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littlesoufflecafe · 2 years

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𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✧

miya osamu x f!reader

long-time friend and soon-to-be restaurant owner miya osamu asks you to be the event planner for the single-most important evening of his career. no pressure.

"No," you repeated into the phone, swiveling on your heel to check the binder you'd left open on the bar top. "I specifically remember ordering an 8 x 10 vinyl backdrop for photographs, and the one that just arrived is an 8 x 5. I am not paying fourteen-thousand yen for — well, I don't care what the delivery man said, it's smaller than the shower curtains at a public swimming pool!"

"Y/N," Osamu said. He had to mash his lips together to keep from laughing. "Maybe we should just keep it —"

Your glare was enough to silence him. "Look. A lot of big, high-profile volleyball athletes are coming to this event. Athletes who — God forbid — will completely obscure your puny backdrop with their giant muscles and gargantuan personalities. Is that really the kind of impression you want future clients to have when those photos hit the web?"

Osamu slid a plate of onigiri your way as soon as you got off the phone and slumped into your bar stool, having wormed the vendor into sending you a replacement backdrop for half the original price.

"When I asked ya to be my event planner, Y/N, I didn't ask ya to rip the heads off of every man that crosses our path."

"Please," you scoffed, pulling the plate towards you. "Like you didn't rip your brother's head off until he promoted your grand opening on social media."

"'Tsumu's different. Takes 'im a solid kick to the head to remember anything you ask 'im to do. Just ask his publicist."

You gave the young business owner an exasperated smile and sank your teeth into the fresh rice ball, the savory taste of tuna mayo and pickled plum dissolving the hours of phone calls you'd had to endure. You'd dedicated nearly all of your free time to helping Osamu plan for the grand opening of his first restaurant — your most recent internship at an event planning agency equipping you with the necessary skills to bring your long-time friend's vision into a reality.

"Are you sure you want me to do it?" you'd said when he asked you over lunch three months ago. "It's not like I'm a seasoned event planner or anything. I mean, I'm barely even an intern..."

"Ya say that like ya didn't graduate at the top of yer hospitality program this year," Osamu had said, his expression a portrait of dubiety and admiration. "You'll do just fine."

"But this is your brain child we're talking about, 'Samu. You can't just hand over the grand opening of Onigiri Miya to a complete noob."

"I'm not hiring a noob — I'm hiring you. The woman who single-handedly alphabetized my spice cabinet when she was supposed to be studyin' for finals."

"That's hardly a relevant qualification," you'd muttered under your breath. Osamu's steady gaze settled atop your frazzled expression, and you had no other choice but to meet his eye.

"Believe me, Y/N, yer one of the most qualified people I've ever met in my life. My lil' business won't hold a candle to the lavish clients you'll be workin' for this time next year."

Except Onigiri Miya did hold a candle to all those high-end clients you'd always dreamed of working with — and it pained you that Osamu couldn't see that. As self-assured as your beloved friend was, he always downplayed his aspirations of opening his own restaurant, always shrugged off his four-year business degree as a mere side-effect of growing up than a product of his hard work.

"It's not like I'm my twin brother or anything — playin' for the big leagues and gettin' brand deals from Nike," he'd chuckle, eyes wandering over to the MSBY matches you'd watch during your study sessions with the volume on low. That blasé, almost dismissive tone of voice he'd use made you want to wring his neck sometimes.

Perhaps that's why you eventually agreed to planning this event: to show Osamu just how accomplished and deserving he really was. To show him that sure, he wasn't some revered, hot-shot athlete with fifty Twitter accounts dedicated to his abs, but that he didn't have to be. You wanted the grand opening of Onigiri Miya to reflect the hard work and caliber of its owner — even if it took you hours of phone calls, marketing ploys, and budget spreadsheets to do so.

The day of the grand opening, you and the waitressing staff at Onigiri Miya transformed the humble one-story restaurant into a thriving yet comfortable party space — complete with karaoke, a specialized drink menu, and a (correctly-sized) backdrop for customers to snap content for social media. Osamu pushed out of the kitchen an hour before opening and stopped short when he saw the finished product, the paper lanterns you'd strung across the rafters bringing warmth into his wide smile.

"So?" you asked breathlessly, tucking back the strands of hair that had fallen out of your low bun. You gestured towards the place and beamed. "What do you think?"

"I think..." Osamu started. His eyes scanned the set-up in awe as he pulled you in with one arm and pressed his lips to your temple in gratitude. "That I'm nowhere near as deservin' of yer talent, Y/N."

"Oh, hush." You curled into his side. He smelled like pickled veggies and spicy mayonnaise and a hint of aftershave. "You're just as deserving of my talent as you are the tens of thousands of customers that are coming tonight."

"Ya really think people are gonna show up?"

You craned your neck to meet his gaze — that cautious, wary expression in his eyes. "I know people are going to show up. Atsumu and your mother included."

And boy, did it feel good to be proven right. Within the first five minutes of opening, the sizable crowd that had gathered outside the establishment had settled into every table, booth, and bar stool in the place, waiters and waitresses greeting them enthusiastically before taking their orders. Within the next hour, the line to enter the place had wrapped around the block. Not to mention the pro-volleyball team that made all heads turn as they entered.

"Y/N, this ring light is makin' me look like a model in heat!" Miya Atsumu exclaimed as he posed for several pictures in front of the backdrop.

"I want to look like a model in heat!" shouted his teammate, Bokuto Kōtarō, before he crashed into the frame with a drink in his hands and a grin on his face. Another MSBY Black Jackal — Hinata Shoyo — joined in not a moment later.

"Remember to tag Onigiri Miya in all your social posts, boys!" you reminded them, to which they all saluted you dutifully.

From across the busy restaurant, Osamu merely smiled and shook his head. He couldn't believe how much you'd dedicated yourself to this event, even if it was just a favor for a friend. You wouldn't even accept a paycheck from him, and yet here you were, pouring a hundred-and-ten percent of yourself into something that meant more to him than he let on.

He'd always been afraid of leaning into his full passion for Onigiri Miya — because if this entire business venture turned into one colossal failure, perhaps he could soften the blow by telling himself that it wasn't a big deal to begin with. That none of his work would be as mainstream or important as that of the athletes currently sing-shouting karaoke lyrics into his expensive speaker system. That he was always meant to be a complementary shadow in the grand scheme of the Miya legacy. He was content with that. He was.

That is, until he saw you dedicate an entire binder to his grand opening. Until he saw you haggling with the backdrop company for ten minutes until they gave you exactly what you wanted. Until he saw you now, chatting with some customers and nodding along with whatever they were saying. From the look on your face, he assumed it was positive.

Maybe leaning in wasn't as scary anymore knowing that at least one person had full confidence in him. The fact that it was you made it even better.

After several hours of satisfied customers, high praises, and tipsy karaoke performances, Osamu finally closed up shop and sent his staff home for the night, thanking them each for their hard work before letting the back door swing closed behind him. Tossing his soiled apron into an empty crate and grabbing the bottle of champagne he'd stashed inside his backpack, he exited the kitchen only to find you sweeping the floors with a dustpan and broom.

"If you don't quit workin'," he warned. "I'mma tell yer boss you've been working another job behind 'er back."

Your broom takes pause, the crumbs and dust settling before you say, "You wouldn't."

"Try me," Osamu countered, twisting the cork off the bottle and pouring two glasses. "I'mma go on an' on about this event ya pulled off tonight, and how ya didn't sit still for nearly five hours straight."

"Well, to be fair, neither did you," you argued, sliding into a stool and accepting your glass of champagne from him. You shared a quick toast across the bar before sipping your celebratory drinks in silence — a stark contrast to the orchestra of laughter, music, and conversation that existed in the space just an hour before.

"I'm so proud of you. You know that, right?" you asked quietly after a moment, your cheeks dusted pink after downing your glass a little too quickly. Osamu merely waved a dismissive hand, through a faint blush crept up his neck as he did so.

"Ah, it was nothin'. You were the real architect of the whole event, and all those people wouldn't have shown up if it weren't for MSBY —"

"Oh, would you just shut up and give yourself credit for once?" you said, the pained expression on your face taking your friend by surprise. "None of those people would have stayed if it weren't for the food you prepared — hell, none of us would even be here if you hadn't busted your ass to open this business in the first place! I am so sick and tired of you being the last person on Earth to recognize just how hard working and valuable and deserving you are, 'Samu. Everyone else sees it! Why can't you — ?"

You're cut off as Osamu reaches across the bar to kiss you, his lips gentle as they press against yours in a quiet yet clear act of surrender. You're taken aback as his calloused hand finds its place just at the base of your neck, his thumb caressing your cheek as you close your eyes and deepen the kiss. It's soft and slow and over before you know it, your breath mingling with his as he draws back and rests his forehead against yours.

"...thank ya," he murmurs, the scent of champagne drifting lazily from his breath. You try to steady your breathing as you try to comprehend what just happened, but his hand is still there. It seems to be the only thing you're thinking about as you stupidly ask:

"For what?"

A set of dimples deepens on either side of his lips. "For helping me see it."

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