Chapter Text
“Hey man you coming out tonight? Daichi still owes us that drink from the poker game last month~”
Lines ghosting the edges of muscles popped, as Kuroo pulled his T-shirt over his cockatoo hairstyle. He had claimed it to be his natural bedhead one too many times for anyone to believe him. Sticking up in all directions with the fringe over one eye looking like he spent ages on it every morning. Chucking the grey piece of fabric into his locker, he ran a spare hand through the black prickles, pushing it back to the side from where it’d fallen over his face as he leaned towards the mirror, blue-tacked to the inside. Fishing a sleek, black pen from the front pouch of his duffel bag, the same one he kept his books and practice gear in. His index finger pulled at the side of his eyelid, drawing a neat, thin line that flicked boldly at the edges.
“Would love to darling, but I can’t. Ushijima’s got me figuring out some special menu for the VIP next month”
Oikawa’s tone was smooth and sweet as honey, words flowed so easily off his tongue when you prompted him. With his brown hair in it’s semi-natural curls and that classic pretty boy look of a mixed race baby, it was hard to imagine him working anywhere but the front line of this place. Though anyone that says so just hasn’t tasted this loser’s Tiramisu, or Mont Blanc… even something as simple as Baklava could be made into nothing short of a spectacle for the tastebuds, with the time and effort he’d put into it. He takes the longest hours out of all the key staff, and no amount of smiles and winks could hide the bags under his eyes without makeup anymore, because that was just the lifestyle of working at one of the best restaurants in Tokyo nowadays. Not that he regretted it though.
“I seriously don’t understand why you guys have to make such a fuss for this guy, who was he again?”
“No idea bro. Profile tells me he’s just some real estate guy’s son. Just flew back from America so he’s missing Japanese food. Not like I read the whole thing but eh”
Now this was a guy who’s haphazard hair was definitely not natural. Bokuto had made the general bad decision during his third year of highschool to bleach out the entire thing. After realizing that his greek god body (that’s right, better that Kuroo’s no matter how his teammates liked to rile him up about it) didn’t suit white hair, he grew it out. Then, then realized he had an opportunity, an opportunity to look like his favourite animal since he was 5. With white tips and jet black growing underneath Bokuto simply swept his hair back with a little hair clay every morning, letting his hooded, golden orbs shine through with every overdramatic expression he made. Chugging a redbull with slightly sticky hands before he reached for his uniform, fiddling with the white buttons of his dress shirt like a 12 year old. Damn he hated formal clothing.
Just then the locker room door creaked open, and the man of the hour joined them, already snazzy and dressed in his white dress shirt, similar to Bokuto’s with a black waistcoat over it. The back texturized in a way that caught the light, calling attention to the atheletic curve of his lower back. He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned against the door, his hair short, black and kept, easily the most proper looking of all four men, and the oldest too, though not by much. The only thing that perhaps gave him an edge was the piercing though his earlobe, just one on his right, with a small diamond stud through it. A gift from his sister, and tasteful enough to wear at work. His sleeves neatly cuffed and just able to slide into the pockets of his slacks.
“Sup Daichi, how’re we lookin’ tonight?”
Kuroo himself should also be reading the guest list, because yes this place was so exclusive that they only got a good less than 100 customers, or guests, as they called them, for the 7 hours they were open for dinner a day. Each one with a name, and more often than not, a fancy profile of their status, food order, personal details they didn’t mind sharing. Quite a few liked to include sexuality and marital status as well, to Oikawa’s amusement. But truly, the only thing Kuroo really cared about was the drinks. And even to a qualified Sommelier such as himself who passed top of the class, memorizing the names of expensive wine in different languages, then learning how to say them, then making sure they get to the right person was a lot of work, not to mention lots of them he had to order specially for the guests, which takes time because the damn wineries in Boudreaux don’t fucking speak Japanese. So, Kuroo preferred to hear the details of the people paying themselves, from Daichi, who’s only real work was profiling.
Besides, the primary job of the host is to know who’s coming through the door.
“Busy. But not too bad. that German lady’s coming tonight. Though this time she’s bringing one of her nieces with her, she’s given us specific directions to treat her well. Apparently she just graduated college. I hope you got the cake in the oven for that Oikawa”
The brown haired man with his chef’s coat half buttoned shot out his tongue and a peace sign. God knows what it meant but to Daichi it signaled that some way or another, it was all under control.
Daichi had the habit of running his mouth about the customers before they opened, it helped him remember things beforehand, and let all key floor staff connect with each other about the guests. Since they usually saw all of them, save Oikawa, it was important that they were all on the same page.
“Oh and Bokuto, we got a critic coming tonight so don’t screw it up,”
His gaze turned into steel as it fixed on the man checking his hair one last time in the corner of the room, head buried in his locker. Dress shirt now on and sleeves rolled up and fastened at his bicep with thin fabric belt buckles. The edge of the scrunched fabric exposing the edge of a navy blue and gold tattoo that just licked the tops of his forearms.
Bokuto shot up from his locker.
“I haven’t even done anything yet!”
“Chill. It’s probably because the critic’s alone”
The host nodded. Most people who had this much money to spare were often lonely, as fate would have it. So the restaurant also had a fully equipped, beautiful chandelier lit bar, where most of their single guests tended to sit after dinner, tended by the excitable owl himself. Now Bokuto wasn’t bad at his job, in fact, he was bloody amazing at it, with more technical skill than one would be tempted to give him credit for. He didn’t have a chef’s palate like Oikawa, nor the steady hand and deduction skills of Kuroo, but he had the stamina and cut throat work ethic to earn his place here. His naturally bubbly, infectious personality didn’t hurt either. Though a couple guests have said to Daichi, a little exasperated but not angrily, that Bokuto can be kind of overbearing at times, and in his excitement of the drinks he mixes, makes mistakes. Ones that ultimately aren’t a big deal, like adding a little too much Vodka into a martini, or serving champagne in the wrong glass.
The problem was he tended to beat himself up about it, moping silently about how he was undeserving of this place and bringing down all the customers with confusion, the regulars would simply sigh and try to encourage him. It took Kuroo to bring him back from hell at times like that, but Kuroo was a busy man, and so Bokuto was mostly left on his own to hold it together, A tough job indeed.
He puffed up his chubby cheeks, probably the only ounce of fat in his body.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ve already got a drink prepared for him actually! Something he’s definitely never seen before, because I made it up~ This Amashi guy won’t know what hit him!”
“Akaashi. His name is Akaashi you moron”
“Whatever, I’ll go through the bar list again before we open.”
Daichi sighed, and the owl man went back to checking his hair for a few seconds, eventually flipping through the guest list, as promised. A piece of light reading material compared to the 200 year old looking textbook Oikawa had somehow procured from his locker, titled in some foreign language with multicoloured page markers all over it. He mumbled to himself as he read, with only the overhead bell chime to distract him when the clock struck 7.
“Alright men, it’s showtime.”