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Onigiri Miya goes quiet when Akaashi walks in.
No, no. That’s not true. Akaashi’s a step behind Bokuto, who calls out a greeting to everyone and to whom everyone calls out a greeting back. It’s his birthday, after all; the guy deserves it.
Alright, take two: Onigiri Miya goes loud, happy, jubilant when Akaashi walks in. Osamu’s heart does, at least, thudding hard in his chest. The roar of excitement crests and the restaurant falls back into ambient noise: chatter and the distant sound of Atsumu’s carefully curated Spotify playlist.
The birthday party was Atsumu’s idea and Atsumu’s beast, and Osamu agreed because, well, why not. Brotherly love, perhaps. Osamu’s plenty fond of Bokuto. Or maybe because a certain Akaashi Keiji had mentioned he was thinking of coming to town for a certain Bokuto-san's birthday on the phone one night a week or two before.
It’s almost been a year since that game in Sendai. Months since Akaashi stepped into Onigiri Miya during the lunch rush — I’m in town for the weekend, he’d explained, when Osamu got him alone. Akaashi needled Osamu’s number out of him that day, and stopped by again before he caught his train back to Tokyo. It had been raining and blustery; Akaashi’s hair was a damp mess, and his cheeks had flushed pink from the wind. Osamu tried to get on Akaashi’s case for making an extra stop in a storm, but Akaashi had just blinked and started to wipe his glasses clean and said I wanted to see you.
If Osamu were a character in one of those English period movies his 17-year-old cousin sits him down to watch, he would’ve insisted Akaashi stay with him until the storm passed. Would’ve set him up on the couch and fed him soup and rice and cups of tea until he could make the journey home but — Akaashi had a train to catch and a job to go to on Monday morning. So, instead, Osamu packed him a few extra onigiri for the road. Later that night, Akaashi sent him a photo of the last two onigiri, artfully arranged on a plate on his coffee table.
Settling into something serious and long-distance is lonesome, Osamu has learned. They exchange photos of meals and morning commutes and stacks of scribbled paper like good morning kisses, and call in the evening when dinner is on the stove. They make up reasons to see each other: a volleyball game, a quick meal, a friend’s birthday party.
Onigiri Miya is Osamu’s element, though: the quiet rumble of people, the heat in his cheeks, fresh, sticky rice in his hands. Warm light bounces off the wood-paneled walls and the polished oak countertop stretching along the wall. Tonight, every available space is full: familiar faces from the Jackals and the greater volleyball world are scattered around, sitting at tables and standing where there’s room.
Komori Motoya — some of the EJP guys stuck around after they lost to the Jackals the night before — has got Atsumu cornered, pointing a stern finger at his chest as he speaks. Osamu can’t make out what he’s saying over the noise, but he’s far from worried; Sakusa’s hiding a laugh behind his hand from his spot beside Atsumu and Suna’s there too, snickering. Washio, who Osamu’s only heard the worst of from Suna, is making small talk with a couple of Jackals guys over beer. Kozume and Kuroo, all dressed up in a three-piece suit and a pair of Chucks, made the trip the down for the weekend, tucked themselves away at a table with Hinata.
Osamu ducks behind the counter to grab his phone and stays put for a moment as everyone circles around Bokuto. The guest of honour emerges from the swell of people and jogs over, waving both hands. Akaashi’s in tow, smiling in that small, fond way of his.
“Hey, Myaa-sam!” Bokuto’s all keyed up from the attention and the win the night before; his grin’s elastic, eyes electric. He’s in a pair of smart black trousers and a bright purple crewneck, a fanny pack slung across his chest. “I didn’t mean to be late to my own birthday party, but Akaashi and I just got to talking on the way over, and dude, seriously, I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“Atsumu did most of the work,” Osamu says, shrugging. He’d spent his morning watching Atsumu teetering on a ladder, hanging yellow streamers up with thumbtacks. When the restaurant opened, Osamu shooed him to the kitchen to start prepping food. “Happy birthday, man. And congrats on the game last night.”
“You watched it? Thank you!” Bokuto’s eyes are shining. He turns to Akaashi beside him. “And I’m stoked you and Kuroo and Kenma could come down from Tokyo.”
“Me too, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, voice smooth. He weaves his fingers together. “I’m happy to make the trip.” Osamu wants nothing more than to push his bangs back from his forehead and kiss him there.
He takes off his long coat and folds it over one arm. The first few buttons of his dark shirt are open and loose, parting over his smooth chest and sharp collarbone. It must be silk; the fabric tumbles over his narrow shoulders like water. The deep blue shirt and his tan skin and those square black glasses, all of him — he’s like the full moon, sleek and dark and glowing.
“Hello, Miya-san,” he says, playing at something that gets Osamu’s gut churning.
I think you’re it for me, Osamu thinks. He feels as huge and buoyant as a sky-bound balloon. Like a scoop of ice cream on a hot day, about to melt away into a sweet puddle of nothing. He plants his hands on his hips and says, voice smooth as sandpaper, “Is that a silk shirt, Keiji-kun?”
Akaashi’s lips fold into a small, familiar smile. The warm light of the restaurant smoothes over the sharp planes of his face. “You have a good eye.”
“It looks good,” Osamu says. “Silk suits you.”
“He does look good!” Bokuto says, elbowing Akaashi in the side. Akaashi ignores him with the efficiency of someone with years of practice. “Myaa-sam looks great too, right!”
Osamu hadn’t dressed up much; he’d thrown a short-sleeved black shirt over a black t-shirt and called it a day before he overthought it or Atsumu got involved.
“He does, Bokuto-san.” Ignore him, Akaashi mouths. “Though I’m starting to wonder if you own anything that’s not black.”
“You’ll have to come over and see,” Osamu says. And winks.
Akaashi arches an eyebrow. Bokuto managed a surprised squeak.
Bokuto clears his throat. “I’m going to do the rounds, boys. Thanks again, Myaa-sam! We’ll talk later!” He elbows Akaashi again and marches over to Hinata, Kuroo and Kozume’s table.
It’s always like this. A bit of small talk and a moment of reacquainting themselves with each other. A thin sheet of ice; a pool of warm water.
“Bokuto doesn’t know about us?”
“He knows I like you.” Akaashi settles into the stool across the counter from Osamu. “He knows you like me.” He pauses again. “He knows you came to Tokyo a few weeks ago.”
Osamu flushes. He hadn’t planned the trip to Tokyo but Akaashi is a blinking beacon, a glowing lighthouse on the seashore. He’s warm and alive in the dark and Osamu runs toward him like he’s lost in the night. He’d booked the ticket on a whim and sat on the train with the odd feeling that his intentions were scrawled across him; he couldn’t keep his leg from shaking, couldn’t stop looking at his phone.
Osamu had been out of breath when he’d got to Akaashi’s door that night. Akaashi messaged his address and a bulleted list of directions hours ago, somewhere between Osaka and Tokyo. Osamu switched from bullet train to subway to another subway until he found himself in a quiet pocket of a neighbourhood.
It was early September then; the leaves were caught jewel-green in the rich, bright light of sunset. It’s a short walk, in the end, up a street lined with artisanal grocery stores and stationery boutiques and hole-in-the-wall coffee shops, doors thrown open, music and light pouring out onto the street. A bakery, lit up in teal neon, caught his eye, and he wandered in to find an array of creatively flavoured cookies. He bought a box of six and continued on his way.
Osamu followed a narrow, tree-lined side street up to Akaashi’s building. The sliver of sky had started to go mottled purple, his path lit by warm, glowing windows. He jogged up the stairs two at a time to Akaashi’s floor, and Akaashi pulled his door open in a stretched out Fukurodani volleyball club t-shirt, plush, baby blue towel around his neck, glasses forgotten somewhere inside. He must have been in the bath; his hair was drying in damp, messy waves around his face.
Osamu had held up his box of cookies and grinned sheepishly. Akaashi pulled him in by the wrist, and his apartment smelled like expensive coffee beans, and later that night, after Osamu pressed Akaashi into the bedsheets, he chose a book for Osamu from the shelf opposite his bed and they read together until they fell asleep.
The next morning, sunlight filled Akaashi’s bedroom with the fluttering shadows of the leaves outside. When they kissed, Akaashi tasted like rose matcha pistachio cookie and coffee.
Later, when Osamu told Atsumu about it, lounging on ‘Tsumu’s couch in the early hours of the morning, Atsumu called it a grand gesture. Osamu had wrinkled his nose and shook his head; grand gesture feels like something with a bit of premeditation. Something out of one of those classic romantic comedies, when the guy crashes the party or runs out into the rain. Maybe there's a cheering audience or a song and dance number. Never a phone call in the wee hours of the morning before a deadline or a tired smile at the end of a long work week.
The movie ended when Akaashi pulled Osamu into his apartment and kissed him right there in the genkan. The credits had long since rolled and the love song has finished playing and everyone’s filing out of the theatre and they’re still kissing, in the living room, up against the small kitchen island. Screen’s black and Akaashi’s peeling Osamu’s shirt off of him, breath hot against his neck. Did any of those guys feel like they were coming home to something?
Now, Osamu slings a clean kitchen towel over a shoulder and leans forward over his counter on the heels of his hands. “What can I get you to drink? I’m playing bartender tonight.”
Akaashi looks far from tired now: hair tousled just so, eyes coy. He quirks an eyebrow. “So I can tell you my woes and you’ll fix me something to drink?”
“Tell me all of them,” Osamu says. “I’ll warn you, I’m not a very good mixologist.”
“Something simple, then.” Akaashi taps his chin. “I’m overworked. I ran out of my prescription. I miss you. What kind of drink would that get me?”
Osamu surveys his array of ingredients. He doesn’t have much; Onigiri Miya stocks beer, mostly, but he’s collected a few things, and Atsumu’s provided a haphazard assortment of things, too. He thinks for a moment more, and then grabs some ingredients and a glass.
“Orange juice for the vitamin C. And because I know you don’t eat breakfast.” Osamu fills the glass a third of the way full with juice. A shot of tequila goes in next. “To help you let loose,” he says. He finishes it off with a splash of simple syrup and a maraschino cherry and says, “Because you’re a bit bitter, Keiji-kun,” and slides the drink across the counter.
Akaashi picks the glass up and examines it over the rim of his glasses. “I think this is just a tequila sunrise.”
“I keep tellin’ you.” Osamu reaches for a bottle of beer and pops the cap off. “I make onigiri, not cocktails.”
“I feel like I’m nineteen again,” Akaashi mutters. He closes his eyes, takes a small sip and nods thoughtfully. “It’s good. A bit sweet for me, but good. Thank you.”
Atsumu crashes into the stool next to Akaashi’s, face flushed pink and shirt collar askew. “Nice to see ya, Akaashi,” he says. He spots the glass in Akaashi’s hand, frowns, and looks up at his brother. “Are you making him drinks?”
“Yeah,” Osamu says. He takes a sip of his beer. “Are you drunk already?”
“He tried to assault Komori.” Sakusa supplies. He sounds very woeful about it. He’s standing maybe a foot behind Atsumu, arms crossed, looking down at the top of Atsumu’s head like there’s a spider he’d like to squish. “He likes to give Atsumu the shovel talk when he’s tipsy.”
“Ah,” Osamu says intelligently. “That’s what that was. I was curious.” He wonders, “Hey, did I ever give you the shovel talk?”
Sakusa purses his lips. “No.” He narrows his eyes. “Yes.”
“Leave him alone, ‘Samu,” Atsumu whines. “You keep wining and dining Keiji-kun here, we’ll leave you to it.” He pushes himself to his feet, tries to wrap an arm around Sakusa’s waist, gets his hand deftly slapped away instead. Osamu wonders, not for the first time, how their relationship functions.
“We’re going to get water,” Sakusa declares, then spins around and walks away. Atsumu waves and trots after him.
“Do I have to worry about that?”
“What? A shovel talk?”
Akaashi nods. His glass is still half full, dripping condensation.
“Maybe. Seems like something 'Tsumu would try. I’ll talk him down.” Osamu leans forward, as though someone might overhear. “I’m more worried about Bokuto.”
Akaashi laughs, surprised, the sound bubbling out of his throat. “I can talk him down, too. I’m quite good at it.”
“You’re staying with Bokuto tonight, right?”
“I am.”
“And when do you go back?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
Osamu nods. He wants to say more, wants to ask Akaashi something else, but he bites his tongue. “I saved some onigiri for you,” he says instead. He'd needed something to do with his hands, a couple hours before. The lunch rush had slowed, Atsumu had finished setting up, Akaashi's train was about to pull into Osaka. "Figured you might be hungry."
“And you waited this long to tell me?” Akaashi drums his fingers against the countertop, and shakes his head. His hair bounces ever so slightly.
He sets the plate he'd stashed away in front of Akaashi. “Atsumu didn’t touch these ones.”
“Oh, good.” He picks one up and takes a bite. Osamu watches his eyes close, the way they always do when he eats something he likes, and flutter open again once he’s finished. Something in him heats up and cracks open, like a rock under pressure. “If he had I might have fallen for the wrong twin.”
Osamu grins. “That good, huh?”
“As always.” He starts on the next one. Once he's done he says, offhandedly, "I might still be hungry."
Well. "I think I can do something about that." Osamu leans forward, about to propose a trip to the kitchen, when he catches movement. It’s Kuroo and Kozume, wading towards them through the crowd. “Hold that thought. Incoming,” he warns.
The two of them are comically mismatched. Kozume’s in skinny jeans and a salmon-pink hoodie; Kuroo, meanwhile, ditched the suit jacket, left on the matching waistcoat, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He looks like he might have wandered in from the jazz club a block over.
“Howdy, Miya. Quite the establishment you’ve got here.” Kuroo knocks on the worn wood of the counter with his knuckles as though checking for faults. “Missed you on the train today, Akaashi.”
“Hello, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi replies blandly. “Didn’t I tell you I took a later train?”
Kuroo narrows his eyes. “Sure you did.”
“Tone it down, Kuro,” Kenma pokes Kuroo in the arm. “Also, hi, Keiji.”
"Hey, Kenma," Akaashi says.
Osamu doesn’t know Kuroo or Kozume all that well; he knows of them, from his own volleyball days, through his brother and the rest of the Jackals, and now Akaashi. The JVA offices are close to Akaashi’s, and Kuroo’s known to pester Akaashi into lunch, or a drink after work, or window shopping in Roppongi. Either he’s lonely or he thinks I’m lonely, Akaashi had reasoned, on the phone with Osamu one summer night after he’d gotten home from dinner with Kuroo and Kozume. Aren’t they your friends? Osamu had asked, a bit baffled. Akaashi said Yes, and left it at that.
Kuroo leans on an elbow on the counter, all suave. Maybe more awkward, with his height. “We were hoping we could borrow Akaashi-kun for a bit. For old times’ sake.”
“I saw you last week,” Akaashi points out. “You made me go to a play.”
Osamu knows all about that; Akaashi had complained about it for hours on the phone and then sent photos of his outfit: billowing linen pants and a shirt left open over a tank. It was some sort of godawful postmodern interpretation of a classic (Akaashi's description, not Osamu's) one of Kuroo's university buddies had worked on. Osamu couldn't care less about the play; he'd pay good money to see Akaashi in a tank top again, though.
“That we did. I mean — you and me and Kenma and Bokuto. The old Tokyo gang, plus Hinata. Come on, Akaashi, it’s Bokuto’s birthday. Kenma’s begging you.”
“I’m really not,” Kozume says. He’s got his head down, typing something into his phone. “I would like to talk to someone normal, though.”
“Alright,” Akaashi says, standing up. “I’ll come over. For Kenma and Bokuto-san. And, you know, Kuroo-san, you don’t have to ask Miya-san’s permission. I don’t belong to him.”
Kozume looks over at Kuroo and says, “Keiji’s right. It’s not like they’re together or anything.”
Akaashi rolls his eyes and a nervous laugh bubbles out of Osamu’s throat. He pushes it down and decides to play along, just a little, and says, “Just bring him back to me in one piece, all right?”
Kuroo hides his reaction with a well-timed cough into his hand, and Kozume plays it totally cool, expression blank. Akaashi — very subtly, mind you — pushes his glasses up into his hair and rubs at his eyes. Osamu wants laugh at that, too, the exasperation he’s coming to recognize as half true and all fond. “You guys need something to drink?”
“Yes, please,” Kuroo says. “We have important business matters to discuss.”
Osamu fishes out four more beers. “You want one, Keiji?” Akaashi nods, once, and Osamu opens a fifth.
Kozume raises his eyebrows and Kuroo turns to him and stage-whispers “Keiji?” Kozume lifts his brows a fraction higher at Kuroo’s reaction.
Akaashi leans bodily over the counter and says, quietly, so Kuroo and Kozume can’t overhear, “I’m beginning to think I’m being ambushed.”
Osamu presses in further, and kisses Akaashi quick on the cheek before he pulls away. "Be strong, Akaashi-kun."
Akaashi's eyebrows draw together when he frowns at Osamu. His cheeks have gone a touch pink. "I'll be back," he says, something glinting in his eyes. He waits a second more, eyes lingering on Osamu's lips, then presses a fast kiss there. Osamu grins toothily at him when they separate.
"Are you ready?" Kuroo's turned half away from them, pretending not to watch. Akaashi picks up his drink and lets Kuroo herd him over to their corner table. Osamu watches the material of his shirt shift with the movement of his shoulders.
Someone taps Osamu on the shoulder. It’s Suna, finally. “Hey there, buddy. I hear you’re pretending to bartend tonight?” He’s got the hood of an old maroon Inarizaki hoodie pulled up over his head, looking like a kid scavenging for food at a dinner party.
Osamu pulls out a beer and passes it over. “Sorry about the game last night.”
Suna shrugs. “It’s okay.” He takes a long drink, throat bobbing. “The Jackals are crazy, man. Had to go easy on Bokuto, you know, with his birthday and everything.”
“Yeah, sure ya did. I saw you out there."
“Shut up,” Suna says, rolling his eyes. Then he narrows his eyes and Osamu knows he's in for it. “So. You and Bokuto's old setter.”
Osamu opens his mouth to explain, but explain what? The long and winding email he sent last week with his grandmother's favourite tsukemono recipes? Akaashi, washed out and blue in the early morning light, swirling water over his chemex? Osamu's runaway heart?
The silence must be telling. "I’ll get Atsumu,” Suna warns.
Osamu holds his hands up, palms out. “It’s just Akaashi. We’re just talking.”
“Sure. Just talking.” Suna punches him in the bicep, the same way he used to back in high school when Osamu took too long picking something out at the konbini after practice. “I asked ‘Tsumu and he won’t tell. And I just saw you kiss.”
Which means Osamu’s stuck in some kind of ambush, too.
Osamu looks over at Akaashi. From here, he can only see the back of Akaashi’s head, but it looks like he’s in a similar state: Kuroo has a friendly arm draped over his shoulders, all conspiratorial, and Bokuto’s got his head propped up on his fists, keeping steady eye contact with Akaashi while he speaks. Hinata’s nodding along and Kozume’s folded his arms up on the table, chin tucked into the nest of his hoodie sleeves. Akaashi was right; they must have planned this four-pronged attack in advance.
“Oh, my god. Osamu.” Suna snaps his fingers in front of Osamu’s face. “What is wrong with you.”
“What’s wrong now?”
“We're intervening,” Suna explains. He grabs Osamu’s wrist and hauls him out of the safety of his counter and into the party.
The restaurant's small, but it's louder out there, in the meat of things. A couple of people clap Osamu on the back, chirping their thank-yous. Osamu twists around to look at Akaashi again, because he can’t help himself, and watches Kozume lean even farther over the table and start to say something before Suna tugs on his arm. “Chillax. Pretty sure Akaashi’ll still be here when we’re done.”
Suna drags Osamu through another cluster of Jackals players to find Atsumu in the middle of a long-winded explanation of something with Sakusa, Komori and Washio. “Hope this can wait,” Suna says, winks at his teammates, and pulls Atsumu away before he can get another word in. He weaves them through the tangle of people and back to the kitchen.
“What are you doing? Komori’s just starting to like me,” Atsumu hisses.
“Komori likes you just fine,” Suna says, steering Atsumu by the shoulders towards the closet off the kitchen that doubles as Osamu’s office. “You’re dating his weird reclusive cousin, he’s just protective.”
Atsumu spins around, spluttering. “Reclusive? Weird?” He keeps on walking backward, sidestepping appliances and towers of stainless steel.
“Oh, man, Atsumu, trust me. The guy’s a weirdo.”
Atsumu shoves at Suna’s shoulders and disappears into the office.
Osamu sighs. “Can’t even call a guy’s boyfriend weird anymore, can you?” He ducks into the kitchen proper and fills a pint container from the stack under the sink with water. Office is a loose term for the room he follows Suna into; Atsumu’s in a folding chair the two of them found at their parent’s house and Suna’s leaning against a desk Osamu doesn’t quite remember coming into ownership of. Osamu settles down on a spare square of cold, tiled floor.
“As much as I would love to talk about your weird boyfriend, I’ve been watching Osamu and Akaashi all night.” Suna says.
Atsumu brightens. “This is about Akaashi-kun?”
“You were watching?” Osamu groans weakly and tips his head back against the wall.
Atsumu ignores him. “Osamu’s been cagey about it but I think they’re, like, promised to each other or something. Like Romeo and Juliet.”
“We’re not—” Osamu starts, but Atsumu shushes him. Osamu wishes Aran or Kita-san were here; they wouldn’t let this happen. Or, they would at least correct Atsumu's Shakespeare references.
“He’s never been like this with anyone,” Atsumu says. He’s all business, all of the sudden. Osamu wonders how drunk he really is. “He went up to Tokyo a couple weeks ago for the weekend just to see him. Didn’t even tell me about it; Akaashi told Bokkun, and Bokkun told me, and then I got Osamu to spill.”
Suna whistles, long and low. “You got it bad, man.”
Osamu hangs his head. It’s like he’s eighteen again, the three of them caught away in a corner at a house party, talking over beer that had gone lukewarm in their hands.
“I think he’s it for me,” Osamu says. It’s mortifying to say out loud, like he’s turning himself inside out. But it’s easy, natural, like waking up in the morning when you have nowhere to rush off to or cooking for someone in a sun-filled kitchen. Like that tree-lined street in Tokyo in the heavy light of summer evening.
Osamu shakes his head. The room stays quiet so he keeps going. “He’s smart, and ambitious, and kind, but he’s sarcastic and sometimes he talks like he’s in a job interview, but it’s endearing, you know? He works so much, which I get. He gets why I work so much.” He squeezes his eyes shut, ignores the heat in his cheeks. “Whenever I cook for him, it’s like it’s the first time he’s eaten, even if it’s just onigiri or instant curry.”
He always closes his eyes when he takes his first bite. Osamu doesn’t know what that means, or if it means anything at all, but he knows it makes everyone else in a room disappear, fills him up with something warm and wild and alive.
“Omi said Akaashi’s been looking at your shoulders all night,” Atsumu supplies. “I think maybe he’s got it just as bad.”
“Shut up,” Osamu says. He continues, softer, “Please don’t tell anyone I said all that.”
There’s a soft knock and Osamu looks up from his spot on the floor, crowded between his desk and the wall, and then Akaashi pokes his head through the door. He’s gone pink, high on his delicate cheekbones, hair a little mussed.
“Hello, Suna-san, Miya-san. Sakusa told me I might find you back here.” He nods at Suna and Atsumu and then his gaze lands on Osamu, heavy as a stone. “Osamu. I was looking for you.”
Atsumu wolf-whistles and Osamu reaches around and shoves. Suna and Atsumu file out, and Osamu pushes himself to his feet again. He’s wobbly for a moment, until Akaashi’s got a hand on his arm, leading him out of the office. They only make it to the narrow opening between the kitchen and restaurant proper, just out of sight. Akaashi tucks himself up against the wooden doorframe and pulls Osamu in by the belt loops.
“Do they need you out there?” Akaashi asks, voice low and private.
Osamu shakes his head. He reaches for Akaashi’s waist and catches water-soft fabric and then the rest of him. “Atsumu knows where things are. He’s got my keys, too.”
“What about your bartending gig?”
“It’s alright. It was more of an excuse to stay close to you, anyway.”
Akaashi’s surprised for all of a moment before it melts away. “Good.” He runs his fingers up Osamu’s arms and squeezes at his shoulders. “I like you close to me.”
He reaches a hand out and pushes Akaashi’s bangs back from his forehead. Akaashi closes his eyes, leans into Osamu's hand. “What did the old Tokyo gang have to say?”
“I’m supposed to seduce you.”
“Oh?” Osamu takes a step closer. Akaashi tips his head back against the old, worn wood of the doorframe. The spare light sticks to him like sweet syrup, catching in the long lines of his neck and the dip of his collarbone. That damn silk shirt. “You’re doing an awfully good job of it.”
“I spent the train ride here thinking of you,” Akaashi says, voice low. His eyes glow ocean green where they meet Osamu’s.
“Don’t tell me that. Look what you’re doin’ to me,” Osamu says. “You said you’re staying at Bokuto’s?”
“I’ll stay with you tonight,” Akaashi whispers. “If you ask me, I’ll stay.”
Osamu nods. He looks down at their feet — Akaashi’s sturdy black boots and his own beat-up sneakers. He presses the toe of his shoe to Akaashi’s.
“Come home with me, Keiji.”
Akaashi grins, as wide as Osamu’s ever seen him. “Alright.”
Osamu gathers Akaashi up in his arms and kisses him like he’s wanted to all night, since he woke up this morning, since he kissed Akaashi goodbye on the doorstep of his apartment in Tokyo in the early morning sun.
Osamu kisses the corner of his mouth. “Alright, alright. On the train. What did you think about?”
“This. Kissing you.” Akaashi slips his hand under Osamu’s shirt and presses his cold fingers into skin. “You making me breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Osamu grins, crooked ‘cause he can’t help it. The fridge at his place has got enough stuff to pull together something. He’s got eggs and most of the ingredients for miso soup. Cream for Akaashi’s coffee, even. Maybe he’ll duck out in the morning before Akaashi wakes up and get some fish. Maybe not. He hides his face in the spot where Akaashi’s neck and shoulder meet. “I think we can make that work.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Osamu plants wet kisses on Akaashi’s neck, his jaw, up to his cheek. “What about between now and tomorrow morning?” Akaashi’s hands flutter over his shoulders and down his back and settle in the back pockets of his jeans. “What did you think about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Akaashi says lightly. “I’ve been thinking an awful lot about the weekend you came up to see me in Tokyo.”
He hums into the warm skin of Akaashi's throat. “Hey, want to get out of here? I’ll cook you something.”
“Yes,” Akaashi says, delighted. “Yes, absolutely. I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”
Osamu feels too big for his body all of the sudden. He reaches up and tips his cap off and tosses it over towards the countertop.
Akaashi’s gaze floats up and he smiles.
“What?” His hand comes up to his hair self-consciously.
Akaashi shakes his head. He brings a hand up and runs it through Osamu’s hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp. Osamu shivers at the feeling.
“You had hat hair,” Akaashi explains. His hand’s caught at the nape of Osamu’s neck, thumb pressing into his skin.
“And you fixed it?”
The soft sounds of music filter in from the main room. Something soft, smooth, and deep, a girl’s warbling voice fading in and out like nighttime waves. Akaashi's heart beats steady under Osamu's hand.
“Good as new, Osamu.”