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Miya Osamu was drunk.
And a drunk Miya Osamu did very very stupid things. It was practically a tradition by now.Llike Atsumu embarrassing himself at every social event or Bokuto declaring himself “king” of something he had absolutely no business ruling.
The problem was that stupid things for Osamu tended to involve his mouth. Specifically, his mouth running off before his brain could tackle it into submission. Tonight would be no exception.
The private room of the grill restaurant in Osaka was crowded with too much noise, too much heat, and far too much alcohol. Atsumu, predictably, was in the middle of a shouting match with Bokuto over who got grill privileges. Hinata was fanning the smoke from a piece of meat that had died a violent, fiery death, and Meian was already muttering about how he was “too old for this.”
Sakusa sat at the far end, mask tugged down just enough to sip his drink, radiating the kind of calm disdain that could wilt crops. Aran had resigned himself to playing referee between Gao and Suna, who were engaged in some silent war over the last set of skewers. And in the middle of it all, Akaashi Keiji sat perfectly composed, chopsticks in hand, calmly nodding at whatever nonsense Bokuto was demanding of him.
Osamu told himself not to look. Not to notice. But there it was again — Akaashi, sipping from his glass, posture straight, gaze sharp behind those glasses — and Osamu’s traitorous brain went fuzzy.
He was really, really pretty.
Not that Osamu had ever said more than three sentences to him in a row outside of work. Their conversations never strayed far beyond onigiri at his stall during Jackals games, or polite greetings when Bokuto or Atsumu dragged them into the same orbit. “Customer and vendor.” That was the whole relationship. Professional. Respectful. Safe.
And Osamu intended to keep it that way. At least, he always did. Sober.
But tonight, the sake was flowing too freely, Atsumu was too loud and Osamu was just tipsy enough to stop caring about dignity.
His brother squinted at him from across the table. “Yer pink.”
Osamu scowled. “It’s the heat.”
“It’s the alcohol,” Suna murmured without looking up, thumbs tapping on his phone. “Give it ten minutes. He’ll say something stupid.”
The table laughed. Osamu shoved a skewer in his mouth and immediately burned his tongue. Perfect.
The night had tipped from lively into chaotic an hour ago. The private grill room buzzed with heat and smoke, plates stacked precariously at the edges of the table. Meat hissed on the grill, sake poured too freely, and the sheer volume of so many professional athletes in one space was enough to drown out rational thought.
Atsumu was at the center of it, naturally.
“Ya never give me credit,” he was saying, gesturing with his chopsticks like a conductor orchestrating his own symphony of nonsense. “Everyone goes on about Samu bein’ the sensible one, the reliable one. But who’s the face of the Miya family, huh? Who’s the one people actually remember?”
Osamu sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Yeah, ‘cause yer voice leaves permanent hearin’ loss.”
“That’s called charisma.” Atsumu grinned. “Yer welcome.”
“Charisma’s when people actually enjoy it.” Osamu slid a slice of beef to the edge of the grill with deliberate calm. “Yer just noise pollution.”
That earned a ripple of muffled snorts around the table. Atsumu scowled, doubling down.
“Oi, Omi-kun.” He turned to his boyfriend with the desperate energy of a man convinced he was still winning. “Back me up. I’ve got the charm, yeah?”
Sakusa lifted his eyes slowly, like every second of this conversation shaved a year off his life. “You’ve got a volume problem. That’s all.”
“Volume problem—?!” Atsumu clutched his chest like he’d been betrayed. “Yer supposed to love me!”
Sakusa sipped his drink. “Miracles have limits.”
Osamu barked a laugh at that one, sharp and unguarded. Atsumu spun on him instantly, glaring.
“And what about you, oh holy Osamu? Ya think yer better than me? Brood all quiet-like and suddenly yer the mysterious twin?”
“Better’n bein’ a circus act,” Osamu muttered.
The table went still in that particular way that meant Atsumu wouldn’t let it go. His eyes gleamed, dangerous with mischief. “Fine. Let’s settle it then. Ask someone neutral. Someone honest.” His gaze slid across the room like a spotlight until it landed on the calmest figure there.
“Keiji-kun.” His grin turned triumphant. “Yer smart. Objective. Who’s the better twin?”
The room leaned, collective attention snapping to the one man unfortunate enough to be dragged into the crossfire.
Akaashi set his glass down, posture straight, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked between the twins before he spoke; precise, unflinching.
“Depends what you want. Atsumu-kun fills the room. Miya-san steadies it. They’re not really comparable.”
It was clean. Sharp. Impossible to twist.
Osamu felt something in his chest loosen. His brother’s theatrics had been cut down with surgical precision. His own pride salvaged without him lifting a finger. And it was Akaashi who had done it; cool, composed, and effortlessly sharp.
The sake blurred the edges of the room. His head swam, warmth rushing through him too fast to hold back. And then — before he could even think to stop himself — he turned toward Akaashi.
His voice was low, raw, and horribly, unmistakably clear.
“…and that’s exactly why I’m in love with you.”
Silence hit like a dropped weight.
For half a second, nobody moved. Atsumu’s mouth was still open, his chopsticks frozen mid-air. Bokuto, caught mid-laugh, looked like someone had yanked the batteries out of him. Hinata blinked fast, as though waiting for the punchline. Aran stared down at his drink like maybe the liquid inside would offer guidance. Gao frowned, head tilted, not sure whether to laugh or brace for impact. Even Suna, who lived for moments like this, sat perfectly still with his phone hovering uselessly over the table.
And Akaashi… Akaashi did not so much as twitch. His expression was smooth, deliberate, and distant, his gaze fixed firmly on his plate like the neat arrangement of pickled vegetables there might explain the meaning of life.
Osamu blinked at him, realization dawning too late, his own words still ringing in the silence.
Fuck.
The sake had done it. His tongue had betrayed him.
The words hung in the air, heavy and irreversible.
Osamu felt the sake drain out of him in a rush, leaving only a hollow pit of dread. His ears burned hot, his pulse hammered in his throat, and the silence was unbearable. He could hear it — his own words — still bouncing against the walls of his skull, echoing, taunting. God. He’d said it. Out loud. To him.
The silence was unbearable. Someone had to break it.
“Ha!” Atsumu barked suddenly, voice a little too high, a little too sharp. “Good one, Samu. Real funny. Y’know, jokin’ about—uh—love in front of everyone—”
“Shut up,” Sakusa cut in, voice sharp enough to slice the table in half.
Atsumu bristled. “Oi, don’t—”
But Sakusa was already standing. He set his glass down with deliberate care and scanned the room, gaze narrowing at the lot of them. “Out.”
Bokuto gaped. “Eh? But the meat—”
“Out,” Sakusa repeated, sharper.
Hinata shifted uneasily. “But… we didn’t even finish—”
“Out.”
The command was cold, clipped, and absolute. He didn’t raise his voice… didn’t need to. It was the kind of tone that could empty a gym in seconds.
One by one, chairs scraped back. Bokuto whined about unfinished beef, Hinata tried to laugh it off, Gao muttered something about wasted sake. Aran guided them toward the door without argument.
Atsumu dug his heels in, sputtering. “Oi, wait, wait, I ain’t leavin’! This is my brother we’re talkin’ about! Ya can’t just—”
Sakusa turned, eyes dark behind his fringe. “Atsumu. Move.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly sharp. But it was enough. Atsumu shut his mouth, muttering curses as Aran tugged him toward the door.
And then there were two.
The sudden quiet roared in Osamu’s ears. The table felt too long, the space too wide, and Akaashi — still staring down at his plate like it held all the answers — felt impossibly far away.
Osamu sat frozen, heart pounding, palms slick, his confession hanging between them like smoke.
He stared at the grill as if the meat hissing there might suddenly catch fire and rescue him with a distraction. His own words still rang in his head, relentless: I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you.
God, what had he done?
He shifted in his seat, restless. The table looked like a crime scene: plates in disarray, drinks half-finished, chopsticks scattered. The air reeked of smoke and sake. All of it felt like evidence, proof of the moment he’d lost control.
And across from him, Akaashi sat perfectly still.
Not tense, not visibly angry, just… unreadable. His eyes remained on his plate, on that single cooling slice of beef, as though it might supply an answer if he stared long enough. He hadn’t flinched when the others left. He hadn’t spoken a word. He just sat there, calm as stone, while Osamu burned alive in his own silence.
“…shit.” The word scraped out of him before he could stop it. He dragged a hand down his face, ears burning. “That… that wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Across the table, Akaashi finally moved. Not much… just shifted his glass a centimeter further from the grill. His eyes stayed fixed on his plate. Like the porcelain had suddenly become the most fascinating object in Osaka.
“Akaashi-kun,” Osamu tried, his voice too rough, too desperate. “Keiji.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
He swallowed hard. The alcohol that had felt warm and easy minutes ago now sat in his stomach like lead. “I… didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” His laugh was brittle, humorless. “Hell, didn’t mean for it to come out at all.”
Akaashi still not looking up. Still not saving him.
Osamu shifted, restless, words spilling just to fill the void. “Been bitin’ my tongue on this for months, y’know? Thought I had it under control. Onigiri, stall, games—it was fine. Manageable. Then Atsumu’s gotta stir the pot, and you…” His throat caught. “You cut him down with one line like it’s nothin’. And I just—” He pressed his hands over his face. “God, I’m an idiot.”
Still nothing. Not a flicker, not a blink.
Osamu groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Shit. I really fucked that up, didn’t I?”
The silence stretched. He could feel his pulse in his ears, hot and insistent.
Osamu peeked through his fingers. Akaashi’s gaze was still lowered, fixed on the cooling beef. His posture was precise, neat, like every muscle was locked into place. Not running. Not laughing. Not even frowning. Just… unreadable.
That hurt more than if he’d snapped.
Osamu dropped his hands with a groan, slumping forward until his forehead nearly touched the table. “Say somethin’, will ya? Tear me a new one, tell me I’m drunk outta my skull, tell me it don’t mean a damn thing—”
Finally, Akaashi spoke. His voice was quiet, even. “You are drunk. Why would you even say something like that?”
Osamu’s head jerked up. His mouth opened, then closed again. There were a dozen things he could say: jokes, excuses, drunken deflections. He’d used them all before, shields forged out of sarcasm and timing. But right now, none of them would hold.
“‘Cause it’s true,” he admitted, voice rough. “I just… didn’t mean fer it to come out like that. In front of everyone. Like some comedy routine.”
Akaashi’s fingers traced the rim of his glass once, slow and deliberate. His eyes finally lifted, not sharp, not soft, just steady, assessing. “And you thought today was the right time to say it?”
Osamu winced. “No. Alcohol just… loosened the lock on the box. Should’ve kept it shut. Figured if I never said it, it couldn’t ruin anythin’. Guess I ruined it anyway.”
The smallest flicker crossed Akaashi’s face, too quick to name. He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting, not away, not dismissing, but somewhere inward. The weight of his silence was worse than a rejection.
Osamu’s chest ached. He’d always known Akaashi was hard to read, but right now it felt like trying to solve a puzzle without knowing if all the pieces were even there.
“I ain’t askin’ ya to say anythin’ back,” Osamu said finally, words spilling fast before he lost his nerve. “Just… don’t hate me fer it. Don’t stop comin’ by the shop. Don’t…” His throat tightened. “Don’t take away the bit I do get.”
That landed. He could see it in the way Akaashi’s eyes sharpened, just a fraction. The man was composed, but not unmoved.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither spoke. The grill hissed low, forgotten.
Then Akaashi inhaled, slow and deliberate. His expression was still calm, but not empty. There was something alive there now. Something Osamu couldn’t read, but it made his chest tighten all the same.
“You really are reckless when you drink,” Akaashi murmured at last. His tone was neither sharp nor mocking. Just… measured.
Osamu laughed once, humorless. “Reckless when I’m sober too. Just better at hidin’ it.”
“You shouldn’t underestimate the weight of your words,” Akaashi said softly. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t gentle either. “Especially when you throw them into a room like that.”
Osamu’s stomach dropped. He opened his mouth, fumbling for another apology, but Akaashi continued before he could.
“That said…” He paused, deliberate, letting the words settle. “If you think you’ve ruined something by speaking the truth, you haven’t.”
Osamu blinked, caught off guard. His pulse thudded in his ears. “I—what?”
Akaashi’s gaze didn’t waver. His expression was composed, but there was something beneath it now, something alive, something Osamu had never seen aimed at him before. A quiet intensity.
“I don’t hate you for it,” Akaashi said simply. “And I don’t plan on avoiding your shop.”
Relief slammed into Osamu so fast his shoulders sagged. But before he could speak, Akaashi tilted his head, considering.
“What I don’t know,” he continued, voice steady, “is whether you said it because you wanted me to hear it… or because you couldn’t keep it in anymore.”
Osamu swallowed hard, throat dry. His mouth opened, then shut again. For once in his life, sarcasm failed him. He had no armor. Only the truth left.
“I wanted you to hear it,” he admitted, raw and hoarse. “I just didn’t mean fer it to be like that. Public. Loud. With Atsumu hoverin’ like a vulture.”
The corner of Akaashi’s mouth shifted: subtle, the faintest twitch that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t nothing either.
“Then next time,” he said, tone so calm it nearly undid Osamu, “try telling me directly first.”
The words had barely left Akaashi’s mouth — try telling me directly first — and Osamu sat there, stunned stupid. His chest was tight, his tongue thick, and for once in his life he had absolutely nothing witty, sarcastic, or halfway clever to throw up as a shield.
So, naturally, what came out was the next dumbest thing possible.
“I could, uh…” He cleared his throat, grimacing. His fingers twisted against the edge of his glass. “I could cook for ya. Like… properly. Not the stall.”
Akaashi blinked once, head tilting slightly, eyes locked on him with unnerving precision.
Osamu floundered, words tripping over themselves. “I mean, nothin’ fancy. Just dinner. At mine. Or—hell—wherever there’s a stove. I’d make somethin’ decent. Not— not sales counter stuff. Real food. Meant for… for someone.” His ears burned hot, and he wanted to shove his own head under the table. “Shit, that sounded bad. I just—”
Akaashi’s lips curved then, the smallest shift, but enough to spark heat straight through Osamu’s chest. It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t dismissal. If anything, it was… amusement. Warm. Subtle. Dangerous.
“You’re asking me on a date,” Akaashi said, tone measured, but with a softness threaded through it that hadn’t been there before.
Osamu winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Reckon I am. Yeah.”
For a moment, Akaashi simply studied him, eyes steady, expression composed. Then he leaned forward a fraction, elbows resting lightly on the table, and let the silence spin out just long enough for Osamu to feel every last nerve fray to threads.
“I don’t think I can say no,” Akaashi said finally, voice even but touched with something warmer. “Not to your food.” His gaze lingered… just long enough for Osamu to catch the flicker beneath it. Something teasing. Something deliberate.
Osamu blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait—ya mean—?”
Akaashi’s head tilted, his mouth twitching again, the faintest shadow of a smile pulling at the corner. “I’d be a fool to turn down a meal cooked just for me. Especially from someone who insists on hovering around me at every Jackals match with the best onigiri in Osaka.”
Osamu groaned into his hands. “Don’t make it sound like I’m stalkin’ ya.”
“You’re not,” Akaashi said smoothly. “But you do notice when I’m there.”
That made Osamu’s head snap up. The room was warm enough already, but now his face felt like it had been dunked straight onto the grill. “I—uh—yeah. Guess I do.”
Akaashi didn’t look away. The air between them shifted, taut and charged in a way that was different from the suffocating silence earlier. This wasn’t heavy. It was alive.
“So,” Akaashi said after a beat, lifting his glass again as though they were discussing schedules instead of peeling open Osamu’s ribs. “When do you plan to cook for me?”
The words were precise, innocent on the surface, but the tilt of his mouth and the softness threading through his tone betrayed it. He was teasing. Flirting, even.
Osamu’s brain stalled entirely. “I—I dunno. Whenever yer free? Tomorrow? Next week? Hell, I’ll clear the damn month if I gotta.”
Akaashi’s laugh was quiet, low, and far too dangerous for Osamu’s heart. “I don’t think we’ll need the whole month,” he said. “But tomorrow sounds… nice.”
Osamu gaped. “Tomorrow?”
Akaashi’s gaze dropped briefly to the table, then returned, sharp and unreadable again, but his words weren’t. “Unless you need more time to work up your courage.”
It wasn’t a challenge in tone, but Osamu felt it like one anyway. He straightened, stubbornness snapping through him. “Courage I’ve got. Ingredients I’ll sort tonight.”
The faintest real smile ghosted across Akaashi’s lips then, fleeting but undeniable. “Good. I’ll look forward to it.”
Osamu barely had time to breathe into the enormity of that promise before the shrill buzz of a phone cut through the air.
Akaashi’s phone, screen lighting up on the table. He glanced at it once, sighed quietly, and accepted the call, sliding it onto speaker with the same calm deliberation he’d handled everything else tonight.
“Akaashi!” Bokuto’s voice burst through the line like a cannon blast, so loud Osamu actually winced. “How’s the meat?!”
Osamu blinked. “The—what?”
“The meat!” Bokuto repeated, indignant. “We left you guys with the grill! Don’t tell me it burned while we were gone—wait, is Osamu alive?!”
From the background came Sakusa’s voice, sharper and more clipped. “Bokuto. Stay on topic.”
“I am on topic! Meat is always the topic!”
“Keiji-kun,” Sakusa cut in, firm now, “we were sent to check. Are things under control?”
Akaashi, for his part, didn’t so much as flinch. He reached for his glass, took a sip, and set it down before answering in that calm, even tone of his. “Yes. Everyone is alive.” His eyes flicked across the table to Osamu, who was currently contemplating whether suffocating on his own tongue was a viable escape. “You’re allowed to come back in.”
“Ha!” Bokuto crowed. “See, I told you, Omi-Omi! I said Akaashi’s got this under control. Totally fine. Nothing exploded.”
“Yet,” Sakusa muttered darkly.
“Oi!” Atsumu’s muffled voice bled through from wherever the others were crowded around the phone. “Ask if Samu’s still pink! Bet he’s pinker than a damn shrimp—”
The words cut off when Akaashi spoke again, calm but edged, like a blade drawn without fuss. “If anyone teases Osamu-kun about what was said in here, I will personally end them.”
The silence that followed was instant. Even Bokuto shut up.
On the other end, someone — probably Hinata — made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh, quickly smothered. Atsumu sputtered faintly, indignant but wordless. Sakusa, after a long pause, exhaled. “Noted.”
“Good,” Akaashi said simply, and tapped the call closed.
The phone went still on the table.
Osamu was frozen, every inch of him hot. He didn’t dare look up, but he didn’t need to. The weight of what Akaashi had just done sank deep into his bones.
Akaashi had drawn a line in the sand, clean and merciless, on his behalf.
And it felt — for the first time all night — like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t completely ruined everything.
The door slid open with a rattle far too loud for the pretense of subtlety.
They filed back in one after another: Bokuto, Hinata, Atsumu, Suna, Gao, Aran, Meian and Sakusa. The group moved like a herd of elephants pretending to be cats, all of them trying to act casual and failing so hard it was painful to watch.
“Ahhh, the air’s so much better in here,” Bokuto boomed, immediately undercutting the attempted nonchalance. “I was worried—you know, about the meat—haha—”
“Sit down, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said evenly, not even looking at him.
Hinata trailed in behind, grinning nervously. “Sooo, how’s, uh, the food? Still hot? Nothing’s, um, burned, right?”
Atsumu sidled in like he thought he could blend into the wall, but his eyes flicked to Osamu immediately, narrowed in suspicious glee. He opened his mouth then caught Akaashi’s gaze and snapped it shut so fast Osamu thought he might’ve chipped a tooth.
Even Suna, who lived for blackmail, looked uncharacteristically restrained. He slid into his seat as though even he wasn’t suicidal enough to test Akaashi’s earlier warning.
The noise returned — chatter, clatter of plates, chairs scraping — but it all felt off-kilter. Everyone was talking too loud or too fast, like they were overcompensating. The energy buzzed, awkward and crooked, a poor cover for the tension everyone had clearly felt in their absence.
Osamu felt every eye flick his way at least once. He knew how he looked—flushed pink, ears burning, shoulders tight. But he forced a grin, teeth flashing. He wasn’t about to let them see him fold. Not tonight. Not when his chest was still humming with the reality that Akaashi had said yes. That tomorrow he’d be cooking for him, and this wasn’t just some drunken dream he’d wake from with regret.
Let them stare. Let them wonder. He could take it.
Akaashi, on the other hand, was merciless. Every time someone’s gaze lingered too long, every time Atsumu’s mouth twitched like he might crack a joke, every time Hinata leaned forward too eagerly, Akaashi’s eyes slid toward them. Calm. Sharp. Utterly deadly. One glance, and they all wilted.
No one dared say a word.
Except, of course, Bokuto.
He had plopped himself down on the far end of the table, directly across from Akaashi, and within five minutes was clearly suffering from the lack of attention. He started small: raising his eyebrows. Then bigger: tilting his head. Then dramatically bigger: leaning across the table, stretching his neck like an owl in distress, waving two fingers in front of his eyes and pointing them back at Akaashi in the most obvious “I’m watching you” gesture known to man.
Akaashi didn’t so much as twitch. He continued eating, calm and collected, the faintest arch of a brow the only sign he’d noticed at all.
Osamu had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Bokuto, “subtle” as a marching band, had his face screwed up in concentration, clearly convinced he was pulling off some secret signal. The others were pretending not to see it, but Atsumu’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, Meian had his hands clapped over his mouth, and even Suna had buried his grin behind his phone.
The only one who seemed entirely unbothered was Akaashi himself, who finally set his chopsticks down, folded his hands on the table, and said, perfectly calmly, “Bokuto-san, if you keep making faces at me, I’ll relocate you to the children’s table.”
The entire room broke into helpless laughter.
Akaashi sighed, his gaze swept slowly across the table, pinning each of them in turn. “Since no one here seems capable of concentrating on their food,” he began, calm and measured, “let me save you the trouble of whispering and guessing. Osamu-kun and I are going on a date tomorrow.”
The effect was immediate. Bokuto shot upright, nearly knocking over a plate. Hinata squeaked audibly. Aran stiffened, Gao swore softly, and Suna choked into his sleeve. Atsumu went rigid, his eyes snapping to his twin like he’d just discovered a brand-new playground of torment.
And then, quiet but clear, Sakusa said the single worst possible word.
“…Finally.”
It was almost under his breath, a slip, an afterthought. But the moment it left him, Sakusa’s jaw tightened like he regretted it instantly.
Atsumu’s head whipped around. “FINALLY?!” His voice cracked so sharply half the table flinched. “What d’ya mean finally?!”
Chaos erupted. Bokuto was yelling for clarification, Hinata leaned halfway across the table, Gao and Aran exchanged wide-eyed looks, and Suna was laughing so hard he was useless.
And in the middle of it, Akaashi tinted pink.
It wasn’t much — just a soft bloom of color at his ears and the bridge of his nose — but on him, it was unmistakable. He didn’t look away, didn’t deny it, just sat there with his usual calm, tinged warm in a way Osamu had never seen before.
Osamu’s heart stuttered painfully. His grin cracked wide and helpless, not because of the noise, not because of Atsumu’s shrieking… but because that blush said more than any careful words could.
He wasn’t the only one who’d been holding onto something.
And if the room wanted to burn with chaos around them, Osamu didn’t care. Not when Akaashi had just given himself away, too.