Work Text:
It is 10 AM on a Monday and Akaashi has already made a fool of himself twice in the last hour.
That morning, he had gotten a call from his.. whatever Miya Osamu is to him, and in his severely sleep-deprived, still half-asleep state, he promptly jumped at the sound of his phone ringing. He is very much mortified to admit this, but that sadly wasn’t the first time he—thinking it was his alarm going off—chucked his phone at the nearest wall in reflex.
What do you suppose the cracks on his beat up phone are from?
It had bounced off the vertical surface and onto the floor with a pathetic thud, which suspiciously reminded him of the sound of his daily head-to-desk banging. Everyone on his floor most definitely looked up from their cubicle to peek at his general direction and were effectively witness to his subsequent meltdown.
Yet that was, by no means, the most humiliating part—no, no, it gets so much worse.
In such succinct moment of panic, he had somehow summoned what was perhaps a passing remnants of his days as a high school athlete, a force strong enough to make permanent indentation where the gadget made contact with the gypsum drywall.
(Which is rude, by the way. Where was this sudden bouts of strength when he hauled a couch up the stairs to his fifth floor apartment, huh?)
That dent would cost him dear, he could tell. They’d dock it from his paycheck and he will have to do with bland konbini foods for some good couple months.
It didn’t stop there—the universe revels in his suffering, apparently.
It is a Monday morning after all, so they usually have their weekly meeting in the beginning of the workdays, briefing everyone on the ever-looming deadlines and consequently, dictate how much overtime each would have to enslave themselves to that particular week. So, as usual, head of department would holler from his office and call them in one by one—which means, there’d be plenty people going in and out of rooms and wandering about. It should be no surprise that, with his luck, the piece of technology he projectiled would land somewhere unfortunate. And he wasn’t shocked, really. He just thinks barely three centimeters from his senior editor-in-chief’s head is quite the record even for him.
Akaashi Keiji is ignominious. He has always known this about himself, but he has really exceeded his own expectation this time.
Bowing his head to HR as he got his ears talked off about safety in the workplace is truly rock bottom for him. He just hopes he doesn’t continue to sink deeper.
He did, naturally—descend further, going as far as burrowing into the sea floor, even—because Osamu just had to try calling again for a second time.
“Myaa-sam, how may I help you?”
“D’ya need to be so formal, Akaa-ji?”
Head of department walked out of his room at that very moment, presumably to walk to his next meeting, and shot him a grindingly unsubtle look as though to warn: behave. In return, he straightened his back, nodded, and turned around with a serious look on his face to fake taking an important business call; the image of professionalism. “You must know I’m in the office right now.”
“I know. Exactly why I’m calling.”
He stopped idly fidgeting with his fingers. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Everythin’s great. Just figured you’d wanna hear the news first.”
“What news?”
Osamu laughed, giddily.
“It’s happenin’. Yer beloved Tokyo branch.”
“Ah.”
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?”
“Oh. S-Sure, yeah. No problem.”
Now, Akaashi is no ninja, but through years of sneakily watching v-league matches or one of Kenma’s video game streams during slow office hours, he’d like to think that he has his silent celebration routine practiced to perfection.
It goes a little like this: he kicks against the side of his drawers, the blow sends his seat barreling away in a spin, he folds his legs to his chest, and lets out a noiseless scream muffled into his tucked-in knees.
Or, at least, he thought he perfected his technique.
Of all days, his carefully cultivated method chose to fail him today.
It might be a case of miscalculating the power of sheer adrenaline and kicking a tad too hard because his chair wheeled farther than it usually does, hit the partition, and launched him off his perch. Perhaps in an act of solidarity, half the content on his desk fell down with him.
Nothing broke, thankfully—courtesy of the self-awareness of his own clumsiness and accident-prone self, he doesn’t adorn his work desk with fragile decorations—but it certainly made enough ruckus to invite the scrutiny of his officemates.
Good thing he scraped all those new graduate’s initial inclination of wanting to seem friendly to his co-workers and made a habit out of closing his cubicle door even when he is merely fooling around.
“Ya okay there, Akaa-ji?”
Using the faint noise coming out of his speaker as an approximate guide, he blindly patted the floor to his left for his phone and stayed down, willing the ground to swallow him whole. He bumped into a stray scissors and his other personal belongings scattered around his perimeter like a halo before he felt it against his fingers. He schooled his tone to remain collected and unchanging, holding onto what little is left of his dignity as he align the phone to his ear.
“Never better.”
“If ya say so.”
Osamu didn’t sound too convinced.
“Do you need help?” Akaashi asked hurriedly, in an attempt to distract the other man. “I’ll make time. I’d be more than happy to aid in the prep work.”
The chuckles that resonated through the airwave separating them was warm, if only a little teasing. “That eager to see me, huh?”
Listen, Akaashi would be lying if he says he didn’t befriend Osamu with a less than honorable intention.
He knew, from the moment he bit into the onigiri Osamu molded between his two hands, that he wouldn’t be able to go back to some pathetic imitation of it. Out of compassion for himself, he would not put himself through anything less than exquisite ever again, knowing such pleasure exists in the world now. It has to be Onigiri Miya, everything else is ruined for him.
Moreover, he is not a particularly righteous person so he is most definitely not above leveraging his (truthfully, minimal) buying power and loyalty into getting what he wants. In this case, it involves matters of the gut, which means the answer is practically a no-brainer for him. A higher power of some kind up there made him a morally ambiguous, scheming INTJ myers-brigg personality type for this specific purpose exactly. He was put on this world to ensure Tokyoite would get their much needed supply of heaven-grade onigiri, he just knew it. If he has to play pretend-house with the charming owner to secure his daily bread, then so be it.
Akaashi loves food, okay? Sue him.
“After peer pressuring you into chancing a risky financial move, helping you unpack some boxes is the least I could do,” he lied through his teeth instead.
He can practically hear the petulant pout in his tone. “Aww, won’t ya spare my heart and t‘least pretend ya miss me too?”
“That is implied, yes.”
“C’mon now, don’t be shy,“ he pushes, chaffing him so openly. “I wanna hear ya say it.”
Akaashi sighs half-heartedly. At this point, he is used to—expects, even—this kind of antics from the former Inarizaki ace. It’s fine. One more white lie wouldn’t hurt.
“It’s lonely here without you, Myaa-sam.”
He is a little taken aback by how natural that answer comes out of him. Is there even an ounce of dishonesty in that one?
Huh.
“Anyway,” Osamu laughs airily on the other end of the line, completely unaware of his precipitous turmoil on this end. ”Can’t say no to an extra hand, can I? I’ll text ya the location, feel free to come by whenever you’re not drowning in a mountain of drafts.”
A light raps of knocking resounds behind him and Akaashi cannot remember the last time he was glad for Udai’s tragic timing (which is to say: never), but he certainly is now. He isn’t confident he would be able to form a coherent sentence while he is on the brink of some self-revelation of sort.
And yet, from the second they said their goodbye and temporarily parted to resume their day, he has been checking on his notification on a near minutely basis.
The promised message came in the middle of a pitch meeting for a new shonen series.
With practiced movements, he expertly maneuvers his phone under the desk, shielding it from his editor-in-chief’s view behind his laptop screen.
Miya Osamu
Miya Osamu shared a location with you.
Clicking on the pop-up, he squints at the small fonts glaring back at him.
He recognizes the red geo-tag straight away, takes a brief second to frown, and types in a response.
Akaashi Keiji
Myaa-sam, that’s my office building’s address
It’s approaching lunch rush, after all. Maybe Osamu was too distracted to double check. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Not a beat later, the reply buzzes in his palm.
Miya Osamu
+100 points for you!! ;)
He knocks the table with a jerk of his knee. His piping hot coffee mug tumbles towards an unsuspecting fellow editor.
It is 10 AM on a Monday and Akaashi has already made a fool of himself thrice in the last hour.
Akaashi is painfully average, in more ways than one.
He was decent enough to be made a regular player at his powerhouse of a high school, but he definitely did not stand out in an array of other more talented setters. He possessed none of the unique, star player qualities that belongs to the likes of Bokuto. Had they replaced him with Anahori or any other players in their extensive roster, he was sure Fukurodani would’ve done well regardless.
Later in life, he gave up the gym for a generic 9 to 5 office job, working in a department he isn’t particularly passionate about but stays because he needs to make ends meet for himself. He doesn’t think he does anything particularly remarkable with his job either. He simply does as is expected of him and nothing more. Anyone else, if they were to be given the proper tools, would be able to do what he does, he thinks.
He is, and has always been a regular guy.
But compartmentalization is certainly one thing he excels at, and it proves to be exceptionally useful today.
He shelves everything that has transpired that bizarre Monday morning on the deepest part of his mind and proceeds with his day as though it was any other day. By the time Akaashi finished scribing final revision notes onto the last page of Udai’s draft, he has forgotten about talks of Onigiri Miya Tokyo branch—and consequently, its charming owner—altogether.
Until the sound of a loud car horn blares right outside their building, that is.
Given that they were located on a busy street of a downtown district, it shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, but the honking is ever-incessant, which makes it an especially curious anomaly. Not even Akaashi’s laser-sharp concentration is strong enough to resist the temptation to peek.
Outside, a conspicuous truck was parked by the curb.
Akaashi is painfully average, in more ways than one; the only extraordinary part of his person is the fact that he is friends with those who are possibly some of the most eccentric people in the universe.
The man with a shit-eating grin repeatedly hitting the truck horn with reckless abandon out-front included.
If possible, Osamu’s grin only grows the moment his eyes land on his approaching frame.
“To clarify,” Akaashi clears his throat midway through closing their distance. “This wasn’t what I had in mind when I nagged for a Tokyo branch.”
Osamu has the audacity to shoot him the most infuriating smirk right as he stops a few steps away from him. “All in a wing spiker’s days work. Gotta keep ya on yer toes, Fukuroudani setter.”
He doesn’t bring up the fact that years of being Bokuto’s designated handler has virtually desensitized him from any shake-ups. A part of him worries that if he were to admit to losing his ability to be surprised, this Miya-menace would take that as an invitation to challenge that notion.
“Neither of us have been either in a good while, Myaa-sam,” he retaliated, hounding him back to the topic at hand. “I sent you list of potentially lucrative properties, did you not receive it?”
“Store on wheels is more flexible,” Osamu propels himself off the driver seat door he was resting against. “I get to test out waters on different locations and it helps in gettin’ the brand name out too, reach a wider market and whatnot.”
It’s a smart strategy, he must say. Sounds like something he might do too, if he were in his shoes.
“‘Course you’d think that.”
Oh. He said that out loud, didn’t he?
Osamu snorts, flicking his forehead in a way that lights his cheeks ablaze. “It’s yer idea.”
“Huh?”
Crowding into his personal space, he smiles widely, pearly white teeth on display. Akaashi holds his ground, if only because he fears his feet would betray him otherwise.
“You could dominate the F&B business if you’d only expand your range,“ he says in a strange voice, before pausing to look at him. Then, in another tone that makes it so abundantly clear that the previous one was decidedly not-Osamu’s usual tone, he continues: “Yer the one who taught me that, Akaa-ji.”
Just like that, Akaashi is taken back to one warm winter day in Osaka, a few months after the MSBY and Adlers game.
”Like KFC,” he remembered himself quipping.
Osamu frowned, whether from the (apparently) mildly insulting comparison or from the allusion to his poor eating habits, Akaashi wasn’t entirely sure.
”I’m not trynna build’a franchise,” he said, shoving another plate of triangular rice balls in front of him.
”It’s just an example,” he laughed around the filling of his onigiri, waving an unused paper straw to accentuate his point. ”Onigiri could remain your house specialty, but diversifying the option would extend your reach to whole new demographics of customers. You’re passionate about developing recipes in general anyway, no?”
Osamu seemed to consider it, at least.
Akaashi looked up from his negitoro, dealing the final blow. ”If you venture beyond onigiri, you could build an empire. An entire civilization, if you prefer.”
He has said that before, definitely. He knows he has.
The recently added donburi section on the menu is proof of that.
Business has since been booming, or so Osamu told him during their nightly catch-up sessions after work hours. The last time he was visiting Osaka headquarter, he had missed out on the oyakodon after they ran out of stock due to high demand, so he supposes there is at least some truth in that. His past self was definitely onto something with that whole spiel.
He would not deliberately lead him astray, of course. He genuinely want Osamu to succeed, regardless if it would directly benefit him or not. However, he never expected him to heed his words.
He isn’t a stakeholder, does not own any stock to Onigiri Miya or anything whatsoever (trust him, their headquarter would be located in Tokyo if he is). But with the business’ founder following through with his suggestions diligently, it definitely makes them an accomplice of some kind—partners in crime, he supposes. He is a part of this as much as Osamu himself.
“Tokyo branch, check. What’s next on the agenda, young master?”
Akaashi mock-grimaces at that nickname, still not completely comfortable with the prospect of having such great hopes being placed on his shoulder yet again. “You know I don't sign up for projects that I doubt will come to fruition.”
“Well, yeah, ‘m countin’ on it.” He shrugs nonchalantly, though not enough to hide the rose-colored sheepishness creeping to his sharp cheekbones. “Sorry fer usin’ ya as some kinda indicator, but ’s always more reassurin’ fer me to step forward knowin’ I’ve got yer approval on ideas and stuff.”
“I’m human, too. I’m bound to make some miscalculation here and there.”
“And that’s why it’s a ‘we,’” he says casually, as though his words didn’t make Akaashi feel faintly queasy. “I’m not trynna abandon ship and leave all responsibilities to ya. ’m just sayin’ that I value yer opinion. A lot.”
Oh.
Oh shit.
He didn’t realize they’ve both carved themselves so deeply into each other’s lives, to a point where his inane musings is of merit to someone like Osamu.
When he approached Osamu to convince a Tokyo branch out of him, the game plan was to storm in, secure his lifetime supply of onigiri, and bail, perhaps keep a respectful amount of cordiality whenever their paths would occasionally cross again. It was supposed to be a fairly detached affair—if it had gone according to the blueprint, at least.
He never expected to spill his guts when Osamu caught him sniffling into a cup of hot ocha on his third visit (in his defense, he had a bad day). He never expected Osamu to slide an off-menu ochazuke in front of him and gently nudged at his stormy heart as he wiped down the already sparkling bar table. He never expected Osamu to offer a novel perspective and a sound advice once he finished venting.
He never expected the routine to repeat every single time he tumbles through the door with a tense look clinging to his usually unreadable disposition.
Before he knew it, their friendship had crossed threshold into something a lot more intimate than he initially anticipated it would become. He cannot remember the last time his lunch isn’t something not of his own choosing from whichever restaurant Osamu is curious of that day, when photographing his food to send to their chatroom accompanied by a lengthy description of its texture and flavor profile in great details isn’t a customary prior to his every meal, when he doesn’t plan the rest of his social engagements around Osamu’s schedule of dropping by Tokyo so he can take him to his favorite hole in the wall spots.
Akaashi made the conscious decision to nerd out about his love for food with Osamu.
Worse, he summoned the effort to keep up with it for the better part of the year. Akaashi has gone through troubles of doing all of these with someone who lives however many prefectures Hyogo is from Tokyo—all with the knowledge that Yukie is only a few metro stops away from his apartment.
This isn’t a simple case of tricking an old, barely-acquaintance into opening a Tokyo branch with the preambles of connecting over their mutual interests for food, he realizes.
This is more than that.
To be fair, Akaashi never claimed to be someone who is not easily attached. He clings to his high school connections like a lifeline, he still keeps his former college roommate on speed dial, and he imprints on the first senior editor who greets him on his first day.
And with Osamu, being the kind and doting soul that he is, chipping away at his walls until there was no more, it was only inevitable that Akaashi, being raised to always be polite and accommodating to guests first and foremost, would welcome him through the door and invite him in.
Perhaps Akaashi Keiji was always doomed to fall for Miya Osamu.
Perhaps he doesn’t mind.
Akaashi sighs, trying not to sound too fond.
“World domination?” he offers.
“World domination.”