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Freshly cooked rice.
That’s your favourite scent in the entire world. Partially because rice slaps, but largely because it's what you've come to know comfort to smell like.
It’s been there all throughout your childhood – rice porridge in bed when you were too sick to sit at the table. Omurice waiting for you after a long day at school, a silly smiley face naturally included. Shaped and decorated as your favourite characters until it comes to life for your bento.
And then later on as you’ve become responsible for your own meals, it’s fuelled you through weeks where there was neither the time nor money for much more than that. A quick fried rice made from whatever leftovers to be found in your fridge. A means to stretch that curry into a meal or two more. A much-needed snack from the convenience store during a break too short for anything else.
You’ve always appreciated rice for its grounded presence. Not something flashy that stands out, the centre of attention, but sorely missed when nowhere to be found. Completing things.
And while you’d pride yourself at least a decent home cook, you were forced to reconsider everything you thought you knew about rice the moment you met Osamu Miya – or rather bit into his onigiri. Now that’s rice.
It comes as no wonder that from there on out – and especially since the two of you moved in together a few years back – the association only strengthened.
You wake up to the rice cooker already done, soup on the stove and a note stuck to the fridge on where to find last night’s leftover grilled fish. And for lunch you either pick up some onigiri on your way out or, when the time allows, simply wander over to the restaurant a little after you know it’s the busiest, so you can watch Osamu shape them right in front of you. It’s like a cooking show, only better. For one, because you actually get to try the dish of the week right then and there, no effort on your part, and also because the chef just so happens to be just as delicious.
And while it’s rare that he hands the reins over the kitchen to you entirely, you’re aware that for as much as Osamu lives and breathes cooking, he appreciates coming home to the work already done for dinner – wrapping himself around you with a small, mumbled thanks or comment on your choice of the day. It’s in these moments when so many warm and comfortable things come together, it’s hard to move sometimes. To carry on with whatever it was you’ve been chopping or stirring. Because between the steam rising from your amateur batch of rice just ladled into bowls and the echo of a day’s work seeping in through Osamu at your back, you’re right in the middle of the smell of home.
A close second, however? Onions. They’re literally the "something smells good" ingredient that draws everyone to the kitchen to investigate what's cooking. And thus, naturally also the reason you're currently tiptoeing your way across the apartment – though the lack of Osamu in your nose when you woke up from a much-deserved nap was also a pressing matter to attend to.
Sure enough, you find your partner in the kitchen. Because of course. His natural habitat.
While it's a sight you've had the chance to admire abundantly over the years, that doesn't diminish its appeal in the slightest. Of course, the promise of food wafting through the place, leaving no doubt you'll once more be fed well, is one you cherish greatly. But there's also the fact that Osamu's in nothing but sweatpants and an apron and yeah… That never gets old.
And of course, the man not only cooks, but also does the dishes. You almost moan at the sight.
"You're literally the sexiest man ever.” With your face shoved into the curve of his shoulder meeting his neck, your compliment-sounding-like-a-complaint-that-isn’t-actually-one comes out in a muffled, groggy grumble. “It's so unfair.”
Most likely not having heard you over the song he’s been casually singing along to, Osamu startles just slightly, freezing for the fraction of a second as your arms wrap around his middle and your hands sneak their way into the pocket of his apron. But the momentary tension dissolves just as quickly as it came – with a low chuckle and him leaning back into your warmth.
“The hell are ya on about…?” Try as he might, there’s no denying the little twitch of his lips, betraying he’s secretly pleased with your comment. “Did I wake ya up...?”
"Nah... Although it was very cruel of you to just leave me in bed all by my lonesome...” That you’re doing just as poor of a job concealing your actual feelings on the matter is evident by the shake of your head that turns into nothing but a means to nuzzle into him and the smile audible in your voice. “But I suppose, I'll forgive you...”
“How very generous of ya…” Osamu hums, abandoning the last of the dishes altogether in favour of finding your hands in his pocket and wrapping his own around them gently – entirely ignoring the small sound of indignation from you at the sudden, wet contact. He even dares to snort at how he can feel your nose scrunch up in disgust, yet you make no move to pull away, even going so far as to intertwine your fingers instead. “Wouldn’t wanna subject ya to the smell of onion and my terrible singing first thing back with the living...”
“Even though you know those are two of my favourite things? You really are cruel.” Your complaint is again a mere joke. Everything else, though? That’s very much the truth. His singing is most certainly not terrible. Maybe not the kind of thing you’d hear on the radio or live on stage, but pleasant in the way most things about Osamu are. It’s warm in the kind of way that seeps into your bones; deep how it resonates in your chest when you’re wrapped up like this; steady regardless of whether the notes are quite right or not. Much like with the rice, it’s an everyday comfort you wouldn’t want to go without. Down-to-earth in a fundamental way you’d lack balance without.
“Ya got very questionable taste, y’know that?” Considering Osamu’s saying this about his number one taste tester, perhaps he should rethink his words. It’s a position of the utmost importance – one you take very seriously. The good reputation of his restaurant – as well as yours by having your name next to the newest special on the menu – rests on your shoulders after all. And he goes and calls it “questionable”? Outrageous.
“I believe you mean 'impeccable'.” You correct him smugly. Because that’s the only reasonable word for it – whether it comes to music, food or anything else.
And since the next song on the playlist just so happens to be one you enjoy filling your home as much as rice and onions and Osamu, you start to gently sway left and right with him, paying no mind to how that just might make putting the dishes in their drying rack a little harder. But you’re working with a pro after all. This mild disruption is nothing. God knows that by being with you, Osamu’s had to put up with much worse distractions in the kitchen over time.
In fact, this one seems to be quite welcome, even if he doesn’t comment as he aborts his task in favour of turning around in your embrace. But the pot he leaves untouched in the sink – to soak, because that’s never been anyone’s favourite flimsy excuse – says enough. His hands come to rest on your waist – thankfully dried off this time – and he turns his head just enough so you can feel his mouth curl into a smile against your ear, the sound to go along with it somewhere between a chuckle and a hum.
“I'm a professional. I would know.” You further justify yourself without being prompted, your arms coming up to rest loosely around Osamu’s neck. A professional onion devourer and the karaoke champion of the wasted, that is. Now those are some impressive titles – second only to chief taste taster.
“I’m not sure drunk karaoke counts.” Leaning back only to make sure he can see you pout, you’re tempted to further make a case for yourself. But the soft, fond expression on Osamu’s face takes the fight – no matter how unserious it was to begin with – out of you immediately.
And for a moment you both just look.
An exchange takes place in silence then – one you couldn’t quite put into words if pressed. An understanding. That’s what it is. Of what exactly… Does it even matter all that much?
Maybe it’s just that Osamu makes your brain really fuzzy, in a way that’s nothing like being drunk and everything like your brain cells collectively deciding to only supply you with the naturally very important input of “hehe handsome” – or any more or less appropriate variation thereof. You wonder if you look as airheaded as you feel. Because while you know from personal experience that Osamu suffers from a similar phenomenon when it comes to studying you, you can’t shake the feeling that at least with him you can’t tell at a glance. No, he looks like he’s thinking.
Whether he is or isn’t, before long something akin to gravity that has always existed in the space between you pulls you both in again, no longer able to look but to feel.
You feel Osamu humming for one – more than you can actually hear it. A deep rumble reverberating in your chest where it rests against his. The warmth he exudes. Feel the way your weight shifts from one foot to the other in tandem, back and forth – a dance without proper steps that still, you know by heart.
For all your playful bragging, the way you join in is but a whisper – more mouthing the words than proper singing. But details like that blur in each other’s proximity and they reach all the way from your heart to Osamu’s ears just as well as if you had been shouting – like all those times you’ve purposefully picked the sappiest love song to belt out on karaoke night. Just for him. Out of love obviously – and maybe also because you enjoy how he always groans as soon as your choice of song comes up on the screen yet still never takes his eyes off you until you get your due applause. And a kiss.
And this is no different in that sense. But ultimately, you think it might suit you better without the theatrics involved. The clean rawness that takes their place instead a change as welcome as it is vulnerable. That’s probably how it would feel. How it would feel if you were still thinking in such terms. As is, the only thing that comes to mind is that it’s nice. Natural. Easy. As it should be in your kitchen, your own little corner of the world. Home. As you should be.
As Osamu and you continue to slowly shuffle around the kitchen, you pick up your line of thought from earlier: "You're the much prettier househusband, though." Never mind the fact that he works enough for multiple people and you’re not married – yet.
Facts Osamu points out just a second later.
At first, there’s a minor pause as well as the slightest stumble in his step before he recovers and responds as dryly as ever: “I am not a househusband.”
“Ain't nobody doing the dishes more handsomely, though...” You can feel his lip just itching to quirk into a smile and when you insist, he cracks, turning his head to muffle his snort in your hair.
“Also, we’re not even married yet, smartass.” Again, Osamu knows this back and forth too well to stay stunned for long. It’s a dance much more familiar than whatever the absentminded shuffling you’re currently up to is supposed to be.
But you also catch that little word right there – yet.
“Now that would be an easy fix.” You find yourself saying before ever thinking twice – unsure whether you’d call yourself witty or audacious the moment the statement registers in your own brain.
"Yeah?” If Osamu’s surprised by your sudden foray, he doesn’t show it, neither his response nor his feet missing a beat. “Ya proposing, then? Got a ring hidden somewhere, do ya?"
It’s a comment made as easily as yours – the perfect quip back, really – but for all its light-heartedness, it does make you think…
Obviously, you don’t just happen to have a ring lying around or hidden in your sock drawer or somewhere else Osamu’s unlikely to stumble over by accident. Which is not to say that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind before – most notoriously when helping at the restaurant and catching the faint gleam of metal or a shiny stone on the hand of a customer when handing over their order. It’s only natural to take note. As is slowing down to a snail’s pace when passing by the ring displays in the window of a jewellery store while you’re out running errands – not quite stopping to take a proper look but always sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye. You should know the options, right? Although currently the only one would be…
“Well… I could put an onion ring on you.” You eventually suggest, way too earnestly for what you’re proposing. Not that you’re not aware of how silly and absurd it sounds even before the words leave your mouth. And you’re hardly able to keep a straight face once they do. But you don’t mind if it gets Osamu to laugh – which is no doubt likely. Besides, you would. Absolutely. If only for shits and giggles. And while maybe not as impressive as what you’d like to present to him, it would suit him.
“… An onion ring.” Anyone else would call Osamu’s response dry, especially following what might just be the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. But even without feeling it against your cheek, you know that’s him on the verge of cracking up – you’re so close to success – simultaneously wondering how he ended up with someone so ridiculous and (more importantly) why he’s genuinely glad he did.
And sure enough, your ingenuity is rewarded just a moment later, Osamu’s shoulders starting to shake underneath your hands as he buries his face into yours – no doubt attempting to keep his laughter at bay but doing a poor job of it at best. “Oh my god- Yer so stupid.”
His composure only further derails from there, knocking over the bottle of dish soap with his elbow when he lifts a hand to cover his face – not that it does a better job of muffling his laughter than your shoulder did. No, the sound echoes in the kitchen – initially a deep rumble that you can feel just as much as you hear it that eventually turns more and more wheezy as air becomes scarce. It drowns out the music still playing from the small speaker tucked into a shelf between a jar of pickles and dried tomatoes. Not that you mind in the slightest when it’s so much sweeter than any music to your ears. You can’t get enough of it, all too eager to make a fool out of yourself for him.
“I don't know what you mean.” That you’re full of shit and absolutely do, you’re not going to talk about. “It's a genius idea. The perfect excuse if one of us starts to cry-“
Osamu’s laughter is a contagious thing, quickly rendering any attempts of yours to somehow make this even worse – or better, depending on perspective – useless, leaving you in stitches just the same until you’re forced to give up on selling this idea to him by sheer lack of breath alone.
You don’t know how long this goes on for – one of you finally managing to rein yourself in a bit, only to lose it again at the next chuckle from the other. You feel lightheaded in the best kind of way, clinging to him for support as if that would somehow help keep you together. Not working. Not that you’d ever let go anyhow.
Ultimately, it’s Osamu who manages to get out the first coherent words in what feels like ages – but has really only been a few minutes tops, despite what hour-long workout your aching abs might suggest. But they’re just about the last thing you expected him to say – to do.
Because his first course of action after mustering the strength to pull away enough to be able to look at you with a look so soft and fond it should be at odds with the exasperation still lingering there as well – not that you don’t know the overlap well – is to take a step backwards without letting go, taking you along. Only once he’s within reach of the cutting board still on the counter, one of his hands pulls back, blindly fishing for one of the scraps – no doubt saved for making a broth later – like he refuses to take his eyes off you for even just a second.
“Here.” There’s no question, just Osamu’s hand finding yours and a piece of onion on it a second later. And for all the amusement still visible on his face, there’s no hint of a jest. There's committing to the bit, playing up the joke, and then there's this – one taken too far and turning into anything but.
At first, you can’t bring yourself to look. It’s always hard to tear your eyes away from his, but while still reeling from laughter and your heart already full to the brim, it seems downright impossible. Especially when even without so much as a glance you already know what you’re going to find. But there’s something so expectant, almost hopeful, in the way Osamu’s watching you, you do anyway.
And sure enough, there it is.
An onion ring. On your finger.
It's a flimsy thing – barely holding together from how thin it’s cut and looking like it might just rip at the slightest touch – but the way it sits on your ring finger feels more secure than anything. How absurd for something so small to settle in your gut like a boulder. To get stuck in your throat like you swallowed your heart whole. To tie your tongue as tightly. You might have been acting like a proper clown before, but only now do you feel stupid. Because as stupid as it is, it feels entirely too real and at the same time there’s no way he just- Right? That would be ridiculous.
You suddenly feel entirely too conscious of reading too much into it – thinking too wishfully – even when you know Osamu too well to be, and unlike your usual easy back and forth, your attempt at a snappy comeback comes out flustered instead. “I can't be that much of an idiot if you're that quick to steal my idea...”
The feeling only gets worse when he doesn’t even make an attempt to banter back, instead looking down at it so fondly, you’d think the onion had turned into gold while you were too busy watching how his lips curl into a smile.
"Just so happens I’ve been looking for one.” With you the most absurd things seem like the best ideas – or so Osamu once told you. A sentiment that’s made you feel plenty mushy then, but right now, you think you might actually shed a tear (or many) when applied to something as significant and heartfelt as this.
There’s no voice left in you when you feel the sting in your eyes as you watch him lift your hand to kiss your knuckles. Not a chance for wit. Not even when you realise, you’re not the only one getting a little misty eyed. Onions be damned.
“Still yer favourite thing?” Whether Osamu’s asking about onions or something else altogether – like making sure it’s the perfect one for you, suiting you just right – doesn’t matter. The answer’s all the same.
“Yeah.” You manage to breathe out, mirroring his smile with a slightly wobblier one.
You have a feeling your love will only grow – both for onions and the man cutting them.