Work Text:
“Hurry up! Our reservation’s in twenty!”
Keiji blinks, turning his head toward the sound of conversation. Behind him on the sidewalk, a man waves to a gaggle of friends piling out of a cab. They’re headed into the bistro he just passed.
He scans the front of the eatery, stomach rumbling and clenching around a void.
Hmm.
When he tries to remember the last time he ate, Keiji comes up blank. Toast as he trudged out the door this morning?
Pressing a hand to his tired eyes, he adjusts the frames of his glasses. He sucks in a breath and pushes it out, trying to rationalize. The deadline for this month’s draft is tomorrow. Earlier, their team was nowhere near finished. Now, they’re close. Close enough to wrap up in the morning without stress. That’s the goal. He wishes Udai would stay focused enough on his long nights to keep them moving at a decent pace all the time.
Keiji looks down at his watch.
Dinner and a few hours of sleep. He can manage that before they start up again.
Should he buy something? Conbini? His friends have started to cluck at the empty state of his kitchen and the frequency with which Keiji scarfs down prepackaged meals. That’s adulthood with a demanding career and no culinary prowess, though.
He’s tried following recipes he searched online. Failure after failure. Has attempted simple meals like salads. The vegetables wilted and tasted like grass. Regretfully, Keiji has even sunk so low before as to ask a certain annoying someone for cooking lessons. Kuroo still hasn’t stopped retelling how Keiji burned his favorite mackerel dish.
He grimaces. Being scolded constantly is better than being subjected to Kuroo’s gloating face every time they meet for drinks. Keiji thinks Kenma would agree with him there.
His stomach growls again.
Food on the go never sates his appetite for long, nor do his poor attempts at preparing things at home. Perhaps it’s time to upgrade. His wallet can’t sustain it becoming a regular habit if the restaurant is pricy, but Keiji is hungry. He’s exhausted. He dreads the thought of putting in time to create a meal that isn’t worth the effort. His head pulses with the remnants of stress from his workday - a morale boost is needed.
With a third painful ache in his gut, Keiji decides. Takeout it is.
He spares a glance toward the bistro. The group of people from before can be seen through the glass walls, milling in the reception area. Everything inside around them seems expensive. Not that restaurant, then.
There has to be somewhere on his walk home that’s reasonable. He chose an apartment here because the neighborhood boasts a nice blend of old and new, residential and commercial. It appeals to the way Keiji lives, craving comfort but being unable to do without modern conveniences. He doesn’t think he’s alone in that dichotomy.
He walks for another five minutes, hands folded into the pockets of his heavy coat for warmth. The cool air outside stings Keiji’s eyes, but keeps him alert as he scans the storefronts. It surprises him as he moves just how many places he can’t remember seeing before. Hole in the wall shops tucked between duplexes, a news stand, and a borrowing library - he makes a mental note to partake later.
There’s so much more here than he knew, and yet he passes these buildings twice daily. Keiji has never been one for breaking a routine that works, and his route to the publishing house ensures punctuality. But it seems he's missed the forest for the trees.
None of the handful of eateries he encounters fits the bill. Some have dark windows, like the bakery that specializes in spicy pork buns and closes at 1400, Monday through Saturday. Others are gentrified enough looking that his wallet shrinks back in his pocket before Keiji can decide to peruse the menus plastered in the window.
He continues on, quashing the growing hunger pains with the promise that he’ll stop at the conbini if his search fails him. Tonight may not be the night he strikes gold.
Then he rounds the corner and enters a street three blocks from his apartment. Immediately, Keiji notes the shift from the previous streets.
Here, the old is more apparent than the new. The buildings are weathered, but proud, with wood accents and hand-drawn advertising in their windows. Outside some of them, there are simple folding card tables that seat four a piece. The people that occupy them seem unfazed, as if sitting there has been a part of them so long their roots have snaked down and intertwined with the chair legs. Multiple strains of music spill out from open doorways, mingling together in harmony, no lyrics audible. It’s different from the buzz of frenzied traffic or loudspeakers blaring tinny versions of current pop hits.
On instinct, Keiji turns down the street, and resumes his quest.
His feet bring him to a sensory melting pot. The restaurant seems newer, judging by the crisp black banner stretched over the entryway, but inside, he sees more of what’s around: polished dark wood, walls decorated with posters and watercolor prints that could have been inherited from generations past. The front door is propped open on a smooth gray stone that seems fresh out of a riverbed. From inside, he smells the aroma of fresh-glazed salmon beckon. Beneath it, there’s the humbler scent of rice.
It’s his stomach that urges him on, then.
Keiji steps inside, prompting the bell over the door to chime.
The seating area and the counters are empty. He’s momentarily worried he’s intruding, but then someone rises to their feet behind the front counter. A tall, broad-chested someone with a jawline that could cut glass.
Not even the eye strain Keiji feels prevents him from staring until he recovers his manners.
“We-”
The stranger pauses. His gaze rakes over Keiji, assessing him. Self consciously, Keiji’s hands lift to the straps of his work bag, gripping them. Is he intruding?
“Hey,” the other man says, finally. “Welcome in.”
He sets the pair of bottles in his hands on the counter. Tamari soy sauce and toasted sesame oil. The ingredients seem different from the makeup of what his nose smelled earlier, but Keiji’s stomach rumbles at the idea of a fresh meal cooked in that combination of flavorings. He strides forward to the counter, and takes a seat once the man jerks a hand at the empty stool.
“What can I do fer ya?”
Another calculating gaze sweeps over Keiji.
He busies himself with setting his backpack on the floor nearby. Something in the eyes trained on him feels like it is observing too deep. He wonders what the - chef? random employee? - is concluding. Nothing interesting. There isn’t anything about him these days that stands out. He is a perfectly normal person, apart from the hellscape that consumes his life, also known as editing manga.
Keiji’s attention flicks back to him. Drops to the inky black t-shirt stretched over a solid torso. The fabric bears the shop’s logo, identical to the banner outside, and a neat embroidered name near the man’s left collarbone. Miya. Also the same as the shop. How efficient.
He tucks the thought away and tries to think of how to order whatever it was that smelled divine enough to draw him here. From his initial impression, Miya seems like he'd laugh if he stated it that bluntly.
“New here? Don’t recognize yer face.”
Miya rests his upper body on the counter, propping a fist under his chin. His gaze lingers boldly on Keiji.
The laser-focused attention is a problem. A variable to consider for when and if he decides to eat here again. If the food is adequate, he might overlook a bit of trouble from the owner. Even if it isn’t though, perhaps-
“I am sure you see many faces in a week,” Keiji says. “Mine is not that remarkable.”
“No, I’d definitely remember,” Miya replies, lips curling at the corners. He doesn’t need to elaborate for a rush of heat to prick its way into Keiji’s cheeks.
He’s not the best at gauging these things, but he’s certain he’s being flirted with.
It’s been a while since the last time. Keiji's friends pelt him with reassurances that he’s above average looks-wise, but his outer shell seems to act as a repellent. He has been told that he doesn’t betray much emotion. He doesn’t hear that as often now compared to when he was younger. But it happens. Apparently, if he smiled more, he'd have no lack of suitors.
An exhausting prospect, though it might be nice to have someone to come home to. He’s had that errant thought run through his head lately.
Whatever the truth is, there’s one fact that never changes. Being gay in Japan sometimes feels like he’s wading through a tide pool as opposed to a vast sea. A lot of his options are hidden behind the murkiness of fear or denial. He’s been on less than ten solid dates since graduating university. Not for lack of trying.
He might not have to try hard with the gift horse before him. It’s thrilling to realize.
“What can I do fer ya?” Miya repeats.
Keiji decides his pride can stand to take a minor dent.
“What you are cooking now smells delightful. I noticed it as I was walking past.”
“‘S not on the menu yet, but sure, why not?” Miya tilts his head. “Since it’s just us in here. Can I get yer name?”
For once, he doesn’t reflexively reach for his case of business cards.
“Akaashi Keiji.”
“Osamu. Guessin’ ya know my family name by now since ya like staring.”
Keiji’s stomach drops, a bit more color burning across his skin in hot, scratchy patches.
“I… Yes,” he settles for saying, tongue weighing heavy in his mouth as he attempts to smooth things over. “I read the shirt’s writing. I apologize if my behavior seemed rude.”
“Don’t. Not like I minded.”
Osamu pushes himself up from the counter and walks around it to the restaurant entrance. With a gentle nudge of his foot, he kicks the stone serving as a makeshift jam aside and shuts it. Keiji furrows his brows. When the other man turns around, he just smiles at him.
“I’d rather not attract more strays past closin’ time. Yer an exception.”
Anxiety knots in his throat.
“You’re closed?”
“Yeah. Was. Then ya walked in,” Osamu answers. He seems to catch on to the rising tide of nerves, because his gaze flickers to Keiji’s fingers. Steepled together at the edge of the cherry wood surface, already tugging at the joints out of habit.
Before Keiji can interrupt to apologize, he heads him off with, “I’m sayin’ it’s fine. I’ll feed ya. Ya look like you need a decent meal.”
Osamu’s storm gray eyes elevate slowly, dragging over him again. This time, it feels less predatory. More thoughtful.
“Work late often?”
His voice isn’t soft, but Keiji’s uncertainty is appeased by the concern laced in the sound. Something tells him that behind the confident facade, there may just be a decent heart lurking. The contrast his realization provides is intriguing. It makes him wonder how Osamu acts around people he’s known longer. If this is the true him, or if it’s just one face he wears.
Despite his trademark caution, Keiji is curious to learn.
He releases his grip on the knuckles of his other hand and lays both flat against the counter, going quiet. Strangely, he finds himself carding through memories of the past two weeks at the publishing house. It all blurs together after a while, with random all-nighters eliminating the gap between one shift and the next. But the fatigue Keiji feels and the stress he experiences as a constant unsettled flutter in his heart ring loudly.
Editing manga was something he fell into, a second resort when the literature department rejected his application. Initially, Keiji had intended on riding out his probationary period, perhaps longer, and then reapplying for his desired choice.
Along the way, he’d lost that desire. It could have been as simple as clicking with Udai, his main author, but somewhere in the midst of chaos, he’d started to love the craft. Hectic schedule or not, he enjoys his job. Or had. He thinks he still does, but his work-life balance in recent weeks has toppled too far to one side. And he doesn’t know how to shift it back to where it needs to be. There’s always some deadline, some crisis that Keiji knows he can fix if he puts in the effort -
Osamu’s voice snaps him into the present.
“I’m takin’ that as a yes.”
“Ah, sorry. I suppose so.”
“Ya good with salmon? Glaze is ginger apricot.”
Keiji blinks, finding the other man at the opposite wall of the open-concept kitchen space, grabbing a plate and utensils.
“Yes. That’s fine. Thank you, Miya-san.”
Osamu hums, but fails to sound carefree. Keiji raises a brow, but he pushes the suspicion aside and straightens up on the stool. Now that it knows food is on the way, his body feels lighter, less run-down than he had felt walking the streets.
The growl in his stomach has quieted to a background murmur. He hopes the meal will taste as delicious as its aroma suggests. He’d like a reason to come back, as well as a reason to praise the chef’s efforts. Keiji feels that’s the least he can do, considering how he’s making him stay open past usual business hours.
“Osamu, if ya please. Feels weird bein’ Miya when it’s not business. I’ve got a brother. Twin brother, and people call him that more than they do me,” his host rattles off as he artfully positions shiny strips of salmon over a bed of rice. Once plated, he sprinkles a few red pepper flakes on top.
Keiji watches the process with mounting awe. Far be it him to give an opinion on cooking, but there's no chance what’s on that plate will taste inedible.
Still-
Jumping to a first name basis isn’t something he takes lightly. The sole person he has bridged that gap with is Kenma, and that has more to do with the threatening glances Keiji received when attempting to use honorifics on him than comfort levels. Kenma has a talent for striking fear into people’s hearts with his armor-piercing glares. Keiji thinks even Kuroo might agree with him there. One of their few truce points.
Yet, he has been presented with a logical reason. Keiji dislikes making people uncomfortable. For as many times as he’s been called stone-faced, there are just as many times people have noted his considerate nature.
“We can settle for Osamu-kun, perhaps?”
Another hum trills out as Osamu walks back to the counter with the finished product.
“That’s probably a good offer from ya, isn’t it? Sure. We’ll start there,” he replies evenly, setting the plate in front of Keiji. Another, larger serving is placed on Osamu’s side of the counter, which perks Keiji’s amusement. Then again, people never anticipate the depth of his appetite. It’s surging to life as he gazes down at the fresh-cooked feast before him.
The food is going to be perfect. He has no lingering doubts.
“Live around here long? I know I haven’t seen ya walk past before, Keiji-kun.”
Something rolls over in Keiji’s stomach when Osamu’s rough voice coils around the syllables of his name. He regrets leaving himself open for that, as hearing his given name on those lips could become quite distracting if the other man abuses it. Which Keiji has no doubt he will, judging by the value Osamu seems to place on simplicity. Familiarity. They’re different in that way.
He does not mind it as much as he could.
And rarely ever has, judging by past choices in the friend or more-than-friendly departments.
Keiji clears his throat to regain a bit of composure. “Around two years.”
“Longer than me, then. Store here’s my second. But I moved up with it. Figured it’d be a hit, and Tokyo’s the real money, according to everyone an’ their friends,” Osamu says around a bite of fish.
Keiji picks up his utensils and starts to dig in, not wanting to hesitate.
The first bite makes his taste buds melt and water for more. He nearly lets a moan slip free, and is found out by the pressure of eyes watching his reaction knowingly. Keiji brings another piece to his mouth if only to focus on a task he can handle. His hands twitch.
“A good thing ‘bout this place is it’s big. Lotsa different options. Still, seems like ya manage to ignore all of them when it comes to food.”
Keiji huffs mid-chew, but then realizes he can’t refute that claim.
Except for tonight. He’d chosen to step outside his routine and do something nourishing for his soul. And stomach. Which had led him here, to dinner with this arrogantly assured restaurateur who seems determined to pick apart the minutiae of a stranger’s life and scold him. Who Keiji might let continue, if it means spending more time feeling warm and full in a way that is beginning to transcend basic needs.
Dangerous assumptions to make so soon, but Keiji will let it slide. It’s been a while since he’s felt seen, and he likes the change.
“Yer gonna collapse if ya ignore your health too long. Told ‘Tsumu that more than a thousand damn times, but ya seem smarter. Not hard to be, though.”
Unbidden, a laugh bubbles free from Keiji’s throat. Not much of an embarrassment, but enough that he feels another flush bloom at how much he seems to be slipping in this conversation.
He doesn’t ask who ‘Tsumu is. Someone dear to Osamu. That much he can infer, if just from the bitter click of the man’s tongue as he mentions him. Miya Osamu seems to be a man whose affection comes packaged rough around the edges. It’s weirdly charming.
“Perhaps. I managed to survive through university,” Keiji responds, tone wry with amusement. “And now people rely on me to keep a written narrative sounding consistent. I edit manga.”
“Little unexpected for ya. But I can see it.” Osamu nods, leaning in over the counter.
A smile quirks at Keiji’s lips, but doesn’t quite make it past his defenses.
Maybe soon.
A not uncomfortable silence stretches out between them as they eat, devouring the impromptu meal with enthusiasm. Keiji is sold. Between the proximity to home and the quality of the product, becoming a regular is a done deal. Tack on the rest - he shoots a furtive gaze across the counter and manages not to be caught - and it’s inevitable that he will return.
Probably for onigiri, as seems to be the focus of the shop. Tonight’s meal seems like a test run of the deconstructed design for a new recipe. Keiji feels doubly honored to be a part of the menu-building process. He resolves to be generous with his next purchase.
Osamu looks up, steely gaze thoughtful once more.
“Even if there’s not much time, eatin’ better’s doable. Tell me about what ya eat, normally.”
. . . . .
Being responsible is a curse.
Keiji taps a finger against his thigh beneath the counter. It's late, and he has to work in the morning. He assumes the same is true for Osamu. He's already given the man overtime by stumbling into the shop after close. Staying longer would be unthinkably rude.
He can't.
And yet, so much in him wants to. There's an energy brimming between them that Keiji feels drawn to. As if one more exchange of conversation will sate the restless feeling in his heart. Wisdom dictates that it will only intensify what he's experiencing.
He wonders how he came to be so lonely.
But what he feels sitting here goes beyond loneliness. He's curious. He needs to know what Osamu sees in him.
Turning his head, Keiji appraises the line of Osamu's body leaning on the counter. Upper body thick with muscle, tapering to narrow, blocky hips and toned legs. Well worth studying. Somewhere between finishing their first plates and starting on seconds - this time with equal portions - Osamu had joined him sitting. Exponentially increasing the flutter of Keiji's pulse. Being the sole focus of another person's attention is intoxicating. He doesn't get much of that high otherwise in his life.
Understandably. This is an exception, not the rule.
"Thank you for the meal," he ekes out, voice just as forced and awkward as he feels.
"Welcome."
Their eyes link up. Some of his nerves recede and are replaced by the frantic pounding of his heart. Neither of them breaks the stare.
"I apologize for barging in when you were closing. I will try not to do it again."
"Not a problem. I enjoyed myself too."
Keiji blinks.
He said nothing of the sort. Was it that obvious?
Osamu twists where he's sitting, and leans into the already negligible space that separates them on the stools. He advances in one fluid motion, without any care for the effect he's having. Perhaps he enjoys making waves also.
Swallowing hard, Keiji tries to eliminate the lump in his throat.
But then there is a hand on his shoulder, bold and warm in its grip. The touch sends a jolt of surprise down his spine.
"Wouldn't mind seein' ya after work again. Can I take ya out, Keiji-kun?" Osamu asks, voice steady as it chips away at Keiji's lingering doubts. He may not be used to such shameless, forward behavior, but it takes the guesswork out of where the other person's intentions lie.
What Osamu wants is laid out on the table, neat and clear.
Keiji bites.
"Yes."
He doesn't think it can hurt to taste this offering, as unexpected as it is. When he woke up today, he certainly never pictured capping his night off having dinner with a handsome man. If not for the very real acrobatics routine being performed in his heart, Keiji would write it off as a dream.
Osamu's lips lift on one side into a crooked grin.
"Not so hard is it?"
"Excuse me?"
He earns a curt laugh, the sound rumbling out from the other man's lips mockingly.
"Maybe next time. Was thinkin that I got ya to forgo the manners. Ya don't need that with me," Osamu says. His index finger rubs distractingly over the fabric of Keiji's sweater, faint hums of electricity building with the movement. "Anyway, don't bring a wallet. 'M gonna treat ya."
Keiji's head isn't blank enough to accept the request. Getting closer, but not quite.
"Ah. That's generous of you, but I'd rather have it in case of emergencies."
Osamu clicks his tongue.
"Bring it then. It'll be useless to ya though."
It doesn't sound open to debate.
Keiji decides to let the issue lie. He's not sure he has the tenacity to go head to head with someone so stubborn. Any reluctance on his part is more due to not wanting to impose. On the few dates he's been on in recent years, the tabs had been split. A well defined boundary. Easy to live with when second dates didn't materialize.
He allows himself to smile. It doesn't seem like they will need that assurance of a clean break.
"Alright. Let me give you my number, then, and we'll see what day works."
. . . . .
Warmth followed him all the way home, into his apartment and onto the couch. After sitting there, head cupped between his palms, for an extended period, Keiji opens his eyes.
It's not unusual to meet someone interesting by chance.
But for him, it's strange to do it and dive in so quickly. Even when affection is born from a single glance, Keiji stews. Considers his options, and weighs how confessing would pan out. Scenario-running has made him tight-lipped when it comes to romance. Hesitant to swim in the flow of what's happening between him and the other person. Tonight, he hadn't been permitted to look out at the horizon at what could happen.
Osamu had tugged him into the water.
Keiji's pulse flutters as he replays the last two hours yet another time.
He feels stupidly excited. Or not, because he has few reasons to doubt the feeling is mutual.
The thrill coursing through his veins is enough to stave off his tiredness.
Keiji's gaze darts toward his laptop on the coffee table, in sleep mode and not completely turned off. Though the workload for this chapter is manageable, if he's awake, then he'll chip at the edits a bit more. They can use the extra time this afternoon to start planning the next storyboard. Assuming he can drag Udai from the stupor the man likes to fall into after final submissions. They will make a good pair, Udai and him, two zombies posing as awake, alert humans.
His lips snag on a laugh, cutting off the sound before it grows too loud.
He smiles.
It may not be the manga itself that keeps him going - just the sense of camaraderie. But he's too tired to reflect on work in that way.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Pulling it out, Keiji blinks.
Several dumbstruck moments of staring at the contact info later, he starts to believe what he's seeing. If he's honest, he didn't expect any follow up from Osamu so soon. Perhaps the next day, later on. When there was a spare moment to blow on texting him.
Keiji has learned he isn't the sort of person people think about apart from when he's standing in front of them. Too reliable seeming to worry about, and lacking the charisma to magnetize people into remembering him after he leaves. He gives off a respectable impression in person, but outside of that-
osaMUTED: hope ya made it back by now
osaMUTED: and are asleep
osaMUTED: lookin forward to thursday. a lot. but it's a bit far. i'm prayin ya respond to texts
Keiji flops back against the sofa cushions. He stares across to the bookshelf on the other wall and counts the novels. The slow cadence of numbers in his head doesn't steady him like it usually would. Instead, his gaze darts back to the message log, lingering on each word.
His lips quirk upward as he ponders Osamu's strange username. A private joke?
Something he can ask about next time.
Excitement may not last until Thursday for both of them, but it will for him. More than it should.
kjakaashi: I'm conscientious about keeping up with them, yes. Thank you for the concern, I am safe at home.
kjakaashi: I look forward to seeing you also.
Resting his phone in one palm, he covers his face with the other. A blush builds on Keiji's cheeks, and he feels his stomach flipping over nonstop, quivering as his emotions peak. Whether it's him being touched by a kind gesture, or embarrassment, he isn't certain. Perhaps both.
osaMUTED: conscientious?
osaMUTED: do ya always use that big a word in text? was hell to type out. now i'm tired
osaMUTED: but not as tired as yer gonna be tomorrow
osaMUTED: get in bed