Work Text:
Rintarou sighs at his laptop. The clock reads 2.47 am. He knows he should be asleep, knows that Kita would berate him if he looked even slightly like he hadn’t had a full eight hours of sleep, but he doesn’t care; he needs to do this.
It’s his mother. He knows his mother. He’s known her all his life. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t talk to her. He should know what to get her for her birthday (theoretically). He really should. But he has no clue.
He glares at the Hello Kitty apron and matching oven mitts in his Amazon cart; Hello Kitty stares right back, almost as if she’s mocking him. Rintarou pulls a face at her, and laments every choice he’s made in his life that has led to him picking a fight with a cartoon cat on an apron. Beside him, his phone buzzes; he’s got a new message. Who would be texting him at 3 am?
Osamu: *image*
Osamu: look it’s u
It’s a picture of a wet cat that slightly, if Rintarou squints hard enough, resembles him. It’s got brown fur, a giant head, and looks frankly terrified. Or murderous. He’s not sure which. It’s not flattering at all, but it makes something in Rintarou’s chest expand.
Rintarou: lol wtf
Rintarou: y r u awake
Osamu: ur awake too??
Rintarou: yea and
Osamu: ive been asleep since 10
Rintarou: lmao loser
Osamu: stfu
Osamu: we have morning pravtice coach is gonna kick ur ass tmrw
Osamu: and kita too
Rintarou: fiiiiine going 2 bed now night night
Osamu: it’s morning bitch
Osamu: gn
It’s the first Tuesday of April. Rintarou isn't sure if it’s the weather that’s getting unbearably warmer, or him. His brain, ever so helpful, supplies him with the idea that if Osamu could see inside his head right now, he’d tell him to stop thinking so hard or you’ll hurt yer head, Sunarin. He shakes the thought out of his head, rolls over, and hopes to god that six alarms are enough to wake him. Just when he’s about to drift off, his phone lights up again.
Atsumu: Stop texting my fkn brother at 3 am I’m trying to sleep n his stupid phone wont stop buzzing dickhead
🍓
“Become a cook overnight, have ya?”
Rintarou startles, looks up to see Osamu sauntering over to where he’s sitting under a tree. In the distance, he can make out Atsumu and Ginjima in what looks like a yogurt chugging contest; whatever it is, he’s learned better than to question things when it comes to Atsumu.
“What? No, I haven’t.”
“What’s with the apron, then?” Osamu nudges Rintarou’s shoulder with his chin, gestures to where his Amazon cart is open on his phone yet again. “Huh, I wouldn’ta pegged ya for a Hello Kitty guy, but it’s cute.”
Rintarou heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It’s for my mum. Her birthday’s next week.”
Osamu hums, and Rintarou can feel the judgment rising off him in waves. He groans, swatting him on the face half-heartedly. “Fuck off, you know I suck at giving gifts.”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You were about to — oh shut up, don’t make that face at me, you know I’m right.”
“Ya think she’ll like the apron?”
“And matching oven mitts. Don’t forget those.”
“Right. Do ya think she’ll like the apron and matching oven mitts?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
“What if ya got her tickets to a show or something? Does she have a favorite singer?”
“Yeah, Hayato Asuma, but I doubt I could find tickets cheap enough, and—”
“Ya should at least look, Mr. Negative. Ya never know.”
He finds a few of her upcoming concerts, and as expected, they’re so expensive he could pass out just thinking about the price. He tells Osamu as much.
“Loser. Does she have a favorite dessert, then? How about a cake?”
Rintarou turns his head to Osamu so fast it nearly gives him whiplash, and finds him looking dead serious. “ Osamu. I am not cooking. Have you forgotten when I set a toaster on fire?”
Osamu rolls his eyes. “First of all, cooking and baking are vastly different, ya scrub. Second, obviously, I’ll be helpin’ ya.”
Rintarou narrows his eyes at him dubiously. “Obviously?”
“Yeah, obviously. And I’ll have ya know, I’m a god in the kitchen. Seriously, it’s like ya don’t know me at all, Sunarin.”
“You mean you’re a god at eating everything your mum makes?”
Osamu shoves him, just hard enough to irritate him. “Fine, then. I won’t help ya. Yer on your own. Good luck with the oven mitts!”
Rintarou doesn’t even look up, just tugs him back by the sleeve. “You know how to make ichigo no shoutokeki? She had it in Tokyo once and it’s literally her favorite thing in the world.”
“Strawberry shortcake? I don’t, but I can read recipes.”
“It has to be perfect, 'Samu. We can’t fuck it up.”
Osamu pats him on the hand — he still hasn’t let go of his sleeve, Rintarou notices belatedly. “’Course it will be. Ya think I’m gonna half-ass something important to ya?”
Rintarou pretends to consider it for a moment (he really doesn’t need to; he knew the answer the second the words left Osamu’s mouth), “No, you wouldn’t.”
Osamu grins. “No, I wouldn’t. It’s gonna be great, you’ll see.”
🍓
“Oh my god, I need to take a picture of this, like, right now.” Rintarou moves to grab his phone. Osamu shoots him a dirty look as he finishes tying the apron straps. “C’mon, don’t you think everyone would love to see you in this? Kiss the Miya? Really? I can’t believe you made fun of my Hello Kitty apron when you had this hidden away.”
The tips of Osamu’s ears turn red. “ Shut up. It was a gag gift from ’Tsumu. Tell anyone about this and I will end you violently.” Rintarou just cackles in response.
“ Sunarin, if yer just gonna drop shit in without measuring, get the hell outta here and let me do it right.” Osamu shoves Rintarou away from the mixing bowl before he can dump in two whole sticks of butter.
“But I wanna help.”
Osamu sighs. “Fine , then ya can break some eggs. We need four. Ya know how to crack an egg?”
“ Yes, I know how to crack an egg. Fuck you.” Rintarou pokes him in the ribs with the back of his spatula. Osamu just laughs. It makes something stir deep in Rintarou’s belly; whether it’s annoyance or something else, he can’t tell.
They fall into a comfortable silence — Rintarou cracking eggs, Osamu sifting flour. Osamu’s tongue is sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, glasses askew on his nose. Adorable, Rintarou thinks. Then, I want to bite him. He pushes the thought aside and cracks his last egg, looking up to see Osamu watching him, an inscrutable expression on his face.
“What?”
Osamu snaps out of his reverie. “Oh, nothing. What’s next?”
Rintarou reads out from the recipe open on his phone, “ Prepare a bain-marie and melt the butter. What the fuck is a bain-marie?”
“It’s when ya put a bowl over hot water to — nevermind, we can just do it in the microwave. Same difference. Whisk the eggs, will ya?”
It’s an easy routine — Osamu tells him what to do, and Rintarou tries his best to not get in his way. Slowly, everything starts to come together. Rintarou finds himself endlessly fascinated with watching Osamu, brows pinched in concentration as he measures ingredients, folds the batter, transfers it to the cake pan. His usually impassive expression is ever so slightly warmer, and there’s something in his eyes that he can’t exactly pinpoint. He looks like he belongs here, Rintarou notes. He’s too busy observing the sharp cut of Osamu’s jaw, the swell of his bicep as he taps the cake pans on the counter to notice that he’s saying something, until a pair of fingers snapping in his face breaks him out of his trance.
“Oi, whatcha starin’ at?”
“What? Oh, nothing. You really love cooking, don’t you?”
Osamu starts, then smiles sheepishly, playing with the simple cord bracelet on his wrist (his little cousin had given it to him; Rintarou remembers how he’d refused to take it off when he first got it. It’s a little frayed now, because of Osamu’s nervous habit of fiddling with it). “Uh, yeah, I do. How d'ya know?”
Rintarou shrugs. “You’ve got the same look on your face as when you get a no-touch service ace. And you knew what a fucking bain-marie was. Not to mention, you named your fucking spatula. It’s kinda obvious that you like cooking, ‘Samu.”
“ Oi, not a word about Flo. She’s the best spatula in the world. ’Course she deserves a name.”
“You,” Rintarou said, poking Osamu with said Flo, “are a crazy person.” Then, “You’re really good at it, y’know?”
“Ya really think so?”
“Mhmm. I do.” Osamu is looking everywhere but at Rintarou now, cheeks dusted with the faintest pink. Rintarou wants to squeeze him.
“Thanks, Sunarin. That means more than ya know.” He puts the cake pans in the oven and sets the timer (cow shaped — Rintarou is learning so much about Osamu’s kitchen preferences today) for 25 minutes.
Rintarou flops down to the floor, exhausted. “And now we wait?” Osamu slides down next to him on the cool kitchen tiles, and bumps his knee with his own. “Now we wait.” A comfortable silence settles over them as they watch the batter bubble in the pans, dyed orange by the faint glow of the heating element.
“Hey, Sunarin. Can I tell ya a secret?”
Rintarou looks over to see Osamu staring at his feet, fingers idly fidgeting with the bracelet again. “Sure, what’s up?”
“I’m gonna quit volleyball after school.”
Rintarou nearly chokes on his own tongue. Out of everything he’d expected Osamu to tell him, I’m quitting volleyball wasn’t even on the list.
“What? I’d always thought you’d go pro with Atsumu. ”
“Ya heard me. I haven’t told ’Tsumu yet. Don’t even know how I’m gonna do that. But as much as I love volleyball, it’s not somethin’ I wanna do for the rest of my life, y’know?”
“What are you gonna do, then?”
“Honestly? I wanna go to culinary school. Open a restaurant one day. Somethin’ like that.”
And he could do it, Rintarou thinks. He knows Osamu could do anything he wants, graduate top of his class and own a big, famous restaurant in just a matter of years. But looking at him now, thumbing the braided cord around his wrist nervously on these cold white tiles, Rintarou isn’t sure if he knows that. On an impulse, he reaches out and grabs Osamu’s hand. But before he could shy away, Osamu pulls him in, threading their fingers together.
“I think you’d be a great chef. What kind of restaurant will you have?”
“Onigiri.”
“You better put karashi-mentaiko on the menu, then.”
Osamu chuckles. “’Course. I’ll name it the Sunarin special.”
Rintarou shifts closer and squeezes his hand. “Good, then I’ll be your best customer.” Osamu gives him a smile so big Rintarou thinks he might be blinded, and buries his head into his shoulder. They stay like that for a while on the cold white tiles, fingers intertwined, enveloped by the heat from the oven and the hazy promise of something more.
“Hey, ’Samu?”
“Hmm?” Osamu mumbles into his shoulder. Rintarou is so glad he can’t see his face right now, because he would definitely never hear the end of it if Osamu saw how red his cheeks are.
“Will you,” Rintarou clears his throat; he’s nervous. He starts again. “Do you want to come with me to Aichi? Meet the rest of my family?”
“What?” Osamu lifts his head; he’s smiling, lips dangerously close to the edge of his cheek. Rintarou gulps.
“Well, uh, you helped make the cake. It’s only fair. Plus, I think my mum and sister would love to meet you.”
“Do ya want me to come?”
Rintarou nearly rolls his eyes in exasperation. Of course I do, you idiot. Why would I ask if I didn’t? I want you to meet my family and come to birthdays and hold my hand forever and — “Yeah, I do.”
“Then sure, I’d love to. I'll ask Ma.” Osamu’s smiling even wider now, if that was even possible. He looks adorable, hair all mussed up and glasses crooked; he’s got cake batter smeared across his cheek, Rintarou realizes.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, Rin?”
“You’ve got batter on your face.”
“Huh? Where?” Osamu swipes his hand across his cheek, which only spreads it around even more. Rintarou laughs, “You just made it worse — come here, let me do it. And move your stupid nerd glasses out of the way.”
He shifts closer, pushing Osamu’s glasses up on his head, and wipes the batter off. His face is mere centimeters from Rintarou’s. Osamu bumps their noses together. Fuck it, Rintarou thinks, and closes the distance between them.
It’s not an earth-shattering kiss, by any means. There are no fireworks going off, no orchestra spontaneously bursting into song. Later, he might think about the implications of kissing your best friend on his kitchen floor, or how Atsumu could’ve walked in any second, or about twenty thousand other stupid, irrelevant things. But for now, there’s just the gentle press of Osamu’s lips against his — soft, a little chapped. There’s just Osamu’s hands — one curled into the unruly hair at the back of Rintarou’s head, one bunched up in the front of his faded Inarizaki VBC hoodie. For now, there’s just Osamu, who is leaning back to catch his breath, and it’s perfect.
Osamu brushes his lips against Rintarou’s jaw. “Ya like my stupid nerd glasses.” Rintarou is about ten seconds from exploding into a million tiny pieces all over the Miyas’ kitchen.
“I like the stupid nerd. Never said anything about the glasses, though.” Osamu laughs. Rintarou chases his words with another kiss.
“Ya know we have to make the icing too, right?” Osamu says, surfacing for another breath a few minutes later. Rintarou pokes him with Flo the spatula again (he’s beginning to think she really might be the best spatula in the world). “You mean you have to make the icing while I sit here and look pretty?”
Osamu laughs again. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Rintarou feels whole.
🍓
They’re pulling up to Rintarou’s parents’ house. Osamu’s grip on his hand is tight enough to break a few fingers. In the front seat, Atsumu is talking a mile a minute about Takagiyama, some powerhouse school in Aichi that they just have to scout because they raised some eyebrows at last year’s Inter-high. And right now, Rintarou is kind of grateful for the Miyas’ mother refusing to let Osamu go alone and for Atsumu’s chatter, because it distracts him from how on-edge he is.
“Nervous?” he asks Osamu.
“A little, yeah. They’re yer family. I wanna make a good impression.”
Rintarou squeezes his hand. “Don’t worry, they’re gonna love you. Both.”
As soon as he steps out of the car, a flurry of pink tulle pounces on Rintarou with a loud “ Nii-chan, you’re back!!!”
“Reiko-chan, I missed you so much! How’d you get so big?” Rintarou says, scooping his little sister into a hug. She pokes his cheek and says, “I’ve always been big, Rin-nii. You’re so mean.”
He goes to greet his mother, and is telling her about the trip home when there’s a tug on his sleeve. “Nii-chan, who are they?” Reiko asks, pointing shyly to where Osamu is finally emerging from the backseat, a pastry box perched precariously on one arm as he tries to push Atsumu over with the other. He smiles down at her and says, “C’mere, I’ll introduce you.” They walk up to where the twins are arguing over god-knows-what, and he crouches down to her.
“Now this, Reiko-chan, is Atsumu. You can be as mean to him as you want.” He ignores Atsumu’s squawks of protest and moves ahead.
“And this is my—” Rintarou looks up. A pair of soft gray eyes lock with his own, the ghost of a small smile plays on familiar lips. Rintarou realizes he doesn’t have words for what he is to him. And maybe, he thinks, that’s not such a bad thing. They’ve got nothing but time to figure it out, after all.
“This is Osamu.”