#Auntie Lofty | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sashimiyas · 1 year

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In the Wild Grass

Summary: Osamu arrives at your roadside flower stand in need of a bouquet for his upcoming date. You flirt with him to get his loyal patronage and it works, maybe a little too well.

Content: roadside floral vendor reader; established entrepreneur Osamu; pining and poor timing; fluff; a reference to ATLA; a lot of references to Ghibli; even more wind imagery and references; Osamu’s love language is food; reader eats meat; reader has an aunt that they are very close to; discussion of death (metaphorically) by corporate means; a special appearance of mama miya in here because the miya family is everything.

Word count: 10.4k

A/n: this was originally inspired by roadside flowers by droeloe but got way too fluffy for the ambience. so we’ll do one summer’s day by sleepy tom which is like the lo-fi version of the ghibli one which is coincidental but still very fitting.

“I’m telling you, Auntie,” you catch the tablecloth every time you sway your foot, “the sales are at Taguchi, not West Food.”

The woman on the line gives a nasal hum, “no, I have the coupons right here! Weh-est food. That’s what it says.”

“Did you check the expiration date?”

“I did! It’s… oh…”

You stretch out your leg with a laugh that quickly stifles into a cough when the dirt you kicked up reaches the back of your throat.

She laughs into the phone that’s accompanied with the sound of crumpled paper. That’s what you’ve always admired about your Aunt. The woman never takes anything seriously, not even herself and you can only wish you can live life half as carefree as she.

“It’s okay.” You stop fiddling with the leaves of a bouquet in front of you once you hear her sing the words. Nothing good comes from Auntie singing and don’t ever, ever invite her to karaoke. With your back straightening, your fingers tighten around the phone the same time your eyes narrow. “Guess who is going to Taguchi to buy my corn dogs and umeboshi?”

“Not me!” you quickly say.

“Yes, you!”

“No.”

“It’s on your way home,” the final note hits sharp and forces you to pull the phone away from your ear.

“Yeah, but I’ll be tired. I’m working so hard–” she snorts at your statement, “–I am!”

“If you’re working hard, why are you talking to old lady me?”

“Because who else would…" you trail off.

He enters like the lead of a Ghibli movie.

A rickety truck announces his presence, but what captivates you is the image slowly revealed as he rolls down the window of his driver’s seat.

Your tongue hastens to lick your lips, “look at that.”

The wind billows through his hair as he pulls his truck over onto the gravel road. He makes a move to wave hi, charm lofty upon his cheekbones, but the breeze threatens to take his cap and he swiftly moves to tilt it back onto his head.

You vaguely hear Auntie whipping questions at you, but as the man swings out of his truck, all you can muster is a distracted hang on a sec before throwing your phone onto the table. He hustles to you as you stand up to greet him.

“Bless ya,” he says once he reaches you.

Now that he’s closer, you recognize the Ghibli charm is closer to human than magical. Handsome in all the right places and flawed in a perfectly relatable way. He’s got a stock face you swear you’ve seen on TV before but there are several stains on his shirt of various ages.

There’s a scar at his brow, a strike of land where hair doesn’t grow and you’re already picturing a backstory in your head. Did he grow up with a brother who he’d tussle and roughhouse with? Or was it a freak accident like his sweater getting caught in an escalator?

There are sparse patches of hair along his chin that imitate a rural map more than a suburban neighborhood but the way he speaks and the eye contact he holds is honest. With the trailing apron string hanging out from his front seat, you take it that working with people is what he does for a living.

“Are you in trouble?” a conspiratorial grin displays itself onto your lips.

He nods and it makes you chuckle, “yeah. I’ve got a date I’m running late for. Hoping this’ll help soften the blow.”

“With a face like that, no one could ever be mad at you.” He laughs instantly at your statement with a palm placed on his chest. His head bends backward as he closes his eyes and you cannot help but warm inside at the genuine reaction.

“Ya good at your job, ain’t ya?” He asks once he’s done. The observation surprises you, “flattering me so that if I get my heart broken, I’ll come back to ya so ya can raise my ego again.”

You grin, “I need to make money somehow.”

“Ya got me. Profit off my fuck ups, I’m begging.”

“Tell me the situation,” you say sagely.

He hesitates for a moment, picking up his hat to ruffle the hair underneath. He takes the back of his forearm to wipe the sweat that’s gathered at his temples and you witness a blessed second where his shirt ruches up to uncover a plump hip, soft and curving over the edges of his faded jeans like a perfectly formed roll of bread. It’s almost improper that you’re not biting into it.

“I’ve had to reschedule twice because things kept coming up,” he acknowledges your slight wince with a nod. At least he’s self aware. “Right? Hard to find someone with enough patience for me so I’m really hoping I don’t mess this up.”

You pick up a bouquet and hand it to him, “this should get them in your good graces.” He reaches for it but you pull back, eyeing him narrowly, “but the rest is up to you and that pretty face of yours. Make good use of it!”

“Ya really got to stop calling me pretty or ya won’t be able to get rid of me,” he mentions as the two of you exchange florals for currency.

Customer service toes the line with flirtation dangerously. A half true statement is far more enticing than blatant lies and calling this man pretty is the greatest half truth to exist because the word can hardly hold a candle to how attractive he really is. And usually, you’re better than this.

Usually.

“And what if I don’t want to be rid of you?”

He eyes you, mouth snapping shut as his gaze flutters from the bouquet in his hand and you.

“I need loyal customers like you to come back.”

You take one final look at him in all his Ghibli appeal. The wind kisses his hair once more, romance amplified by the swaying splotches of colors in his hand.

Then with a closed lip grin, he says, “like I said, ya got me.”

Your attention is rapt on him until he disappears with his truck into the distance. It takes a breath to still your heart and you bring your phone back to your ear.

All she says is, “who was that?”

He doesn’t come back. It’s unsurprising to say the least, though disappointing. Interactions are fickle and just because it was a good one doesn’t mean it has to happen again.

You’ve taken to daydreaming of sensible reasons why he hasn’t windswept his way back to your roadside stand. The date could have possibly failed but who could say no to a man like that? You’ve settled on a wild boar attack that’s neither life threatening or critical, but maybe has him houseridden for some time to heal. There’s that, a possible impromptu trip to the brother you’ve imagined him to have, or maybe he too has an aunt that has been piling her errands off to him.

“Which brand of corn dogs do you like?” Auntie has little patience for you. Being corndog-less and you deciding to procrastinate until the final day of sale has her quite irate over the phone.

“The one that’s on sale.”

“Yeah, there’s two brands.”

“I don’t know,” she’s probably throwing her hands up right about now, “the one that I eat.”

You purse your lips, staring intensely at the freezer section of Taguchi, willing one of the boxes to speak up and let themselves be known. The silence must unnerve Auntie because she gives in.

“I think it’s the red one.”

Neither of them are red and neither of you want to continue the conversation.

“Got it.” You open the door and play a small game of eenie meenie. It lands on one with purple packaging and you know little about color theory but you think it’s close enough. Purple is half red, isn’t it? You grab the box behind the first because it’s fresher and bid your aunt goodbye.

As you put your phone away, a familiar vision catches your eye. He registers you before you even recognize him.

“Fancy seeing ya here,” he greets all too familiarly with a cart full of items. You take a quick peek, notating the ungodly amount of mirin that clanks at the bottom of the trolley before picking your gaze back up at him. He’s handsome in fluorescent lighting too. Good for him, unfortunate for you.

“Hey, my most handsome customer,” you wince internally. What was that? You only hope it comes out in a doting kind of way like how the Aunties do instead of a creepy weirdo who spends their days stalking his socials.

(You have not stalked his socials. How could you when you don’t even know his name? What were you supposed to put? Hot guy in Hyogo with a black hat? Scrounge through recent Hyogo news until you find a recent wild boar attack? So yeah, you’ve not stalked the socials but would you if you had the resources? No comment.)

He shuffles in place, tongue riding the ridge of his upper lip as he picks up his hat and flips it backwards. Then he changes his mind a second later and turns the cap forward once more. Strands of hair escape from the circumference and it adds to the disheveled charm he’s got going on.

You can scratch out the wild boar attack because he’s looking better than ever. Especially with the way he’s grinning at you, cheeks spread so wide it’s almost morbid.

“Okay, calm down big guy. You’re competing against a couple of my uncles and a few farmers whose stray cows ventured further than they expected.”

He shrugs, unaffected. “I know a farmer and he’s a real handsome guy.”

You go to bite your lip, rolling your eyes at the same time and doing your best not to look amused. He’s so funny and cute and dammit, why couldn’t he have been roughed up by a wild boar even just a little bit? This interaction would have been easier that way.

“How’d the date go?”

That sends him for a loop. He sucks in a breath between teeth and your expression morphs into pity, “yeah, not so well.”

“What’d you do?” the affronted look he gives you is combated with a pointed stare, “I know it wasn’t my flowers that scared them away.”

“Definitely not ya flowers,” he ascertains and after a heavy dose of eye contact, his gaze falls to the contents of his cart and he shrugs, “just didn’t go the way I planned.”

His statement leaves something to be desired but who are you to know when you’re just the stranger that sold him a bouquet less than a week ago?

“Is it because you made them mirin soup? Because I can assure you that does not sound appetizing.”

You get another belly laugh from him and now you’ve made a game. You’re certainly not funny, but how many times can you make this attractive man laugh anyways?

“I’m telling ya, I can just about make anything taste good.”

“Oh really?”

You reckon this is his usual character as you gaze at him and the natural confidence he adorns. There’s a proud simper on his lips, one that dares you to take the bait. You step forward and you plan on saying something to egg him on, coast this flirtatious edge that started out easy because he was your customer but now, without the barrier of your floral stand, you do so for your own personal gain.

The contents slide in your carry and the box of corn dogs slips. The man tries to reach out, catch it before it falls, but he only grabs the corner, flipping it mid-air for it to land so spritely on the ground. It rolls a few steps away and you’re reaching for it immediately from embarrassment.

He has the same idea because he’s bending down with you, though much more graceful than your own movements. The rest of your armheld contents fall, and here you now are, hunched over and flustered in the frozen aisle of Taguchi.

You scamper around and grab onto everything before he can even help, a go for independence to save yourself from embarrassment.

“I’ve got it,” you reach for the bound bundle of leftover florals you brought in with you but his wingspan is longer, there before you are. The pads of your fingers graze the back of his hand. You retract at the sensation, like swirling your fingers in a freshly poured bottle of soda. There’s a desire that fizzes, thrums, beneath your skin and you know nothing good could come from exploring this feeling.

He’s dating. Doesn’t even matter. He’s a customer and you’re his romance provider.

He’s too busy picking it up for you that he doesn’t notice you staring.

You watch him inspect the flowers before handing it back. His hands twirl the stems between his fingers. Thick as they are, one index finger is bandaged with a design of the Little Twin Stars from the Sanrio franchise. You would have said something about it if you weren’t so deliberately focused on leaving the conversation.

“These for someone special?”

“Yeah.” The fluster makes you answer quickly, ducking your eyes away from him and snatching back your belongings.

“They’re lucky.” He stands up and you nod your head.

Internally, you’re elsewhere. It’s already been a long day, but now you’re trying to digest what just happened. The sensation is still present at the tips of your fingers. It feels like the dull burn after touching a hot pan, a throb that aches for the source.

“Yeah, uhm,” you gesticulate as you avoid eye contact with the man, “well, my Auntie’s been really craving these corn dogs so bye.”

Whatever response he provides is behind you, and when you get home, you decide to have a corndog for yourself as consolation.

(And one for Auntie of course.)

Your fingers struggle with opening the packaging, disgruntled at the thick cardboard it’s boxed in as the layers peel at your prodding. Then the bag slips from your fingers, the corndog tossed a little too harshly it rolls off the plate and onto the dining table. You fumble even with the microwave which is ancient, as old as Auntie herself where there are grooves at the “1” button and start. Your fingers shake as you stand dumbly in front of the appliance. They tap against each other, and finally alone with your thoughts and the hypnotic hum, you realize beneath the pads of your fingers is a quiet bubble searching for heat again.

Working a roadside floral stand is very tedious work. Auntie wouldn’t say so, but her word is worthless when you’re the one here and she isn’t. When you get in, you have to set up the table and if you don’t find paperweights made of large gravel within reach quickly enough, the tablecloth ends up flying off. The further it’s blown the more difficult it gets because you like to park on the edges of farmland. Cows consider cheap linen a premium option to grass it seems and you can’t sell bouquets without a cute little tablecloth. It may be a roadside stand, but it’s still a business. There are standards to uphold.

It takes precision, one that requires the use of your compass app on your phone to gauge the perfect spot among the beautiful wild grass, sweltering sun, and drying cow dung. Then with a snap of your chair and an open umbrella, you set your stand up lush with greenery and vibrance, from backyard to roadside.

The rest of the day is full of intermittent interactions, of school children with innocent crushes and lost tourists who buy flowers as payment. Your umbrella follows the rotation of the sun and when you get thirsty, you share a bit of your own water with your bouquets as well.

It’s a modest life. A simple one. A stress-free one.

“Welcome back!” The reminder is worth it. Your greeting is breezy and light, just like the sway of leaves on your bouquets. “Need more flowers?”

What is it with this recent weather here in Hyogo? It has him constantly looking like the main character of a movie with the way the sun casts a golden glow on half of his frame and clothes billowing the other. Who has blessed him with this benefit? The wind goddess? Because if so, what had you done wrong because all it lands you is dust in your eyes and hair stuck to your lips.

In an effort to remain polite and cordial and to retain your valued proclamation of a family-friendly business, your eyes glance down at the bag in his hands. There’s a large character on the bag, one that you recognize matches the cap he wears. It’s pleated neatly as if someone had taken care to avoid wrinkling the edges, careful in its presentation.

“Ya ain’t going to call me pretty this time?”

He effectively gets your attention at his statement, a goading simper on his lips when you catch his eyes that pulls an entertained glimmer in your own. It’s easy to get caught up in his presence, a drawstring pulling you loose at his easy words and you wonder really, who is standing at the vendor side of the table.

You pucker your face, an exaggerated expression that prickles the corners of his lips. It’s earnest and you almost lose yourself in wanting to smile at him. Almost.

“It’s not cute when you have to ask for it.”

“Wasn’t trying to be cute,” he mutters to the side. The confidence is replaced with petulance. You have little time to admire the way his bottom lip protrudes, a shiny shimmer lining the plumpest part of his lip, because he shoves the contents in his hands onto yours. It’s like if he didn’t, you would have declined him. The takeout bag lands dumbly in your arms as you stare up at him. You think it’s the residual warmth of it, the heft of it, meaning the contents inside must be hearty and fulfilling that leaves you speechless.

“Hope I can win some points with this, then.”

“This.”

“Lunch. I didn’t see ya have any last time I came by.”

“Oh, I just…” You look back at your little van. The door is brandished open, revealing the inside of the vehicle. There’s the thrifted seat covers Aunty got, blue plaid that isn’t quite your style but very much her price, and the groovy little flower pot you have taped to your dashboard that bobs its head at every swerve of a pothole which is your addition, very much your style. The small little trash can is hidden near the foot of your passenger side that’s accumulated at least two week’s worth of jelly pouches and stray bags of snacks didn’t seem to need much mentioning. So you gesticulate, feeling quite clumsy at your stand for once.

“Figured as much,” is all the man says to you. Then he taps the bag twice, eyeing your purposely, “and I told ya I can make a mean meal. Looked like ya didn’t believe me so I had to prove ya wrong.”

You pinch the swell of your lip with a canine, “you’re doing this out of imaginary spite?”

“Honor,” he corrects.

Your hand thoughtlessly moves to cover your left eye.

Then in a deeper voice, straight from the chest, “I must find the Avatar and restore my honor.”

“Ya think I’m like Zuko?”

The shriek you emit startles him. He takes an exaggerated step back with a palm as the first line of defense but you’re unperturbed because in the midst of his shock, is an entertained quirk in his lips.

“You’ve watched Avatar?”

He drops the hand now, fully grinning, “who hasn’t?”

“Points! You have all the points, you pretty, beautiful man with the very good taste.”

And though he’s the one who asked for it, he gets uncharacteristically shy when you finally say it. You pause, taking in the way a finger rises to brush his cheek as his chin dips to his chest. The movement taunts your own, as if a string is drawn from his chin to your chest as it constricts with a want that shouldn’t be there.

It all comes back, that breezy feeling as the wind picks up his hair again. The man places a palm flat to your table as you hover all your plant babies. They brustle under your care and you have to close your eyes when the flapping of nylon behind picks up. He shuffles himself to the side which softens the wind’s blow as he grabs onto your awning to hold it down. The two of you stay there under the wind’s torment. If you had your eyes open, you would have noticed that the man’s gaze never left you.

You run your hands across your face, the breath of a deep sign finally withheld from your chest when it’s over. See, you mentally think, assessing the damage to your goods. They’re slightly ruffled, not as quite picturesque, but no losses. You might have to redo a couple of bows or sell some at a discount if anything. And Auntie tells you this isn’t hard work.

“Thanks,” you grin at the guy who helped you through the small blustery storm, but quickly, you’re disarmed at the racing in your chest from the vision of him. He has arms up as he pulls back down the nylon that had been displaced. The muscles in his back flex against his tight shirt leaving you in an enchanted stupor. Ridges form in the large expanse, an eruption of new land, and suddenly you’re ready to put a hat on and call yourself an archaeologist.

His Ghibli appeal has gone off the ratings. Or maybe your mind has.

You clear your throat. He looks at you, torturously attractive, and you can’t meet him back.

“Flowers, right?” You sound lame so you play with an arrangement that’s gone astray. A red camellia is askew, far from the rest of its friends. You pick it up and dust the sticky pollen that’s painted its petals before returning it back to its rightful spot. “What’s the occasion this time?”

“Oh.” He mutters it so softly that you can’t help but glance up. He’s surprised, as if the statement is shocking. You want to reach for the feeling that it lights up in you, but against all desire, you let it snuff out into the small squall that has sprung into your stand.

“You can’t have just come here to drop me off food from,” and you pick up the bag to read the character, “the shrine?”

“Onigiri Miya.”

“Miya. Why does that sound so familiar?”

“It’s the best restaurant around.”

“No, that’s not it,” you’re too busy thinking of where exactly you’d heard that name to notice the way his face wilts. “I feel like I know someone or something. I just can’t remember…”

“Miya Atsumu?”

You snap your fingers, “yes! the volleyball player for… for uhm–”

“MSBY.”

“Yes! That’s it! My deskmate was obsessed with him. Oh my god, do you know him?”

Your delighted mood stutters at the cross of his arms. It’s the first time he seems unwelcoming, miffed even. His eyes fall to the table now, chewing on his cheek, and you notice the way his nose slightly flares when he breathes in.

“Oh no. Is he a conceited asshole?”

“Ain’t even the start of it.” The response is quick, as if defensive. Or maybe instinctive? He seems to know him quite well.

“Oh, don’t tell me. My deskmate is going to be crushed. I mean, the whole hand-fist thing he does on court is one thing, but it’s kind of sexy how he commands a crowd, you know? But I could totally see it. He does give horrible boss vibes.”

“Ya think Tsumu’s my boss?”

Now the man before you looks absolutely crestfallen. It aches you with the urge to apologize even if you don’t know what for.

“Hey, I’m—” you quickly cut your breath because is saying sorry even the right thing to do?

He shakes his head and picks an arrangement closest to him. “No worries. I’ll take these.”

He’s out before you even have a chance to reach for change, but before he goes, he doesn’t fail to remind you.

“Make sure ya eat.”

So you’re lying. Maybe working a floral roadside stand isn’t hard work. Maybe it’s just a lot of sitting and waiting and scrolling through social media and searching up wild boar attacks and going on deep dives of a couple of Olympic athlete’s socials. And when you finally reach the end, photos from 2014 that have an unpolished finish and grainy texture untouched by a PR team, one that you have to zoom with two fingers and a withheld breath, wary you’d accidentally like it, do you just sigh.

Because that’s it. You’ve finally hit the bottom of the seemingly never ending void of the internet and the last public photo of him to exist is from his and his brother’s graduation date.

So you call your deskmate for more information because if there were any resource to trust, it’d be him.

It’s not even hard to coax the details out. One small mention of the joint calendar you two shared, a quick, wasn’t your favorite athlete on there? Who was it again? and you’ve created a spiraling madness of all things Miya Atsumu.

“He’s a libra sun and he went to Inarizaki High where he was captain of the volleyball team in his final year. His official height according to the Olympic roster is 187 cm and his favorite food is fatty tuna.”

“Fatty tuna?” Your mouth waters instinctively at the bite you had snuck in while Auntie wasn’t looking. When the man had brought you lunch all those days ago, you don’t know who exactly he was trying to feed because the two of you had leftovers for at least two meals over. And that’s only because you had to beg Auntie to share.

“Yeah, specifically fatty tuna onigiri made by his brother.” A bubble of breath creates a blockade in your throat. You still at the mention of him. “His twin brother.”

“He has a twin?” you ask softly, so unconvincingly innocent but any reason for your deskmate to keep prattling on.

“Oh yeah, just as hot as Atsumu actually. He played volleyball too but decided he didn’t want to go pro. Atsumu talks about him in interviews all the time. He’s his favorite teammate…”

You want to listen, learn more about your customer that you’ve so frivolously flirted with, but your mind wanders to those hands. The ones with the sanrio bandaid idling behind the register at his shop as he looks at the readymade onigiri in the display case up front. Him in all his Ghibli grandeur, the tight black shirt, the hat, and the small sheen of sweat that covers the short hairs on his nape.

His hair sways from the wind despite him being inside. (It’s your imagination and not everything has to be realistically sound.) You can imagine him with one arm crossed and the other bent with his chin between the crook of his thumb, pondering what flavors of onigiri he should give you before heaving a sigh and taking a towel to wipe at his neck.

Of course he gives you a couple original onigiri. Popular in its simplicity, it’s easy to taste talent in the meager ingredients. But for you to receive a fatty tuna one, it seems purposeful. There’s meaning to his choices and it forces your heart aflutter, even if you might be making this all up.

“…but the best part of Miya Atsumu is how endearingly clumsy he is. There’s all these videos of him tripping on court. I’ve got to send you some. Hold on. I’ve got some saved here.” You hear clicking on their end and then he laughs. “Oh my god, I have to send you this interview too. I have so many videos saved. Do you want them all?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The response is mindless as you continue tapping your foot, playing with your tablecloth in the process. You’ll take any crumbs you can get since you doubt he’d ever come back to your stand after you’d offended him.

Ugh. If not for the overwhelming guilt you’ve been sleeping with, you can’t even believe you’d said that.Goose flesh bubbles on your arms that you physically have to stave off as you remember how your last interaction happened. You called his own twin brother his boss, completely undermined all the hard work he’d probably put in to get his business out there, and basically demoted him.

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, you know. He was just a customer. But no matter how many times you tell yourself that, it never becomes more convincing.

Maybe that’s how it started and maybe that’s what made the flirting so easy, but it was the shy look he’d get whenever you called him pretty. And it was when he’d brought you lunch of his brother’s favorite. And the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips. And–

“I’ve got to go.”

You throw your phone to the side as you stand up, rigid with your hands behind your back. Your hands throw themselves behind your back as you fidget in your spot. Fingers pinch between each other, twisting and turning this nervousness that you have no idea how to hold because he’s back. Devastatingly as beautiful as ever.

Your lips roll inward because there’s so much you want to say but you can’t quite parse what you’re trying to express. Apologize, of course, but you also want to say you miss him. How appropriate would that be?

The metal clank of his truck door slamming closed pulls you out of your reverie. He approaches, a more serious look on his face than ever before and for some reason, his gaze falls downward at the dirty clouds of dust every step of his makes. It’s as though he cannot even look you in the eye.

To be deprived of something you’d always had, it turns idle hands into fists.

“Welcome back, Miya-san.” You bow to show your earnestness. When his shadow doesn’t come, you look up to see him stalled mid-step.

He looks at you in bewilderment. The pause is intensified by the way the wind blows. It sways his bangs as his tongue peaks out to moisten his lips. The cellophane wrapped around your bouquets rustles. You hold his gaze, hands still jittering behind your back, fiddling with unspoken words you can’t bring yourself to say.

Miya Osamu. With a name and a background not formed from your imagination, and finally, his presence real and in front of you, the desire swells. It slips between your fingertips and forms into something far larger than you can manage. Like hanging a hand outside of a moving car.

“Miya-san?” he repeats back to you but there’s this contagious grin on his features that lightens you inside. You have to bring your hand to your chest, tamping your heart in before it leaps out.

“I had to look you up. I’m sorry about last time, for calling Miya-san, er, Miya Atsumu-san–”

“Call me Osamu. Or Samu. Ya can leave Miya-san for my shitty brother.”

You wring your t-shirt into a fist at the idea, introducing yourself to him. He nods brightly at you when you do. “Well thank you, Osamu, for lunch last time. My Auntie and I enjoyed it very much and she agrees. You own the number one restaurant around.”

The ecstasy on his face is infectious. You have to smile too, though you know that you’re probably fueling an ego that is large on its own. It’s fine, you think. What’s life without a little indulgence?

“Well ya tell her that she’s welcome to stop by any time.” Then he gives you a pointed look, “and tell her that she should bring ya along. It’s only right that ya visit me next time around.”

You bow, not out of gratitude but only to hide your elation. “Thank you for your loyalty.”

“Like I said, ya got me.” He brings his thumb to rub at his jaw. This time, you notice he’s shaved. “Ya had lunch yet?”

You shake your head and he tells you to wait right there. You ask him where else would you go. Then he runs to his car, rummages through his front seat, butt bent over for you to see, and he quickly scurries back with another pleated bag in his hands.

“Mind if I sit here?” He points to an upside down milk crate that you use to hold your vases and you simply urge him on, sitting with him. “Ya should start bringing ya own food. Didn’t ya listen to me when I said ya should eat? It’s basically dinner time and I won’t always be available to stop by.”

“I bring snacks. Besides, I thought you said I’ve got you,” you flutter your eyes, annoyingly teasing. He entertains you with a small chuckle.

“Ya do. Favorite roadside stand around.”

“I’m the only stand around.”

He bends his neck back to laugh, “ain’t that right. Bit of a drive to get out here.” Then he pulls out the contents of his packed lunch. “Which one ya want?”

“The one that’s your favorite.”

To your surprise, he hands you a fatty tuna onigiri. You take it, wide-eyed and enamored. “Tell me why this one is your favorite.”

He looks at the onigiri in your hand with a fond expression, affection oozing from just his gaze. But his answer is despite that.

“No big reason. Just my favorite to make.”

What a liar. What an endearing, little liar that has you hiding your cheesy grin behind your hands.

“What?” he asks innocently.

You shake your head, “nothing.”

He speculates, ponders you with a side glance, before letting it go. “Well, mind telling me how ya ended up in the roadside business? Pretty peculiar if ya ask me.”

“I don’t think anyone asked you,” you mention wryly as you unwrap the clingfilm around your onigiri. He snatches it from your palms with a chuffed grin.

“Brats don’t deserve my food.”

“Hey.”

“Don’t ya pout at me with them puppy dog eyes. It ain’t gonna work.”

You blink rapidly, jutting your bottom lip forward. He holds your gaze and it’s a valiant effort. The poker face would fool you. If only he could he hide the breadth of his chest and the way it heaves at every passing second.

Still, he does not budge. So you succumb with a nod. The loss is not so bad when you get to see his victorious face, a smugness that only amplifies his boyishness, the small scar on his brow pulling taut.

“Fine,” you say as he tosses you back your onigiri. “It usually does.”

“Grew up with a soppy ass brother. I’m desensitized as it is.”

There’s more you want him to divulge, but you don’t press. Not when you had prodded in the wrong way last time. If he’s going to share pieces of himself, you’ll let him do it on his own accord. (And then maybe you might sneakily stalk him on the internet but who doesn’t?)

You unwrap it and allow your hands to follow the grooves of rice beneath the seaweed. You nibble at the top, let the wrapping melt upon your tongue with a burst of salt and umami. Spurned by the taste, saliva pools in your mouth.

He nudges you with his shoulder, almost completely knocking you out of your chair. He scoffs at what he believes is probably an exaggerated reaction but does he even realize how big he is? A granule of rice pops from his mouth and onto his shirt. He sweeps it off without a hint of embarrassment.

“Go on now,” he says to you, “tell me ya story.”

You take a bite out of the onigiri. It’s preciously held between your hands, handling it with care just as you assume Osamu had done in every step before this. At first, you’d done it just to gather your thoughts because though it’s not much of a story. It feels like a whirlwind of a lifetime since the start of your stand, but Osamu grows antsy. He starts bouncing his foot beneath him in small little movements so as to not kick up dust. So you hold off just a little longer, relishing the undivided attention he provides you.

“There’s not much to tell,” you reminisce of a past life, one that’s more regimented, one that abided by the hour of the clock than the pattern of the sun. “I was a regular corporate peon working in those multi-storied buildings with the business clothes and everything.”

The man gives you a look, as if he couldn’t even imagine you in corporate clothing.

“I can clean up nicely if I wanted to.”

“If ya wanted to.” He repeats knowingly, as if he’s suddenly in on a secret you’re privy to.

“If I wanted,” you reiterate. Osamu doesn’t threaten to taunt you any further so you continue. “I just did it because everyone does it. I respected my seniors, never turned down an invitation to drink after our shift, and when I was no longer the newbie, I extended the invite to the coworkers under me.”

The way you speak feels out of place, like you’re not telling your own story, but someone else’s. Which in reality, it’s true. That was a different person who lived that life and definitely not twho you are now.

“And as business cycles do, it lulled and I was laid off.” Osamu wants to say something, but can’t seem to find the words. So you save him by ignoring the silence and move along. “Working was my whole personality and I didn’t know what to do with myself afterwards. But is it weird? My boss told me the news and for some reason, the first feeling I had was relief. I was relieved I didn’t have to wake up at dawn again just to get ready. I could do whatever I wanted and wake up when I wanted and go wherever I wanted. But then the reality set in. This society is so structured that I had no idea what I even wanted with the freedom I had because everything is decided for you. You know what I mean?”

He only hums beside you, listening intently and allowing you the stage. It’s nice, you realize. Auntie, as supportive as she is, has a tendency to make you feel guilty even unintentionally. It’s hard to diverge from the paved path that society likes for everyone to follow and the journey has been rigorous. It may have led you to a backroad of wild grass and dust, but even then, you know you’d rather have that than the heavily trekked footpath of the soulless.

“You go to school and you take all these prep courses, go to club activities, and then you go to college. You’re expected to basically plan your life the moment you speak your first word and your parents and teachers all like to tell you you’re special when in reality, you’re just a number. I was a quota, not a name. I was defined by metrics and not really by who I was. It didn’t matter how many after work dinners I accepted or offered.

“I hated that. And I remember vividly the moment I realized it. It was the first time in a long time I ever felt strongly about something and the last time before that was watering flowers in my Auntie’s garden.”

“So ya Auntie got ya selling these flowers?”

You snort, remembering the fiery ire of your beloved maternal figure. You broke the news to her during a random session where she’d pulled out her karaoke kit to belt out an off-Broadway (off-off-Broadway. Like Broadway in a different country off) rendition of Let It Go from the famous children’s movie. You thought her good mood could compete over your complete disappointment and figured the sentimentality of it all would be convincing. It, unfortunately, had not been.

She had sung-yelled her lecture at you, feedback from the mic and all. Reminded you it was just a hobby and that hobbies do not make money. You did so anyways, worked like you had something to prove. You bought off her secondhand van that she had no use for anymore with a portion of your savings, roamed across cities, met and learned so many things, and eventually claimed your space here.

“Not really. She was so mad at me but she couldn’t say anything when she had more flowers than she could give out for free. I don’t have any talent growing them. Even arranging them required a lot of classes to get it just right. I’m still winging it most of the time, but I guess Auntie saw something in me that made her just accept it. Maybe like renewed vigor because even if it’s not her first choice, she’s still the one who leaves a basket out for me every day after her morning pickings.”

You look at the arrangements displayed before you and then at the onigiri in your hand, turning it over as you admire the handiwork he’d put in. “I never wanted to be a number ever again.”

“I get ya.” Osamu’s voice is pitched so soft you can’t help but look at him. His onigiri has been long devoured so he displays all his attention on you. You feel so seen, you almost feel just as shy as you would be if you were found naked in public.

“Everyone expected my brother and I to go pro. Volleyball.” He adds offhandedly, “and I think I wouldn’t have minded doing that if I had to. I could see a future doing it just because I’d already done it all my life. We started playing when we were young and I ain’t gonna lie, I was pretty good. Still am to be honest.”

“You’re very modest,” you note.

“Thank ya,” he supplies wryly. The two of you share a knowing look with tilted smiles though he’s far more beautiful when he does, wind charming his hair into a pretty tussle. “But I know I would have been doing it all for the wrong reasons. Tsumu’s in love with volleyball. I’m telling ya, he’d marry the sport if he could, and I love it, just not exactly like him. And we’d always been a set. They’d call us the twins of volleyball, but he was older and more obsessed. He was invited to this youth training camp while I just stayed at home and maybe I’m just like ya. I was tired of being a number but if I had to be, I wanted to be number one.”

Pride blossoms within you. It makes you grin at him. “The best restaurant in town.”

He gives a quiet, little chuckle. It’s very different from its predecessors. Small, contained, and fond. You hold your breath so you don’t stir it. “Yeah and mind ya, my brother hated the idea just like ya Auntie. We argued, made it everyone’s business because that’s just how we are, but eventually he came around. Not without a fight though.”

“Who won?”

Offense saturates his features, “course I did.”

“Maybe he was just being a nice, older brother and let you win.”

“Ya have no idea how Tsumu is and it shows.”

“Actually,” you point out, “my deskmate who’s obsessed with him says he’s clumsily endearing and that his favorite food,” you hold up the onigiri you’d been coddling with a satisfied smirk, “is fatty tuna. What a coincidence, right?”

Instead of being embarrassed, a single glimmer flecks his beautiful, slate eyes, “ya think ya so smart, don’t ya?”

“No, not at all. I’m actually very modest.”

You settle into a comfortable silence. His company is welcomed and he sits, eyeing the surroundings and your tablecloth and your awning, and he keens his neck to take a peek into the inside of your van while you chew on the onigiri he proffered.

You roll your final bite between your fingers before popping it into your mouth. “What else do you have planned today?”

The question has Osamu jumping up in his seat. It makes you almost tilt out of yours. He looks wide-eyed, like a fox who’d just heard a twig snap. Then eerily, he turns to look at you with that same helpless expression he’d first come with to your stand.

“I’ve got to make a dinner.”

“Oh.” The sentence is innocent, but the weight of it makes your stomach lurch. Its implication is obvious. He doesn’t say anything, only watches the way your expression changes so you do your best to school it back into something more controlled.

You had known this since meeting him from the very beginning. He was out dating and socializing and surely meeting very nice people that would be perfect life partners. You were never a contender, just the romantic means to a successful date.

“You better get going,” you urge by standing up. “You can’t be late for another date. Here, the flowers are on me this time.”

“Ya don’t need to do that.”

“It’s my treat,” you insist. “Which one would you like?”

He looks down to deliberate on his choices far longer than you expect. “I liked the ones that ya brought to the grocery store.”

It takes you a beat to even garner an inkling of what he’s talking about.

“Ya know, that one that ya brought for ya special someone?”

Special someone? Who in the world? It finally hits you that he’s talking about the corndog incident and the flowers you’d brought for Ito on behalf of your Auntie. She wanted to thank him for walking her to her car.

“Oh. You want something like that?” Those were more of an arrangement that spoke of gratitude, not romance.

He shrugs a single shoulder. “Something like that. They liked it, right?”

You nod and he shrugs again, pensive this time.

“Then yeah, something like that. Whatever ya recommend.”

It had been a decent day with only slim pickings left. You look at your display stand, mulling over your choices. Instinctively, you pluck an arrangement from the center and hand them to him. He looks it over. There’s a cute crinkle to the bridge of his nose when he dips his face near them.

“Ya sure I can have these?” he looks over to you with a cute quirk in his brow.

You nod and he gratuitously accepts. He walks away with color fluttering in his hands. What he doesn’t know is that he holds the hues of your heart.

They’re your favorite flowers.

There’s something ominous about the way Auntie holds onto the crook of your elbow. Her bony fingers dig in and the meat in your arms is not enough to soften her touch.

“Auntie,” you’re begging as your freehand tries to pry the grip of her fingers, “loosen up a little, geez.”

She only grasps harder, a click on her tongue as she provides you a stony glare, “you’re walking too slow.”

“It’s not going anywhere,” you remind her. “For someone with a bad hip, you sure are walking fast. Will you please calm down? You know I can’t lie to Dr. Sarada if she asks me if you’ve been overworking yourself. That woman is a saint.”

There’s no argument to be made because what you’ve just said is not a lie. The doctor is a walking patron, the embodiment of miracles and kindness. Auntie repays her by slowing down but with the small grumblings beneath her breath, you know she’s only doing this for her and not for you.

When the two of you arrive at the restaurant, it’s packed to the brim. There’s a small line out the door. Auntie starts complaining lowly again, saying if you’d walked faster then you would have avoided this. There’s hardly any true animosity beneath her tone, but you know she means her words even when you tell her that a few extra seconds saved would not have been enough.

You leave her on a bench nearby so she can rest her legs while you wait in line. Of course it makes sense for the best restaurant in town to have a line outside, and it’s not like you thought the claim was false, just maybe slightly exaggerated. The truth proves you wrong and after a half hour, you’re finally at the front of the line.

The hostess excuses herself for just a second so she can lead the group in front of you to a seat. She comes back to tell you that there should be another table ready in about ten minutes. Auntie won’t be happy, but once she finally satisfies her craving for Osamu’s food, it’ll be nothing but sweet hummings from her.

You busy yourself with a mindless game on your phone when you hear the call of your name. He’s even more devastatingly beautiful with the apron on. You wave shyly when you notice a woman at the end of the bar turn your direction. She smiles knowingly at you as Osamu beckons you in.

“Excuse me,” you mutter as you pass the hostess and stand awkwardly behind seated patrons. Osamu wears the same uniform, but this time with a towel around his neck. He moves to brush the tip of his lips, holding your gaze when he does. When he’s done, he reveals this delighted smile that has your heart shamefully stuttering.

This is no way to look at a taken man.

“Gotta be honest, I’m surprised to see ya.”

“Of course. I had to visit my…” you pause, because there’s no way you can call him handsome now without it being an awfully truthful burden. He looks on, so you finish lamely, “customer.”

Your name is uttered again but not by Osamu this time. You look to your left and find a middle aged woman eyeing you up and down. It’s nerve wracking and you almost wish you didn’t make eye contact so you could just pretend you didn’t hear her.

“Is that ya name?”

“Yes.”

She smiles with a sly look on her face that seems so familiar and it all makes sense when you hear Osamu again.

“Ma,” it’s a strained warning, soft, scared. Embarrassed?

You look at her again in a renewed light. When the sun hits Osamu just right, their hair color matches. Her easy to read expression reminds you of the candor you’ve witnessed in all these videos of Miya Atsumu your deskmate had sent you but the way she carries herself is all Osamu.

Atsumu is intense and commanding. From all the videos you’ve watched, even the squeak of his sneakers has a distinctive sound that forces everyone’s attention. The two Miyas in front of you attract flock with mellow waters. It’s a calm draw, an easy thing to sink into.

“Osamu, baby, grab another chair.” She strikes the tabletop beside her. The sound is sharp. “Ya come over here and ya sit by me. Pack in like a tin of sardines, why don’t we?”

“I came here with my Aunt,” you try to divert.

“Well what are ya waiting for? Grab her!” The woman gets up so she can scooch her seat closer to the other patrons. “Osamu, two chairs!”

It seems you and Osamu are both under the rule of a domineering maternal figure. Auntie is happy to find out her wait is over and even happier to notice that her seat is at the bar where she can watch the magic happen.

“The corndogs you got me could never compare to this.” Your nose scrunches at her unfair comparison.

“Ya’ve had my son’s onigiri before?”

“Only a sample because I had to share with this one.”

It was a mistake to sit in the middle. Where’s Osamu to act as a buffer? Your eyes flick to the back of his restaurant only to find a controlled madness of people and food and plates.

“I shared it with you.”

“Oh, don’t ya bicker now. I’m sure my baby will send ya home with a truckload if ya accepted.”

“Really?”

The polite laugh you emit hardly hides your true feelings. “Auntie, we don’t have enough fridge space.”

“Ya better fill up here then. I had Osamu start a special batch for the two of ya.” The Miya matron passes you a contraption that holds a multitude of small containers. “Ya need any sauces?”

You decline while Auntie graciously accepts. She busies herself with concocting her perfect complement to the food she’s about to eat while you settle in an uncomfortable silence. Osamu’s Ma won’t stop eyeing you with her knowing grin. You feel like a specimen underneath her gaze, finding things about you that you don’t even know yourself.

And because you’re searching for something to do, and not so much that you’re eager to impress the mother of a handsome man/stranger/customer/guy who brings you lunch every so often, you reach into your bag to pull out the small batch of florals you’d forgotten about.

The vision of your favorite flowers renews a sense of pride and confidence in you. You’re finally able to meet her in the eye and hand them to her in complete assurance.

“I brought these because Osamu always brings me something when he visits. To liven up the place but please accept this as gratitude. Thank you for sharing a meal with us.”

She twirls the flower by the stem with a honeyed expression. It’s wistful when she says, “ain’t ya a pretty thing.”

Something spurs on in your stomach because in the middle of her sentence, she decides to look at you. She breathes in deeply. The open end of her cardigan spreads as she does and then deliberately, with a low and slow tone, “ya know what. I’ve got to ask ya. What do ya think of my son over there?”

You flutter at her forwardness. Eyes follow her pointed finger to find Osamu’s back (the deliciously rippled back) turned to you, bent over something steaming. It seems your gaze must be telling because when you look back at the woman, she’s giving you a conspiratorial grin.

“He’s nice!” you deflect by naming an objective truth. Osamu is kind. He doesn’t have to continue his patronage, doesn’t have to bring along something for you to eat, but he always does. Every interaction you’ve had with him has been a good one.

“I think so too,” Mother Miya confirms. Then she props her head in her hands with an elbow bent on the table and provides you a lazy look. “Ya know he works too much.”

You look around. The restaurant is a blur of interaction. There’s a baby crying and two uncles gossiping over fish prices. It looks like there’s a group of students who’d meant to study but succumbed to easy conversation between each other. Employees weave through the crowds in practiced motions, quiet tables filled with the sound of indulgent chewing. It’s lively and so very human.

“It looks like it’s worth it.”

She smiles at your response, as if it was the correct reply to provide. “Ya really think that, don’t ya?”

“I do.” It’s impossible not to raise your inflection at her question. Of course you do. It’s not hard to see that this is where Osamu belongs. You try your best to imagine him in the same uniform that his brother dons, with a number and jersey on his back. It’s easy to slap his face on top of Miya Atsumu’s and change the hairstyle and color just a bit. With the way the athlete plays, you’re sure that Osamu could wear a similar presence on court.

But there’s something about the way he looks in apron and the way he fits behind a bar that’s beyond any Ghibli romance or appeal. He’s the reason, the source, the one who’d whisked everyone into his restaurant.

“Both of them are like that,” she takes a sip of her water before continuing. “I don’t know what I did but somehow I’ve raised two of the hardest working boys. Ya know he’s a twin, right? Ya want to see my other one?”

Osamu’s mother doesn’t even wait for your response, unlocking her phone to barrage you with an album full of her beloved children. You lean in closer to her shoulder so you can get a better look, eager to rid yourself of the attention she had on you.

Osamu was a very cute baby and a horribly awkward teen. He hardly smiled in pictures during high school so you’re happy to see the more recent ones where he is.

“This was us after Atsumu’s first pro game.” She zooms in on the picture, “that’s sweet Aran, their childhood friend.” Then swipes to the left so it’s only the twins on screen. They wear pride the same. That, you notice immediately. Then she zooms in closer onto Atsumu’s face, “doesn’t he look so happy?”

You hum. He does. The two of you admire his expression, but you spend more time trying to dissect the differences between the two. You’re so caught up in the moment that you don’t even realize Osamu’s set plates in front of you.

“Alright, he ain’t that interesting to look at.” He plucks his mother’s phone out of her hands with a grumble. Then turning to her, “I leave ya for just a second and ya causing trouble already.”

“Now ya know exactly how it feels. Don’t feel good, do it?” She looks at you, a teasing hushed into your ear. “The two of them gave me hell when they were younger. Ya don’t even know the start of it.”

“Ma,” Osamu whines again.

“Oh and this one,” she stands up to pinch his cheek to the point it looks like it hurts. Osamu squirms under her grip, the large man looking so small next to his mother. “He’s sweeter than he looks, I promise ya.” She moves to cradle his chin into the crook of her thumb, squeezing hard. “Gets a little moody sometimes and likes to curl in on himself like a fox in a dry patch of sun whenever he’s upset, but I’m telling ya, he’s a good boy.”

He reddens immediately and you can’t help but feel secondhand embarrassment for him, “Ma!”

“What?” she looks at him innocently, “ya don’t know how it broke my heart every time I heard ya dates didn’t go well. And then I find out it’s because ya late or ya wasn’t listening and I know I didn’t raise ya to be like that. I was worried ya was going to go gray in this restaurant all by yourself. Ya out here buying all these flowers but they end up on my kitchen counter instead. Of course ya had me worried.”

“Ma, no!”

“Ma, no, what?” Then she looks over to you, “you’re single too, ain’t ya?”

For all her behaved silence, Auntie finally decides to speak up. “They wish they weren’t.”

“Auntie!” It looks like you’ve joined the one worded whining.

She ignores you, looking at Osamu’s mom instead. “You should look at our karaoke history. Full of love songs.”

“That is mostly you.”

“Ya don’t have a special someone?”

Osamu’s voice makes you look up at him. Hopefulness is ladened upon his features; it makes your heart pang.

“Does my stuffed animal count?”

He smiles widely at you. It’s so stunning you feel like it’s only the two of you in the room. He looks down real quick then snaps his eyes back at you. “Ya had lunch yet?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips into your teeth to hide your joy. He takes his apron off in response, yells a quick farewell to his team. Then he grabs you plate, his other hand grabbing your arm, and ushers you out of his restaurant.

“Is this okay?” You can’t help but look back, feeling guilty. His Ma only waves you along, another knowing grin on her features as she scoots closer to your aunt.

Osamu looks at you completely chuffed. “Course it is. I’m the boss.”

Glass vases clink a chiming sound at every reverberation of your van. They’re heavy as you toss the crates in, the springs doing their best to compensate for the weight.

A bead of sweat falls down the corner of your eye, bending you forward at the minor sting. The wind picks up a cooling breeze and you know from the sound of crunching gravel, he’s arrived.

“You’re late,” you cast a teasing glare the moment you can open both eyes. The glare of the sun blinds your vision, but as he continues walking forward, he obstructs it.

Osamu shakes his head. “Think I’m right on time.” He picks up the last bouquet you hadn’t been able to sell. “These for sale?”

“50% off just for you.”

“Bless ya,” he smiles but still hands you full price, forcing the money into your grip when you try to decline. Osamu walks behind your empty table and begins swiping the foreign crumbs. You’d already taken off the tablecloth but the man brought his own. He lays out a beautiful Ghibli themed quilt he had tucked under his arm and places a picnic basket down.

“How are ya?” He continues to set the table without looking up. There’s cutlery and canned beverages and many, many tupperwares of food.

“Hungry,” you say as you pull out the second lawn chair you keep in your van now.

“Good because we’re just about to have dinner.”

He places the final touch, a vase of flowers he’d just bought right in the middle.

#reina.writeshaikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu fluff #bless me this is so long #still ill 🙂

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