#its a word vom but i love him sm

[sashimiyas]

cw: food as a love language; dad and husband osamu; the kid is 18 and not a baby

word count: 700+

if there's one thing about osamu, it's that he can never find his phone. it's always in his back pockets when he works, but the moment he gets home, it disappears. underneath the covers, atop your wardrobe, hidden in the couches, and today, you find its elusive nature has led it on top of the microwave.

"your son's calling you," you tell him as you glance down at the vibrating screen.

osamu doesn't lift his head from the pot he stirs, a rich soup meant to clean out the fridge, "put him on speaker."

"hey, kid," you say once you swipe the button.

"hi mom," he answers habitually, "where's dad?"

you have to roll your eyes at your husband's cocky grin, because he's clearly the desired parent for the day. osamu makes sure to kiss your temple when you pass him the phone, a reminder that you are loved even if it's not necessary.

he places it in his breast pocket, "hey, little man."

"hi dad," the younger one says but supplies nothing else.

osamu stops stirring this time and places one hand on his hip, "what's on ya mind?"

"nothing." the two of you glance at each other. eighteen years of raising him, and you try to parse meaning in the words he doesn't say. it's harder now, without him around, without his cute cheeks to pinch or his grumbly attitude after a hard day at school.

what's wrong? your husband mouths but you only shrug. it's his turn to roll his eyes at you, holding in an exasperated breath.

"how's school doing for ya?" osamu tries again. "ya eating well?"

"kinda."

"what ya mean kinda?"

there's silence and the both of you stop to turn to each other again. you with a plate in your hand and osamu with his wooden spoon. you're getting somewhere, it seems. it's a challenge of patience and you all wait in anticipation on who will take the bait.

"dining hall food sucks, dad." osamu starts belly laughing. he bends over the pot and his phone almost slides out. years in the kitchen full of slips, trips, and falls train him to catch his phone before it falls into the soup. your son's pouting now. you can hear it. "dad, really! it all tastes so bland and boring. it's nothing compared to your food."

though you're behind him setting the table, you can see the way his posture straightens, a proud puff of his chest. "course ain't nothing gonna compare. ya pops is the best."

"that's the problem, dad!"

you stifle a quiet giggle as you watch osamu sputter. rounding the table, you rest your cheek against his arm. the two of you stare at the fragrant and bubbling pot as you listen to your son's breathing.

he looks down at you as you rub the expanse of his back that’s only gotten plumper in the years you’ve been with him, a question. you respond with a knowing smile. and maybe he just needed a little encouragement because a richness forms on osamu's features, of pride, of love, and the bittersweet sorrow that sometimes comes with it.

"what are ya doing next saturday?" he prompts.

"huh? i don't know."

"ya too cool to hang out with ya pops?" your husband eggs. this is where your son got it from, you roll your eyes again. neither of them have ever been quite forthright with their feelings. "got the day off that day."

he travels five hours to tokyo that next saturday. in the back of his truck is a box full of ingredients straight from onigiri miya. he carries bags of rice that an embarrassed son whines at, complaining that his father's too much. the son helps his old man anyways, carrying the ingredients and kitchen supplies up the stairs with him.

they talk of the cute classmate, the insufferable teacher, about you and how you still can't put away your used glasses of water. osamu mentions it with a pointed look at his son's nighstand that's littered with water bottles of his own. osamu helps him clean and takes him to the store to replenish his snacks and in the midst of it all, osamu teaches his son.

in the dim light of the dorm, osamu rolls an onigiri in his hand and places it on a plastic plate. then he makes his son repeat it until osamu cannot tell who made which.

osamu leaves and months later, their son visits back home. before the semester starts again, the son is sent with another box full of rice, seaweed, and even a new rice paddle.

atsumu pats his nephew on the back as he goes, "so ya got a samu care package too?" the older miya beams as he rifles through the box, "looks like a vip one. he never gave me rice paddles in mine."