Rage pancakes at like 1am w osamu
Tired-eyed Osamu pads into the kitchen, a hand carding through his sleep-tousled hair as he speaks through a profound yawn. Your back to him, you continue rapidly whisking together the contents of the bowl in your arms. Osamu had fallen asleep watching TV with you on the couch after a long day at Onigiri Miya, but you were still pent up over the skin-tingling rage racing through your thoughts. Unable to keep your focus on the TV any longer, you had slipped out of Osamu’s sleeping embrace and started throwing some flour and sugar together in the kitchen.
“What’re you doing? It’s almost—” Osamu mumbles and you turn to him. He’s leaning against the kitchen island now, jaw resting on his fist.
“I’m still annoyed! And I wanted pancakes! So I’m making pancakes!”
Osamu shrugs with his eyebrows, and the shadow of a smirk crossing his lips.
“Okay,” he says, some of the tiredness ebbing from his voice.
Without another word, he walks to a cabinet and pulls out the largest frying pan, settling it on the stove before grabbing some butter from the fridge. You had just begun your cooking process, so while you continue to angrily whip together the batter, Osamu calmly retrieves some plates from the cabinet and checks the pantry for syrup.
When the butter Osamu had dropped in the pan begins to melt with a satisfying sizzle, you wordlessly pour two circles of batter onto the hot surface. Jaw clenched and brow furrowed, you’re distantly aware of Osamu ambling behind you, coming up to lean against the stove in the space next to you, his arms crossed in exhaustion as you focus on the cooking batter. You’re grateful he doesn’t try to speak, but he surprises you when you move to search the drawer for a spatula by handing one to you. You hadn’t noticed him grabbing it for you. “Thanks,” you murmur.
A few minutes after flipping the pancakes, you scoop them out of the pan, mechanically pour two more circles, and instantly start in on the still-hot pancakes while the new ones cook.
With one in your system, Osamu—sweet, loving, steadfast Osamu—finally wraps his arms around your waist as you continue to eat, nuzzling his nose into your neck. His shoulders are broader than yours, and instead of caging you in, his arms feel like a lifejacket, keeping you snug but safe.
“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on now?” he asks. Huffing in response, you put your fork down and turn in his arms, planting your face against his collarbone. You feel him take a deep breath in and one of his hands comes up to rub your back.
“Just a bad day,” you admit, too tired to get into it now. You know he’ll let you talk his ear off about it at dinner tomorrow night, but for now you’re content just to be in his arms and forget about it. And you do. Osamu has that effect on you; the second you’re wrapped up in his embrace, you can just let it go. You sigh and let him hold you. And he does.
But speaking of forgetting things…
“Oh shit the pancakes—”