Chapter Text
All business is good business, according to most people.
Or rather, all business should be good business, but the person who penned that little saying probably never had to deal with a yokai. Or ten yokai.
Or ten hungry yokai with very specific orders that most people would be terrified of messing up for any number of reasons.
Luckily, Miya Osamu isn’t most people.
And yokai are good business, when they pay in the right currency.
Osamu's soul hasn’t been eaten or stolen yet, which he takes as a sign he’s doing something right. There’s not many yokai out there that would prefer a pathetic human soul to the delicious bowl of ramen in front of them. Hopefully, Osamu never finds one that does , though he’d probably think of a way out of it. Who could resist a delicious bowl of handmade ramen and an extra side of fresh gyoza? No one (probably).
It certainly helps that he can easily memorize his regular’s orders. Extra pickled ginger for the reclusive, grumpy tengu that only comes in on rainy nights, super spicy ramen for the short and fiery oni that always gets into arguments with that black nekomata that loves ordering more fish than noodles; it’s not hard. Yokai or not, his regulars deserve the respect they'd get at any other establishment. Amateurs mess up orders, and Osamu is no amateur.
It’s certainly not a bad way to live, but in retrospect, he probably should’ve seen this coming. His whole life has been plagued (blessed?) by yokai, and it’s become typical for him to see them everywhere . Seeing a ghost became as normal as seeing a stray animal. Even when he was just a sickly child, yokai of all kinds were drawn to him. And his brother. It unnerved his parents to no end when he and Atsumu would play with the things in their room that their parents couldn’t see. From soot sprites to demons, it’s a wonder he even survived. At least the spirits seem to like Osamu, as far as he could tell.
So naturally, his normal ramen shop for normal humans ends up becoming full of yokai.
What the hell else was supposed to happen, something normal? Absolutely not.
No one, least of all Osamu, could’ve guessed that this is what his life would become.
At least his days are interesting. Especially when human guests come in and inadvertently sit between the kitsune and tanuki that only ever argue. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and Osamu serves them just the same. He’ll feed anyone and as long as they enjoy his food, Osamu is happy.
Tonight is no exception. After a busy day of cooking and keeping yokai happy, the sun had gone down on his empty shop. Slow evenings like this are the best; With his part-timers gone, Osamu’s left alone in the shop and can prepare for the next day much more easily. It’s wonderfully quiet except for the sound of stock gently simmering on the stove, and his knife slicing through ginger as he prepares it for pickling.
Regardless of who his guests are or how uncomfortably often he’s face to face with hungry gods of death, this is exactly where Osamu wants to be. And really, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Once Osamu finishes up his prep work, he debates closing up early and going home. Everything that needs to be done is done, so it couldn’t hurt. It would be nice to get home early for once, and Osamu doubts that anyone else would come in that night.
Not a second after Osamu decides to close up, he’s met with a gentle breeze that ruffles his hair. It reminds him of summer, and he feels the tension in his shoulders melt away.
When he looks up, Osamu realizes there’s someone else in his shop.
Damn spirits, doesn’t anyone know how to use a door anymore?
A small voice in the back of his head reminds Osamu to welcome the guest, but he can’t hear it. As soon as he’s laid eyes on the stranger, any thoughts he had are gone. They’re both quietly staring at each other, and Osamu notices a foreign electric feeling in the air. There’s something different about this one, but Osamu can’t figure out what. He doesn’t feel scared, though.
The stranger is dressed mostly in black, wearing a pale gold turtleneck beneath a black hanten. He has slim, black pants and slightly heeled black ankle boots. He also wears one small pearl earring. Why he’s just wearing one is beyond Osamu, but it draws Osamu in. The black and gold outfit makes him seem decadent and flashy, but he’s silent and stares at Osamu like he’s waiting to be beckoned inside.
He also looks like he just rolled out of bed. His hair is slightly messy, sticking out to the sides like he fell asleep with it wet. It’s amusing, in a way that maybe only Osamu finds funny.
This job is doing things to his head.
Osamu will take a handsome, quiet stranger over a loud group of oni looking to drink till dawn any day. And technically, he's still open.
“Ah… welcome.” Osamu greets quickly, bowing his head slightly towards the customer. He hopes he wasn’t staring for too long, but the stranger doesn’t seem to notice or mind as he takes the seat in front of Osamu. Goodbye, early evening.
He continues cleaning up behind the counter, expecting the silence to stretch on for another ten minutes or so. But, even though this man has never been in his restaurant, he doesn’t even contemplate the menu before speaking. “I’m ready to order,” he calls, with a gentle, melodic voice reminiscent of a lullaby.
“Of course.” Osamu responds as he wipes his hand on a clean, damp rag. “What would ya like, sir?”
“Udon, hot. Dashi broth, with fish cake, aburaage, and scallion.” The stranger rests one elbow on the table, leaning his chin on his hand. He takes up about two seats worth of space, and doesn’t seem to care. If Osamu didn’t know any better (and really he doesn’t) he’d assume that the stranger thinks his order is amusing.
Maybe it is, and Osamu just isn’t in on the joke.
“Right away.” It’s such a specific order, Osamu figures it’s simply the stranger’s favorite order. Maybe he orders it at every ramen place he goes to. Well, that’s none of his business.
They fall back into a reverent silence as Osamu cooks, the sound of his knife quickly slicing through scallions filling the air between them. He moves quickly, his years of experience making an order as simple as this, well, simple. He places the fresh udon noodles in a medium-size bowl, then gently arranges the fish cake and soy-sauce marinated fried tofu pouch on top before ladling dashi stock over everything. He sprinkles a healthy amount of scallion on it, then sets it down in front of the stranger.
“Enjoy,” he can’t fight his smile as the stranger stares wide-eyed into his soup, hunger visible on his face. “That’s a pretty uncommon order.”
“Are you sure you have time to be talking to me?” The man asks casually, lifting his chopsticks with all the delicacy of a falling flower. Then he proceeds to bite into the aburaage carefully seated on top of the udon with all the delicacy of a ravenous animal.
“Do ya see anyone else in here?” Unamused, Osamu’s eyes sweep over the shop. It’s still empty, except for the stranger in front of him. Unfortunate, because he really wants to go home.
“Good point.” The stranger’s lips quirk into the faintest of smirks as he eats. He seems to be enjoying it, at least.
It’s always a gamble, getting friendly with the customers. Who knows if they’re going to be regular humans who just happen to stumble into his small shop, or if they’re a yokai in disguise.
But with his sharp canines and sly golden eyes, Osamu is fairly certain he’s not about to end up on the bad side of a shinigami.
He’s willing to take his chances anyways.
The stranger scarfs down his food, then sets the bowl back on the counter with a small, satisfied sigh. “Your food is delicious. Too much scallion, though,” he critiques, but there’s no hint of annoyance behind his voice. If anything, he sounds fond. Osamu never likes it when a customer doesn’t get exactly what they want. If this stranger ever comes back in, he’ll have to remember that.
“Sorry about that.” He offers a quick apology, taking the bowl and beginning to wash it.
When the stranger speaks again, his voice is quiet. In fact, Osamu can barely hear him over the sound of the faucet.
“You never change, ‘Samu,” the stranger’s voice is melancholic and Osamu feels a twinge deep in his heart.
‘Samu. The nickname surprises Osamu, enough to make him stop what he’s doing to look at the stranger. He turns the sink off on autopilot, and the two quietly stare at each other again. There’s something behind the stranger’s eyes that unnerves Osamu, and his heart skips a beat. The only person who ever uses that nickname with him is his brother, and most of his customers didn’t even know his given name. There’s no need to.
So why did this one?
“Ah..” The stranger says as if he realized something. He smiles apologetically. “Sorry.”
“It’s… fine,” it’s not really, to be honest, but Osamu isn’t about to say that. “I just didn’t expect it, ‘s all. It’s a bit strange to use a nickname for someone you don’t know, isn’t it?” He comments, trying to sound nonchalant about it. But it doesn’t sit right with him. It doesn’t feel bad , just… off. Weird. No one called him ‘Samu, and all he could really chalk it up to was some power of clairvoyance this yokai probably has. At least, he hopes that’s the case.
The stranger doesn’t take his eyes off of Osamu for another long moment, sharp golden eyes piercing through him like his soul is laid bare. It makes Osamy feel strangely vulnerable, and he shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.
“Yes… sorry,” the stranger apologizes again, his voice distant. He sits upright and tears his gaze away from Osamu, taking up about half the space he was before. Osamu hears him sigh quietly, but thinks nothing of it and continues to clean up behind the counter. Regardless of whatever that was, Osamu hopes the stranger will just pay and leave like any other customer.
But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even move. The stranger just sits there as Osamu cleans, and as the clock ticks closer to closing time. Eventually, Osamu grows tired of waiting. The idea of telling this yokai to get lost unnerves him, but he’d rather go home than sit here with the stranger all night. “Excuse me-” he starts, but the stranger cuts him off.
“You…” He interrupts, staring distantly at the wall. “You have a lot of people that come through here, right? A lot of spirits?”
“Yeah, I do.” Osamu nods even though the stranger isn’t looking at him. Things go quiet again, and Osamu feels his patience wearing thin. He’s about to speak again when the stranger looks up at him suddenly.
“Do you think you could help me with something?”
...
Huh?
“Huh?” Osamu blurts out without thinking.
“I’m… I know this is a lot to ask.” The stranger looks away from Osamu again, bringing a hand up to fiddle with his earring. Osamu gets the feeling that saying ‘no’ right now isn’t his best option.
Damn it… he just wants to go home!
“But please… I don’t know who else to ask.” The stranger's tone makes Osamu reconsider. There’s probably plenty of people out there who could help this guy, but the way his voice sounds heavy with desperation and sadness tugs at Osamu’s heartstrings. He’s always been a softie.
Osamu takes a second to think, and then another, debating in his head what he should say. He should decline, and tell the stranger to go somewhere else, but he feels strangely guilty about doing that. Eventually his soft side gets the better of him, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, what do you need from me? I’ll see what I can do.”
The stranger looks up at him again, eyes wide. Eventually his mouth turns into a very faint smile, and Osamu has to look away.
“I’m trying to find someone who took something very precious to me.” The stranger explains carefully, voice fragile with nerves. “And I think you’ll be able to help.”