just wants to know if you're okay. He said you put a lot of hard work into today's performance. Is that true?"
Nodding, she said, "Monsieur Bonneau lets me play violin in the music room at recess. When it’s quiet."
"Really? That’s kind of him." Your heart swelled at this newfound piece of information — this small glimpse into Misa's world that grew more colorful by the day. "Going from a quiet classroom to a big stage must feel pretty scary, then, huh?"
She buried her face between her knees.
"I don't wanna go up there, mommy. I wanna stay here with you."
"Oh, love." You reached out and gently tucked her hair behind her ears. "I get it. If you decide you don't want to do this, I won't force you. We can chill, take a half day. Go get ice cream sandwiches at the konbini."
A small smile worked its way onto your face as you nudged her under the chin.
"I think you've got what it takes to get up there, though,” you told her honestly. “Scaries and all."
Misa merely rolled her eyes, as if that was the biggest lie she'd ever been told.
Outside the classroom, Osamu sat on the wooden bench closest to the door. Eyes closed. Head laid back against the wall. He'd poured you and Misa two cups of water from the nurse's office, and he tried not to think about how presumptuous he looked, hovering around like a member of the secret service.
He hoped you didn't take offense to him being here. After all, you were plenty capable of handling Misa on your own, and the last thing he wanted was to suggest otherwise. He just found himself...clinging to you these days. Wanting to stay in your orbit, even if he wasn't explicitly needed.
He told himself it was because you were his friend. Because he'd rather sit here in silence than engage in small talk with other parents about where he vacationed. (Which was nowhere.)
But when he pictured you — with your patterned dress and dainty jewelry and the way your lipstick smudged when you laughed — another part of his brain wholeheartedly disagreed.
Osamu squashed the dispute like a bug as you pushed open the door to the classroom.
"How's she doin'?" he asked as you stepped outside and eased onto the bench.
You blew a raspberry. "She's stubborn, that's for sure."
Osamu handed you your water, eyes tracing the curve of your neck as you gulped it down. He averted his gaze once he realized what he was doing.
"She's convinced that I don't understand her." You hiccuped. "That I don't know what it feels like to be scared."
"I thought only teenagers said stuff like that," he chuckled. "Makes sense, though. Yer practically her superhero."
"Doesn't make situations like this any easier. I’m this close to shaking a box of Cheez-Its in her face."
Osamu snorted. "She ain't a cat.”
You winced. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Well, maybe she'd respond to someone more neutral," he suggested, taking your paper cup and folding it into his palm. "Someone she doesn't have all these preconceived notions about."
You pushed your bottom lip out.
"Wanna try talking to her?"
He blinked. "Oh, no. I didn’t mean — "
"It's okay," you reassured him, the warmth of your smile easing the worry etched onto Osamu’s face. "I trust you."
He tried not to react to those words, the easy conviction in which you'd said them. But as he nodded in your direction and lifted himself off the bench, he couldn't help the emotion that flickered in his chest. Like he'd just been handed something fragile and was determined not to drop it.
"Misa?" He knocked on the door frame before stepping inside. "It's Osamu-san. I got ya some water."
A second passed. Two. Then, a small voice piped up from under a desk in the far corner.
"Did my mommy tell you to come get me?"
"No." He frowned. "Not directly, anyway."
At that, Misa sighed. "I am thirsty."
"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" Osamu drawled, propping open the door. "Just sit tight. I'll come to ya."
His joints popped the moment he crouched onto the floor beside her desk. Misa's eyes — the same color as yours — widened to saucers at the noise.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Osamu grunted, forcing himself into a criss-cross position. When was the last time he worked out? "My pride's a lil' wounded, but I'll survive."
She took the cup with both hands and drank in several, hearty gulps.
"Nice place ya got here," Osamu mused, admiring her tiny desk like one might a home in Architectural Digest. "Ya always hide under tables when yer nervous?"
"Yeah," Misa confessed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I hide in my pantry at home, too."
"Yer pantry? I like the way ya think," Osamu chuckled. "Ya might not believe this, but I also hid in my pantry once upon a time."
"You did?"
"Yes, ma'am. It was the openin' night of my restaurant, and I was so scared that I would mess up someone's order — or worse — no one would show. So I locked myself in the pantry of the kitchen and yakked into a mop bucket."
"Ew!" Misa giggled, the gleam in her eyes making Osamu's heart swell. "What did you do next?"
"Well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "My brother gave me a water, we talked, and then...I decided to do it scared."
Your daughter softened at his words. Stared into her own cup of water for a long while.
"I'm not sayin' ya have to do it exactly like me," he said. "I'm just sayin' that if I can do it scared, ya sure as hell can, too."
Misa pursed her lips to one side. "Isn't that a bad word?"
Osamu's ears turned bright pink before he burst out laughing.
You watched silently from the doorway as they spoke — Misa's cheeks tinged pink from laughter, Osamu's eyes saturated in amusement. You had no doubt he was incredible at being a parent. But seeing him here, handling the literal extension of your heart with more gentleness than you ever thought possible...
It filled your chest with a feeling so old you didn't recognize it.
And when Misa crawled out from under her desk, prompting Osamu to waggle his eyebrows at you from across the classroom, you knew that feeling wasn't going anywhere.
"Good afternoon!" Monsieur Bonneau said into the mic just as you and Osamu slid back into your seats. "I am Monsieur Jules Bonneau, and it is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to Kimori's first music recital of the school year."
An enthusiastic applause ricocheted through the gymnasium.
"These students have been working incredibly hard at their craft this semester, and it warms me to see so many parents here in support." The lines on his face deepened as he smiled. "Now, without further ado, please welcome our kindergarten class to the stage!"
You watched as Miss Yuki corralled her kindergarten class onto the stage — violins knocking into one another, footsteps clamoring onto the carpeted plywood. Kina's face broke out into a wide grin when she spotted Osamu, and she nearly smacked Misa in the face with her bow when she waved.
"Jesus Christ," Osamu muttered through his smile as he waved back. "She's a walkin' hazard."
"At least she didn't hold up the entire show," you huffed back, sliding your phone out of your purse to record.
Now, you didn't know what you'd expected. A simple rendition of Hot Crossed Buns. Something you could at least show Kuroo once you got back to the office.
But as Monsieur Bonneau lifted his conductor's baton and cued everyone in, you quickly realized two things: (1) the man was a prodigy, not a miracle worker, and (2) you actually hated the sound of the violin.
"Dear lord," Osamu breathed, staring at the stage in horror. "What are they even playin'? Wheels on the Bus?"
You struggled to think straight as the sound of eighteen screeching violins pierced the inside of your skull. "No, no I think it's Twinkle Twinkle Little Star..."
Squinting, he said, "Kina ain't even holdin' the bow right."
"At least she's making noise!" you hissed back. "Misa's bow isn't even touching her violin."
Osamu choked on his laughter, which only made you choke in response.
"Jesus." He hid his face in his hands. "I feel like an asshole."
Your shoulders shook as you sputtered out, "First one to break buys lunch?"
"Oh, yer on," he drawled, immediately schooling his expression. "I'll have a pork katsu curry from that new place down the street. Extra pickled veggies."
It was hard to glare at someone while actively trying not to laugh. "What makes you think you'll lose, asshole?"
In that moment, Kina actually did manage to smack Misa in the face with her bow.
You ended up paying for each other's meals that afternoon.
notes: i write quite a bit, so it's hard to link everything! if you don't see a character, search for scribbles: character name. [for example: scribbles: s. aizawa]
blue lock
demon slayer
gachiakuta
haikyuu!!
jjk
kaiju no. 8
my hero academia
wind breaker
multi-fandom
2d men who are so kind you want to fuck their lights out
