han

dream thieves vs raven king

It was a comfortable enough arrangement; Adam and Ronan weren’t in a fight  at the moment, and both of them were too startled by the day’s events to start a new one. (ch. 36) (Adam POV)

So. We all know this chapter. Lets start from the top. Ronan drives Adam home after they all met at Fox Way to talk about Whelk and how he has a thing for killing raven boys. (what an asshat) Comfortable silences are really important to me. Also, I like that Ronan drove him even though Gansey really could have. 

He tightened his fingers around the strap of his bag, but he didn’t get out.

“Man, you don’t have to get out here,” Ronan sad.

Adam didn’t comment on that; it wasn’t helpful. Instead he asked, “Don’t you have homework to do?” (ch. 36)

I left out the the part where Ronan smirks at Adam for changing the subject. I honestly could have just copy+paste the whole damn chapter in this post but I reigned myself in. Anyway, I love Ronan Lynch. I love that he gives Adam an out without any pressure what so ever. I love that he makes this ONE comment and when Adam rejects it, he doesn’t fight him on it. I love that Ronan understands Adam has to do things in a very specific way. I love how he doesn’t always understand Adam but he gets how he works. 

Still Adam didn’t get out. He didn’t like the agitation of his father’s silhouette. But, it was unwise to loiter in the car-especially this car, an undeniably Aglionby car- flaunting his friendships.

(Ronan makes distracting comment/joke about Whelk)

There was quiet, and then Ronan said, “I better go feed the bird.”

But he looked down at the gearshift instead, eyes unfocused.

(have chat about Gansey almost dying/comfort) (ch. 36)

I shoved a pillow in my mouth because I couldn’t handle this whole damn scene. Adam hesitating hurts, it hurts for all the reasons we get later in the chapter and it hurts because he feels safe in that damn car. The ‘flaunting his friendships’ line always hits me as a double meaning. Also, I cry over the parallel of this moment with the TWO we get in TRK (the ‘wrong demon scene’ and the epilogue scene. i should do a post on this) Next part is how Ronan tries to gently get Adam to leave the car but it’s with no real effort. Best of all, a lot of the conversation in the car is Adam avoiding going in the house but it’s also Ronan needing to talk. We don’t get Ronan’s POV in this book but the most soft/intimate you get to see him is in this scene. Alone with Adam, voicing his fear of Gansey almost getting shot and dying. A fear they share. I know I didn’t place the dialogue here (i kinda regret it now but oh well) but I love how Adam ends up comforting Ronan and when Ronan seems to feel better that gives him a sort of settled feeling that allows him to open the door. 

“See you tomorrow. Thanks, again.”

Ronan looked away from the house, out across the black field. His hand worked on the steering wheel; something was frustrating him, but with Ronan, there was no telling if it was still Whelk or something else entirely.

“No problem, man. See you tomorrow.” (ch. 36)

*drags hands down face* Who understands Adam Parrish more than Ronan Lynch? No one. the restraint this took. I appreciate his not getting all Gansey on him. Adam was too tired for that. 

“To do this,” Ronan Lynch snarled, smashing his fist into the side of Robert Parrish’s face. Beyond him, the BMW sat, the driver’s side door hanging open, headlights illuminating clouds of dust in the darkness. Ronan, said Adam. Or maybe he only thought it. (ch. 36)

Okay so. A LOT GOING ON HERE. I know a lot of people sort of see this as a grand romantic gesture or something but to me it’s more of a character focus on Ronan. He’d do this for any of the people he loved, the people closes to him. Can you imagine if he saw someone hit Gansey? Matthew?? His anger had him race down road and jump out of the car the second Adam hit the floor. He protects the people he cares about. He fights for the people he cares about. Here it happens to be Adam. 

Adam’s vision shifted and cleared, shifted and cleared. He could make out Ronan, dimly. Appalled, he asked, “Is he being cuffed?”

This can’t happen. He can’t go to jail because of me. (ch. 36)

Protection my friends, goes both ways. I can write a NOVEL on Adam deciding to press charges against his dad. I won’t do that here but I assure you, I could on and on about it. I was honestly shocked when Adam pressed charges because I understand his situation. Even if he and we know that Ronan doesn’t care about Anglionby, doesn’t care about his future or himself really, Adam couldn’t let himself be the reason Ronan goes to jail. I think the thought of Ronan being affected by his situation, being collateral damage as it were, was that final push. 

“If Ronan had gotten arrested for punching Adam’s dad, he would’ve been out of Aglionby no matter what happened. No way they’d let an assault charge ride. But Adam pressed charges so Ronan would get off the hook…”

“She asked, “Okay, wait, so why is Ronan at the library?”

“Cramming,” Noah said. “For an exam on Monday.”

It was the nicest things Blue had ever heard of Ronan doing. (ch. 39) (Blue POV)

Blue has known them HOW LONG and she can tell what a grand gesture this is??? Ronan doesn’t even care about school, not one tiny bit but he does this to show Adam that he gets what a big deal this is, that he’s doing the right thing. I can’t.  

Adam and Ronan came in then. Ronan was bent double with a duffel bag and backpack on his back, and Adam carried a dented Froot Loops box with a Transformer poking out of the top. (ch. 39)

I mean……… someone is feeling guilty? eager? so weak?? All of the above probably. I will laugh forever over Ronan carrying everything Adam owns like a pack mule. It’s just so funny when you think about how lazy Ronan can be? Also why is that transformer in a froot loops box like what is the story there I need to know. 

Ronan, still weighed down with the luggage, headed across the floor toward Noah’s room, saying “Ha. Ha. Ha” in time with his footsteps. It was the kind of laughing that came from being the only person laughing. (ch. 39)

*shakes head* he was signed, sealed and delivered. It’s sweet and no one freakin’ notices and I just really really need to know what the hell they talked about in there. They kinda have a lot of off screen moments in book one and I wonder if that was done purposely. 

Adam said, “I don’t care about the risk.”

Ronan picked his teeth. “Me neither.”

“You have nothing to lose,” Gansey said, pointing at Adam. He looked at Ronan. “And you don’t care if you live or die. That makes you both bad judges.” (ch. 39)

RIGHTY-O DICK III!! As sad as that statement actually IS it is a perfect description of them at this time. It shows how similar they are and makes their character/relationship development all the more sweeter. They could NOT have started anything this early on, couldn’t even give those feelings much thought with everything else that was happening so instead we get to see compatibility, friendship, understanding and trust way before we see heart eyes and things on fire. That’s what makes the transition so easy to miss. At some point down the line, they start to heal part of themselves and it mirrors back and fourth until one day you have weird sex dreams about eating tattoos and two gods in a church, one with hungry eyes. 

Adam, with probable help from Ronan, moved from Monmouth Manufacturing to a room belonging to St. Agnes Church, a subtle distance that affected both boys in different ways. (ch. 48) (Blue POV)

The last pynch scene in this book! So questions: Did Ronan and Adam discuss him moving out before or after the sacrifice? I feel like its a really important question. Next, we know how this affected Ronan (the two objects of Ronan’s worship in one place) and I know there is a lot of speculation on how it affected Adam and not to burst any bubbles but I think that’s pretty clear too. He was really truly on his own and cut off from his family. :(( I know I am such a bummer. Okay I’ll end on a bittersweet note. Adam’s constant fighting with Gansey leads to a more solid relationship with Ronan, trusting him to have his back, to not put pressure on him, to not play peacemaker. After Ronan fights his dad it just shifts everything between them. He lets Ronan help him because he feels they are on equal ground. And we all know how Adam loves equality. 

That’s it for The Raven Boys! These two idiots really liked running circles around each other huh?! Up next is Dream Thieves which I expect to be short as Ronan and Adam had some MAJOR personal obstacles to deal with. Those post might lean a little less on Pynch moments and more on Ronan is Hella Gay and Angry About It. (ohhhhh I should just make a TDT post about that.)

He KNEW what it meant when he heard his voice on St Marks Eve……..and he still wanted to ask Glendower for Noah’s life not his own.

a mini smau

JUNE 2, 2026, 6:32AM: if you’re the girl dressed like a hot dog that just knocked me on my ass on the side of the road, please know that i am in love with you.

TO SUMMARIZE - miya osamu meets the love of his life on his way to work for about two minutes total, and then spends five weeks trying to find her.

PLEASE BE AWARE that this story contains written parts, longing, alcohol, swearing, lewd jokes, and everyone is out of character. warnings may change as the story progresses

STATUS: completed

INTRO: the worst people in the world

INTRO: miya atsumu has a piss kink

CHAPTER ONE: love at first sight does not exist

CHAPTER TWO: eggs

CHAPTER THREE: stalking is a serious crime

CHAPTER FOUR: what attachment style are you

CHAPTER FIVE: let's be real second

tags: chef!iwaizumi x server!reader, smau, kms mention, drinking, very american restaurant bc its based off my experience working in a restaurant

osamu scowls at his twin, whipping his bicep with a rag before lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair, sighing as he glances down at his—admittedly—shoddy work. 

atsumu jumps and lets out an undignified yelp as he grins, “ain’t seen ya make a rice ball that sloppy since you got absolutely wasted and decided to make ‘em at three in the morning back at uni.”

“fuck off, ya unemployed freeloader,” osamu grunts, menacingly clapping a pair of metal tongs in his brother’s direction just as he grabs one and stuffs it into his mouth without asking. 

“just admit you’re a pathetic simp who can’t even focus on shapin’ rice when a pretty girl is in the restaurant,” his brother says around a mouthful of rice, gesturing through the serving hatch toward where you’re currently facing away from them on a stool at the window. 

osamu exhales noisily in annoyance, turning to wash his hands at the sink before stealing another glance over at you. his heart thuds insistently in his chest as you absentmindedly smile at the sight of someone with several excited dogs walking past on the street outside, the late afternoon sun bathing you in a soft, golden glow. 

a momager and her silly olympic team.

special delivery. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when the onigiri man visits team japan and brings the flavor in a court full of sweat! (p.s. atsumu loses his cool).

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

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Atsumu is cranky.

So cranky because when he walks into the Team Japan lounge, yawning into the back of his hand, he sees his twin standing at the center of the room.

Genetic photocopy. Womb-mate. Culinary menace.

Paris. Olympics. Team Japan. 

On his turf.

“‘Samu!”

Osamu barely has time to register the sound of his name before you’re running toward him full-speed, shoes thudding against the tile, arms already outstretched. He manages to steady himself just as you launch into him, throwing your arms around his neck and practically knocking the wind out of him.

“Oof—easy now, darlin’ girl,” Osamu laughs, catching you with a grunt, one arm winding around your waist. “Ya tryin’ to kill me or just testin’ my reflexes?”

You grin, eyes bright, cheek pressed to chest. “Maybe both.”

“What if I dropped the food?”

Your head lifts immediately. “You brought food?”

He jerks his chin toward the sleek, oversized suitcase parked besides the door, black with a silver zipper and suspiciously large for a trip.

“Insulated. Onigiri. Limited flavors. Special editions… and maybe some of your favorites,” he says with a smug glint in his eye.

You gasp, fingers digging slightly into his shoulders. “You absolute legend.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, “but wait till you try the spicy miso. It’s grilled.”

“Grilled?!”

“Charred edges,” he adds with a boop to your nose, seducing your soul with rice.

And right as you’re about to lose your mind—

“EXCUSE ME!”

—Atsumu’s voice cuts through the lounge. 

“The hell are you doin’ here, ‘Samu?! Showin’ up unannounced, flirtin’ with my manager?!”

Osamu just smirks, not even trying to hide the way his arm’s still casually looped around your waist. He lifts his free hand to ruffle your hair, gentle but annoyingly fond and a little too pleased with himself. “Relax. I brought gifts. Hugs were the natural consequence.”

Atsumu turns to you, completely offended. “Are ya kiddin’ me?! You never run at me like that!”

“Because I don’t trust you to catch me.”

“Sweetheart,” Atsumu drawls, flinging his arms out. “We’ve known each other for years!”

“And I still have knees I’d like to protect,” you say, pulling back slightly as Osamu chuckles under his breath.

“She’s got a point, ‘Tsum.”

Atsumu stares at the two of you—at your arms still loosely wrapped around Osamu’s neck, the way you’re smiling up at him—and his whole face crumples. He slumps on the nearby couch, whining something incoherent. 

“So what,” he grumbles, lower lip actually wobbling, “ya just see my face on his and suddenly forget who the Olympic-level twin is?”

You snort, clearly amused, and begin to ease away from Osamu’s arms—who, to his credit, lets you go without complaint. He’s got that soft, knowing look on his face, like yeah, yeah, go cheer up the dramatic one.

“C’mere, drama queen,” you murmur, leaning down and gently pinching Atsumu’s cheek. His skin squishes between your fingers, and he blinks up at you with a pouty glare that’s barely holding together.

“I see you, ‘Tsumu,” you say, tugging just a little. “But I see ‘Samu too.”

He swats your hand half-heartedly. “He ain’t even wearin’ the uniform—!”

“Yeah,” Osamu cuts in, smirking, “but I brought onigiri. So I win.”

“Bro—that’s not even—that’s not how winnin’ works!”

“You bring sweat. I bring flavor. Tell me honestly, which do you prefer?”

And on cue, the lounge door creaks open.

Suna pokes his head in, face blank. “Flavor,” he says flatly. “Obviously.”

Aran appears behind him, stepping into the room with a knowing grin. “We prefer flavor, duh.”

Atsumu’s mouth falls open as he shoots up from the couch. Osamu smiles cheekily. 

“YOU… JACKASS—!”

Before either twin can escalate, you step forward and reach up to pinch both of their ears between your fingers.

“Ow—!” they cry out in perfect sync, squirming in opposite directions.

You tug just enough to make your point. “I prefer flavor…” you say sweetly, then give each ear a little tug. “And sweat.”

The twins go still.

“You guys hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Loud and clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You huff, letting go of their ears and stepping back. “Now… don’t start fighting here.”

Atsumu glares at Osamu. “...He started it.”

“I’d win,” Osamu replies without looking up.

“OH MY GOD—”

You throw a napkin at both of them. “Behave. Or I’m switching to Ushijima.”

“Wait, what—!” Atsumu whips around. 

And from behind you, a deep voice calmly replies, “Yes. I possess flavor and sweat.”

“MY GUY’S GOT RANGE, ‘TSUM-‘TSUM!” Bokuto shouts, barreling into the lounge.

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The team finishes the last of the onigiri on the walk over. Hinata swears the spicy miso made him run faster, and Bokuto loudly insists he's "emotionally stronger" now.

The court they’ve reserved is wide open, nestled within one of the main Olympic training centers, and a few spectators and media types have started gathering around the fences, phones out, murmuring excitedly. It’s hard not to stare; after all, Team Japan is stretching at the far end of the court, full of gold medal potential and chaotic charisma.

You settle onto the bench just off the sideline, stats clipboard balanced on your lap. Iwaizumi is beside you, reviewing serve patterns on a tablet. Osamu plops down on your other side, lazily popping open a fresh onigiri he smuggled in under the radar.

"Seaweed and salmon," he mumbles, holding it out in case you want the first bite. You take it without hesitation.

“Feels wrong to eat while they’re sweating,” you mutter between chews.

Osamu shrugs, biting into the other half. “Balance. They provide the sweat, I bring the flavor, remember?”

You roll your eyes and reach up to flick his forehead with a light snap of your fingers.

“Ow. The hell was that for?”

“You’re too smug,” you say, trying not to smile. “And too proud of your rice.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “And somehow you’re still everyone’s favorite today.”

“I earned that.”

The three of you watch as Team Japan starts moving through warmups, the controlled chaos of routine drills unfolding across the court. They cycle through sharp serve patterns, one after another—clean tosses, sharp footwork, bodies moving like a well-oiled machine with just enough mess to still feel human.

You catch the bickering mid-rotation—Bokuto screaming “I GOT IT! I GOT IT!” while absolutely not having it and colliding with Hinata, Sakusa judging all of them silently from the back line, and Suna sneaking his phone up to snap a picture. 

But your eyes drift, repeatedly, back to Atsumu.

He’s serious when he plays, sure. But today, there’s something different about him.

“He’s been more obnoxious than usual since you got here,” Iwaizumi mutters, glancing up from the tablet just in time to catch Atsumu flashing a very flirty grin at a girl in the stands.

You follow his gaze and sure enough, Atsumu’s running a hand through his hair mid-drill, doing entirely too much for someone not currently being televised.

Osamu unwraps another onigiri. “He’s always obnoxious.”

“But you know what I mean,” Iwaizumi says. “He’s performing.”

Osamu hums. And yeah, he does know what Iwaizumi means.

Because Atsumu’s been louder since his brother arrived—snappier, more dramatic, borderline theatrical. The little grumbles, the fake offended gasps, the “why are you even here” rants? Classic deflection. Typical ‘Tsumu.

But Osamu sees it.

The way Atsumu’s grinning when he plays. Not his usual serious, laser-focused look—no, this is different because it’s looser… lighter. He’s calling out sets with a spark in his voice, cracking jokes between rotations, laughing when Suna bumps into him mid-pass, talking back when Aran scolds him, and even listening when Kageyama yells at him to toss higher. 

He’s got bounce in his step again.

Osamu watches him for a moment—how easily he slips into rhythm with Hinata, how quick his smirks come when the crowd reacts, how he serves with swagger instead of just pressure.

And how every so often, in between drills, he looks toward the bench… toward Osamu.

Yeah, his presence probably threw him off for half a second. Twins are annoying like that. 

But it’s clear as day to Osamu—

Atsumu’s happy.

And maybe a little smug that his brother’s on the sidelines to see it.

Osamu chuckles under his breath, popping the last bite of rice into his mouth. “He missed me.”

Iwaizumi side-eyes him. “Don’t tell him that.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Osamu grins. “I’m savin’ it for when he screws up his next serve.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two are unreal.”

Osamu leans back on the bench, eyes still on his twin—quietly proud and not saying it outright, but... yeah.

He’s glad he came.

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Practice is going fine until Bokuto happens. 

As usual. 

He’s been sprinting, diving, and yelling for thirty minutes straight. And finally, mid-receive, he skids to the sideline, chest heaving, hands on his knees.

“I… I need a break,” he pants. “I’ve… used up all my power points.”

“Your what?”

“No more power points.”

His shoulders slump, his once-bouncy hair now drooping pitifully over his forehead. He blinks slowly, dazed from pure enthusiasm burnout, sweat clinging to his skin in streaks. Then, with zero warning, he lets out a tiny, exhausted whine and lunges toward the bench, digging into Osamu's bag. 

“EMERGENCY ONIGIRI!”

Osamu watches him, mildly horrified, from his seat.

“Ya good, Bo?”

Bokuto nods while ripping open the onigiri and taking a bite. He points a single, rice-sticky finger at Osamu then towards the court.

“‘Samu-‘Samu,” he says, mouth still full. “You’re up. Sub in for me.”

Osamu blinks, clearly caught off guard. “...Me?”

He glances at Bokuto, who's still sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching away at his onigiri, then at the open court, where Hinata is already waving excitedly for him to hurry. He laughs under his breath, but it's quiet and a little uncertain.

“C’mon, ‘Samu,” you nudge, elbow brushing his. “You know you still got it.”

He hums low in his throat, brushing a hand through his hair. “Don’t know about that. Haven’t touched a game ball in months.” He gestures vaguely toward his sweats and hoodie. “Ain’t exactly dressed for it either.”

“That never stopped Bo,” you point out, grinning.

He doesn’t smile back right away but looks out at the court—at the blur of red jerseys, the sound of shoes against hardwood, the rhythm of calling and movement. Something settles in his chest… or maybe something stirs.

“You could still hang with them,” Iwaizumi says simply. “Easy.”

Osamu scoffs softly, wanting to argue but can’t quite bring himself to. “Dunno ‘bout that,” he mutters. “I’m more built for kitchen sprints now.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “Then sprint to the net. I wanna see something.”

Osamu doesn’t move as he watches Atsumu set a clean toss and Hinata spikes it down the line. His jaw tightens.

You lean toward him, voice gentle. “You miss it, don’t you?”

“…Sometimes,” he says eventually. “Not the grind. Not the press. But bein’ out there?” He nods toward the court. “Yeah. It felt good. Real good. Back when it was just… us. Just playin’. 

“Then go play. Just for a bit. 

You tilt your head toward the court, a teasing note in your voice.

“Some blondie’s waiting.”

Osamu holds your gaze, searching for something in your expression. Reassurance, maybe.

He turns back toward the court, and his eyes find him.

Atsumu stands at the far side of the net, one hand resting on his hip as he pretends to be distracted by something Kageyama is saying. His expression is neutral.

But he keeps glancing toward the bench, stealing quick little looks—at you, at Osamu, at the empty spot that used to be filled beside him. His body doesn’t show it, but his fingers tap lightly against his thigh, buzzing with something unspoken: that specific restlessness he only gets when he’s waiting for his twin to catch up.

He doesn’t call out to Osamu, but he’s standing just off to the side, leaving space.

Osamu watches, and you can tell he sees it. The quiet anticipation. The part of Atsumu that still remembers what it felt like to set for his brother and wants that, even if he’ll never admit it.

You nudge Osamu’s arm again.

“Go on,” you murmur. “He’s already making room.”

When you slap his back, like come on, he exhales a little laugh and finally stands, brushing his hands on his thighs and stretching his arms overhead.

“…If he sets me something short just to mess with me,” he mutters, “I’m rollin’ it straight at his face.”

You grin. “I’ll let you.”

He jogs toward the court with no knee-pads, no warm-up, and no prep—and yet still manages to blend in with Team Japan.

Iwaizumi smirks from beside you. “Watch him steal the show.”

“Yeah. He always does.”

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The second Osamu sets foot on the court, something shifts.

It’s subtle at first. He moves easy, smoothly. Takes a serve in perfect form, pivots without overthinking it, reads the blockers like he’s been doing it yesterday instead of years ago. But when Hinata tosses him a ball on a broken play—something off-tempo, awkward, meant to be recovered—Osamu adjusts mid-air and absolutely buries it down the line with a loud, satisfying crack.

The gym goes quiet for a second.

Then a few fans in the stands erupt.

“OH MY GOD.”

“GODDAMN.”

“HE’S STILL A BEAST.”

“OSAMU!”

“I thought he’s just an onigiri man!”

Atsumu stares from across the court, jaw slack, arms frozen in mid-set stance. “Wait. The fuck—”

Osamu lands with a light bounce, retrieves the ball, and tosses it casually back to Hinata.

Atsumu squints. “You… you said you were outta shape.”

“You just assumed I stopped winning,”  Osamu calls back.

Suna coughs loudly from the back line. “That’s tough, bro.”

Bokuto, half-recovered, cheers wildly from the floor. “HE’S STOLEN THE SPOTLIGHT!”

“I’M THE OLYMPIAN!” Atsumu yells, voice cracking. “Why is nobody remembering that?!”

Hinata doubles over laughing, Komori can barely receive the next ball, and even Sakusa has the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes as he mumbles something about ego collapse under his breath.

They rotate again, and Osamu slips smoothly into the setter position. 

“Wait, wait. ‘Samu’s setting?” Hinata says, wide-eyed. 

“I wanna get it!” he calls out, practically skipping to the front line, already bouncing in place, hands shaking with excitement. “‘Samu, I’m open! Right side, give it to me!”

Osamu smirks, lifts his hands, and jump-sets with perfect, effortless grace—a soft, arching toss that hangs like art in the air.

And then, a shadow moves in.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

BOOM.

Out of nowhere, Ushijima appears.

He steps in front of Hinata at the last second with silent, terrifying efficiency and steals the set out of midair.

SMACK.

The ball explodes off his hand and slams down into the opposite corner. The gym reverberates.

Hinata just stands there, mouth open, mid-jump, frozen. “Ushi-kun… that—that was mine.”

Ushijima turns slowly. “It looked graceful,” he says simply. “I wanted to try it.”

Atsumu screams from the sidelines, “GRACEFUL?! I HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS DISRESPECTED IN MY LIFE.”

Osamu’s smiling as he walks to retrieve the ball. “Was that good for ya, Ushi-kun?”

“Yes. It was perfect. The tempo was excellent.”

“OKAY, NO—!”

“SWEETHEART, GET HIM OFF THE COURT!”

“HE’S LITERALLY TAKING MY JOB!”

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Later that night…

The chaos has finally settled. 

The gym lights fade. The chatter dims. The city hums.

Shoes have been kicked off. Towels tossed. Hair damp from quick showers and limbs heavy with a good kind of soreness.

You step out onto the small balcony connected to Team Japan’s shared suite, the cool breeze brushing over your skin. The Eiffel Tower twinkles in the distance, glittering gold against the deep blue of the sky. It's quiet now—soft, late-night quiet, just the hum of the city below and the warmth of a long day behind you.

Osamu is already leaning against the railing, a hoodie thrown over his head, sipping from a bottle of water. He looks peaceful now, thoughtful. He’s got a fresh onigiri in one hand—of course—and a far-off look in his eyes, like his mind’s still on the court.

You drift toward him quietly.

"Not bad for a guy who claims he only runs kitchen sprints," you murmur.

He chuckles under his breath. “Gotta keep the legend alive somehow.”

"Did it feel good?" you ask quietly. "Being out there again?"

He nods. “Yeah... it did. Still fits better than I thought.”

You smile, reaching for his hand. “Told you it never really leaves you.”

“I thought I was done with all that,” he continues. “The pressure. The grind. The constant... noise. But bein’ on that court today... it just felt… easy.”

You hum softly. “Like breathing?”

He nods once. “Exactly… but… it’s different now,” he adds. “‘Tsumu’s the one chasin’ medals. I’m just the guy makin’ lunch.”

“The guy makin’ millions off rice triangles.”

That earns a smile from him.

You bump your shoulder into his. “‘Samu… you didn’t quit volleyball. You just started feeding the whole damn country instead.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true,” you say, nudging him again. “And besides... it’s not like you can’t still play. You stole the spotlight today in joggers and no warm-up.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should.”

“You’re right,” you shrug. “You should just keep cooking... and casually humiliating Olympic athletes on your days off.”

He looks at you then, and there’s something soft in his gaze—something raw.

“You think I made the right call?”

You don't hesitate.

“I think you made your call,” you say, eyes steady on his. “And you made it big. You didn’t follow someone else’s dream. You built your own… and it’s feeding people. Comforting people. Like me.”

Osamu stares at you, eyes dark under the soft balcony light. His lips twitch, about to say something but doesn’t quite believe he should—like he wants to take your words in, but can’t fully let himself.

So you sigh, reach out, and pinch his cheek.

Not gently.

“Hey. Listen to me.”

He jerks slightly, swatting at your hand. “Oi—what was that for?”

“That was for looking at me like I just said something stupid,” you say, still holding his cheek between your fingers. “You do comfort people. You feed them. You run entire restaurants. You built an empire out of rice. That’s insane.”

He grumbles, but doesn’t pull away.

You soften just a little, thumb brushing his cheek now instead of squeezing it. “It is you, y’know.”

He tilts his head, skeptical. “What’s me?”

You grin. “The big deal. The success story. The secretly hot one.”

Osamu snorts. “Secretly? Wow, thanks.”

“I’m serious!” you laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Sure, ‘Tsumu made it big... Olympics, stadiums, fame. All that jazz.”

He raises a brow, waiting.

“But you?” You point at him. “With your restaurants all over Japan? Your millions in revenue? Your rotating seasonal menu, guest chef appearances, chef groupies—”

“Chef groupies. Christ, darlin’.”

“Oh, trust me—! They exist!” 

He groans, dragging his hand down his face, but he’s laughing now, eyes crinkling at the edges.

You lean back against the railing beside him, smug.

“Point is,” you say, a little softer now, “you made something that’s yours. You didn’t ride with ‘Tsum. You built your own, one grain of rice at a time… besides, who gave him his muscle gains, hm? All those protein-packed onigiri? That was you. You built him too.”

“Yeah, sure,” he muses, unconvinced. 

 “No ‘Samu, I’m serious! You literally handed him his macros with a side of wasabi! He might’ve made it to the Olympics, but you kept him fueled enough to get there.”

“You done makin’ me sound like his personal chef-slash-parent?”

You tilt your head, playful. “Are you denying it?”

His lips quirk up. “...No. Made that boy from rice and spite.”

You bump his side with yours. “Damn right.”

The teasing fades for just a moment, replaced by something quieter.

“You know he’s proud of you, right? Even if he doesn't show it.”

Osamu's jaw ticks once, chewing on the thought. You know he knows, but it’s different hearing it out loud.

“Yeah. I know.”

You smile gently. “He wears number eleven. For you.”

That gets him.

“…I know.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You and Osamu are just about to head back inside when the sliding door creaks open.

“Sweets?”

Hinata pokes his head out, hair slightly messy from his shower, hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin. His eyes are big and pleading, the universal expression for I am small and require affection.

“Can we join you?” he asks sweetly. “Bokuto said we’re having a team bonding moment.”

Before you can respond, the rest of the door slides open behind him—the gates of chaos breaking.

Bokuto appears next, already halfway through dragging out two throw blankets, face glowing. “I brought supplies!”

“Not a bonding moment without snacks,” Komori chimes in, slipping out after them, holding a bag of gummy worms in each hand. 

“Did ya really start cuddlin’ without me?” Atsumu demands, coming through the door. 

“Ya don’t deserve cuddles,” Osamu deadpans, but you can already see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I agree,” Suna murmurs, sliding into a corner of the balcony, phone in hand.

Aran follows, exasperated but resigned. “Y’all have no concept of personal space.”

“You’re still here though,” you point out.

He sits anyway. “Yeah, yeah.”

Kageyama walks out next, face red. “I didn’t ask for cuddles, I just didn’t want to be excluded.”

You smirk. “That sounds like cuddle-adjacent behavior to me.”

He mutters something inaudible and folds himself into the corner furthest from the pile, but you catch him scooting closer five minutes later.

And then, Ushijima emerges… silently… with a pillow. “I believe physical proximity promotes trust.”

Bokuto gasps, eyes shining. “That’s what I said!”

You giggle softly, shaking your head, then glance up to see Iwaizumi lingering by the door.

Arms crossed.

Leaning on the frame.

Trying very hard to look like he’s just checking on everyone and not remotely interested in joining the chaos.

You raise an eyebrow. “Ooh… look who’s creeping closer.”

Iwaizumi glares halfheartedly. “I’m not creeping.”

You pat the open space beside you. “C’mon, Iwa. Join the Trust Circle.”

“I’m good right here,” Iwaizumi insists.

But then Komori shifts to something on Suna’s phone, Hinata flops to steal Kageyama’s gummy worms, and suddenly there's a very convenient open spot right next to you.

You pat it again. “Hajime.”

And somehow, without any formal plan, blankets are layered across the balcony floor, pillows are tossed down, and Team Japan turns into a puppy pile of national athletes, settling shoulder to shoulder, knee to thigh, sprawled in sleepy heaps.

“I don't wanna sleep,” Atsumu grumbles from somewhere near your feet.

“You’re literally half-asleep on Bo’s leg,” Aran says.

Bokuto beams. “I radiate comfort.”

From the other side of the pile, Sakusa sighs. “If anyone so much as breathes on me—”

You smile and reach over instinctively to tug lightly on a strand of his hair.

“Hey!” he scowls, vanishing beneath the blanket.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

A few seconds pass in silence. Breath slows. Bodies shift into comfort. The occasional mumble drifts between teammates.

“Look! Sparkles!”

You all look up just in time to see the Eiffel Tower burst into glitter—thousands of golden lights flickering to life against the ink-blue sky, dazzling and unreal.

For a moment, none of you speak.

Because in the heart of a city full of light, surrounded by warmth and limbs and the soft weight of people who feel like home—

Yeah.

you work with;

iwa; the manager who doesn’t wanna be a fckn manager but he likes the extra pay (u get away with everything he’s got a ‘soft spot’ for u)

shoyo; everyone’s favorite coworker (always takes shifts)

bo; rich kid who truly doesn’t even need the job but got fomo and applied (great worker tho)

atsumu; everyone’s least favorite coworker (professional dillydallier)

tobio: awkward but knowledgeable, your favorite coworker to mess with (surprisingly rlly funny once u get closer)

kiyoko; assistant manager who makes sure you two are always scheduled together “for solidarity” (work wives fr)

bonus;

kenma; who hates sports but luvs u and sho so he’s always just hanging around & lying to customers for fun