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What do you get someone who deserves everything?
That’s a pretty cliche thing to ask, but when it comes to Akaashi Keiji, most people agree that the man quite literally deserves everything in the world.
Miya Osamu can attest to this.
Now, he’s not head-over-heels and running after Akaashi per se, but he will admit that he holds a decent level of appreciation and fondness towards the editor. After all, he is one of Osamu’s favorite and most frequent customers of Onigiri Miya. Even on the days that he shop-hops, tiptoeing back and forth between the Hyogo and Tokyo branches, Osamu knows that Akaashi will show up like clockwork on certain days to enjoy a round of freshly made onigiri and the company of a friend or two, depending on how many employees work that day and if the restaurant isn’t too busy.
It’s familiar, friendly even. Osamu enjoys the time spent with Akaashi, the conversations they have, the laughs they share. It’s an easy friendship they have going on, built upon a mutual love of onigiri and interesting or mundane conversation topics. One word that always comes to mind is warmth. Osamu always feels too warm, too comfortable when Akaashi is around. Sometimes, he doesn’t mind it. Other times, he feels as if he’s about to implode, this unknown feeling overwhelming him and leaving behind a stuttering, absolute fool.
And if he stops to stare a little too long at the way Akaashi’s gem-like eyes crinkle at the corners as he hunches forward to hide a laugh in the palm of his pale hands.
Well.
Nobody has to know.
Atsumu is the one that calls him out on his bullshit.
It’s through a phone call while he stares at the mess on his apartment kitchen counter. His phone is pressed against his ear, shoulder holding it in place as he clings to a large mixing bowl and experimentally stirs the contents inside. The mixture sloshes in a rather unappetizing way and Osamu deems this another failed attempt.
“Yer so stupid, ‘Samu.” Atsumu sounds tinny through the phone, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from impairing Osamu’s eardrums. He sighs, closing his eyes and wishing he could pinch the bridge of his nose. A lecture, especially from his twin, isn’t something he needs right now.
He shoves some things aside to make room for the mixing bowl, rummaging around for the silicone mold he owns. It takes longer than necessary to locate it under a pile of extras, measuring cups and plastic wraps. He nearly forgets that he’s still on the phone with his brother. “Shaddup, I asked ya a question, not yer shitty opinions.”
“Yer gonna get ‘em anyways, since ya aren’t realizing that making chocolates for someone is basically a marriage proposal.” Osamu winces. A touchy subject. He should’ve known calling ‘Tsumu to ask about how many pieces of chocolate is a good amount to give to a friend was a bad idea. Chocolate wasn’t even his strong suit, but he assumed it couldn’t be that hard to make. A couple of YouTube videos and online recipes gave him enough time to prep for the task. It should’ve been easy. All the recipes said it was easy.
The five batches of lopsided, botched chocolates said otherwise.
“I just want t’ show my appreciation for a friend.” He emphasizes, already pouring this failed round of chocolate mixture into the little rounded molds, being careful not to overfill. He ignores the way Atsumu scoffs, ignores the way he barrels into a lecture about chocolates and Valentine’s Day and whatever the hell else he felt the need to bring up while Osamu tried to concentrate on the confectionery at hand.
“Friend, my ass. Ya really think Akaashi-kun is going t’ accept yer gift and think it’s a friendly gesture? After all the time ya two spend together?”
Yes, he thinks lamely, refusing to reply. It would only result in Atsumu gloating about how right he is, how it’s a stupid idea, blah, blah, blah.
It’s not like his time spent with Akaashi goes beyond the walls of Onigiri Miya. Sure, sometimes they run into each other while he’s behind the stand at one of MSBY’s home games, but other than that, they reside in the comforts of his restaurant.
He’s already on a brand new chocolate mixture by the time he tunes back in to whatever his twin is saying. The pile of failed chocolates has grown higher, but there’s comfort in knowing at least they taste good. There’s a couple of decent looking ones, and if this latest batch didn’t turn out perfect as planned, then he’ll have to resort to picking out the best looking ones and reluctantly go with those.
“‘Samu.” He grunts in response, indicating he’s listening but busy. “You’re hopeless when it comes to romance. But I’m sure Akaashi-kun will appreciate whatever ya give him, even if it’s ugly pieces of chocolate.”
Osamu stills, taken aback by his brother’s moment of candor. It’s rare, these moments. Moments of one twin encouraging the other, with more sincerity than snark. They both do their best in uplifting each other, reassuring, supporting. Even if it’s in a way that doesn’t make sense to others, Osamu and Atsumu know that the way they handle their relationship is unique and perfect for the loud messes that they are.
Still, Atsumu could’ve left out the insulting parts, just this once.
He sneers instead, trying to hide the stupid lump in his throat. “They’re not ugly, ya scrub.” It’s not a thank you, but it’s the next best thing.
“Yeah, yeah. Send me some if ya have any left over.” No promises, he mumbles, before bidding his twin a goodbye because he needs to focus on this batch unless he wants to give Akaashi mediocre chocolates. Atsumu cackles and wishes him luck, adds some comments about rings before Osamu hangs up on him.
In the end, he manages to salvage half a rack of chocolates as perfect little creations.
He keeps glancing at the clock.
It’s not like it’ll make time go faster, nor tell him when exactly Akaashi will arrive. It’s a matter of waiting, rather impatiently, but waiting nevertheless.
He’s cleaned the counters at least five times by now, the dinner rush having ended long ago. Few customers appear this close to the restaurant’s official closing time, usually on their way home to families, comforts, beds. Something that Osamu used to do, but has since replaced with the ever expanding timeframe of Akaashi.
Tapping blunt nails against the countertop, he leans forward to watch the entrance, anticipation rising at any pedestrian passing under the light of his shop.
The little package sits under the counter, wrapped in red paper, boxed neatly with an assortment of designs he managed to not fuck up when decorating the little candies. He feels rather proud of himself, desserts never being his strongest asset, preferring cooking over baking. This doesn’t mean he’ll be baking more in the future but it’s a nice thought to know he can manage some semblance of baking skills.
He’s about to start wiping down the counter for the sixth time, when the door pushes open and in walks Akaashi Keiji.
Osamu nods in greeting, putting on a kind smile as he leans onto the counter, observing Akaashi’s movements. The man grips at the straps of his backpack, probably heavy and full of documents and pages that he has to take home to work on into the wee hours of the morning. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Osamu has a nagging feeling that he probably mirrors them with his own set. Sleep schedules were always a topic of discussion for them, but that never meant they’d take their own advice and try to get a decent amount of rest every night. Just another one of the inspiring pros and cons to being a restaurant owner and an editor of a shonen manga.
“Miya-san.” Akaashi greets as he plops down onto one of the bar stools, slowly slipping the backpack off his shoulders and tucking it under the seat, safe and sound.
“Akaashi-kun.” Osamu is already gathering ingredients to fulfill the other man’s order. “The usual, I assume?” There’s really no need to ask, he already has the order memorized by heart, but it’s the nice thing to do. Exchange formal pleasantries before beginning their nightly talks.
Akaashi nods, suffices with a gentle yes please, and they fall into routine. Osamu behind the counter and steadily, thoughtfully preparing food. Akaashi sitting at the counter, awaiting said food and the conversations to follow.
It’s an easy routine. A familiar one. Osamu is once more reminded of the warmth he internally basks in whenever Akaashi comes around. As usual, he tries not to steal too many glances, noting the way Akaashi rests his chin on his hands, noting the way his blue eyes gleam, noting the way he watches intently as Osamu’s fingers shape the onigiri, muscle memory taking over. The warmth courses through his veins, presses against his skin, leaves him wanting to duck his head and run to the restaurant’s freezer to cool down. Akaashi’s gaze burns through him, and it’s one of the few times he feels truly, visibly seen . It’s unnerving, but comforting somehow, and he’s glad he’s busy enough not to dwell too much on this new thought.
The rest of the night goes well enough. Akaashi receives his order, Osamu offers a drink free of charge, refuses to take payment for it even as Akaashi insists. It’s a gentle banter they toss back and forth as Osamu cleans and Akaashi eats and it’s business as usual.
He nearly forgets about the little package and the whole purpose of tonight until Akaashi is sliding money across the table, enough to pay for the meal and drink. They’d been having a rather tame conversation about deadlines and sleep, and Osamu eyes the money for a moment before taking the correct change to pay for the onigiri only, slipping away to the register. The point-of-purchase is quick, painless. His fingers brush over the box as he returns with the leftover change, placing the coins on top of the extra bills.
Now he’s stumped. This is their parting place, when he hands back change and Akaashi smiles and thanks him for the meal, they say their goodbyes and go separate ways. He’s unsure of how to proceed with the gift that sits patiently under the counter.
“‘Kaashi.” Osamu nearly freezes when the other man glances up, cool eyes holding his gaze. He swallows, once, twice before deciding to rip off the bandaid, pulling out the package and setting it gently in front of Akaashi.
He waits for two whole, long seconds before beginning to explain. “Y’see, I was making some chocolates for family and friends, and since yer considered a friend, I thought giving ya some would be nice. Like an appreciation gift.” He’s stumbling, badly. It could be worse, he could be trying to confess his love, and he mentally kicks himself for thinking such a thing. If anything, the chocolates itself is a damn confession. Atsumu was right.
Akaashi hasn’t said anything. He stares at the box, brows raised in surprise, mouth slack for once. It’s a rare moment of emotion, and if Osamu wasn’t so nervous, he’d be rejoicing in the fact that he elicited a new reaction out of Akaashi. But he feels anxious, scratching the back of his neck as he looks away, not knowing what else to say.
“Myaa-sam…” The voice is gentle, cautious. “Did you make me chocolates for Valentine’s Day?”
Yes. No. Maybe. A million different answers pile into the front of his mind, dance at the tip of his tongue as he takes sudden interest in the countertop, absently scrubbing at an already clean spot.
It’s silent. Akaashi gets his answer in the way Osamu avoids eye contact.
“It’s okay if ya don’t want them or anything.” He offers, doing his best to smile. Their eyes meet and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die from the amusement sparkling in the depths of those gunmetal blue eyes. At least Akaashi finds this whole ordeal funny. One of them deserves to get a laugh out of this one-sided exchange.
The wrapping crinkles as Akaashi breaks eye contact to concentrate on the gift, gently pulling it apart and taking special care not to rip the paper, slender fingers smoothing out wrinkles and creases as he uncovers the red box underneath. He takes a moment to admire the little container, the pads of his fingertips brushing over the lid before he wedges it off, finally revealing neatly aligned chocolates, designs of reds, pinks and whites standing out against the deep brown. Osamu barely catches the quick inhale as Akaashi’s eyes widen a smidge, gazing at the little chocolates in something close to awe. A pretty pink dusts the apples of his cheeks, and Osamu feels the urge to run a victory lap around the block. This reaction was far better than he could’ve imagined.
“This is… Very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Miya-san.” And oh, there’s that rare, genuine smile that Osamu would readily trip over himself for, just to see it more often. It lights up those eyes, the crinkles become a little more evident, and Akaashi practically glows whenever he smiles like this. He can’t help but return that smile, bashfully rubbing sweaty palms against the black apron adorning his body. “But I didn’t get you anything.”
Osamu, in his haste, stumbles over the simplest of words while furiously shaking his head. “No need.” It comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat before continuing. “I don’t mind. It’s nicer t’ give gifts than receive ‘em, in my opinion.”
Maybe that’s another reason why he chose the food industry, building a business from the ground up, creating something handmade that he loves and happily gives to people, sharing that same love in the form of comfort food. It’s familiar. Warm. Home, even. The experiences he creates for customers who walk through Onigiri Miya’s door is something irreplaceable, and as he stands across the counter from one of his most important customers, he understands.
So does Akaashi. He smiles, quiet but strong, before sliding the opened box between the two of them.
An invitation.
Osamu’s heart rises, his hands grow a little clammy, but he can’t bother to hide the wide grin that spreads across his face. He delicately picks one of the painstakingly created chocolates, staring at the little drizzled design he’d added to it. He wants to make a vow, to never make chocolates again for as long as he lives. The process is hard, time-consuming, and he’s pretty positive that he’s taste-tested enough candy to last a lifetime.
But as he glances up, catches the way Akaashi methodically chews on a piece, one of the pieces that he made with his bare hands. Osamu contemplates that maybe, just maybe, creating sweets out of something akin to love isn’t so bad, if it meant seeing the beautiful smile that Akaashi graces him with as he compliments the chocolates and happily feasts.
It isn’t so bad at all.
Atsumu receives a huge package of botched and not-botched assorted chocolates on the same day.
His brother signs it with a simple ‘Don’t get a stomach ache.’
Atsumu ends up sharing with the rest of the team.