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“Do I have to?”
Saihara’s voice is at an unbelievable level of quiet, but equally as exasperated, even in his low tone. Idly fidgeting with a loose thread on the edge of his sleeve—damn, he really does need a new hoodie—he avoids Tojo’s gaze.
“I’m sorry, Saihara-kun,” Tojo says, tone genuine as she wipes along the cashier counter with a rag, Saihara having paused his own cleaning. “Dealing with him… is unpleasant, I must agree, but he is the only one who can work with you and Momota-kun while you’re at the cashier on tomorrow’s last shift. We’re all getting used to each other; I’m sure just a few hours with him won’t hurt.”
I’m sure they will. I’m sure just a few hours will be painful. Very painful.
Saihara has absolutely nothing against Ouma, unlike those who clearly do (ahem, Maki) but he’s pretty sure that anyone would have the same reluctance when told they have to work with the menace at the front counter. Ouma would typically be placed in the back, away from all the customers who would have to witness whatever shit he pulls, but one circumstance led to another and now Ouma is working as a barista in the front.
For one shift. (Please let it be only one shift.)
Unfortunately, the same set of circumstances led Saihara to be one of the people working with said menace on his late evening shift.
Sometimes the universe could be so cruel.
“You won’t be the only person with him, and it’ll be just this once,” Tojo promises, rubbing extra meticulously at a stain on the countertop. “I apologize. I wouldn’t let him have such an… open position to the public, but we truly have no one else who can cover. Rest assured, I have made sure to tell him to not cause any trouble. It will lead to consequence if he stirs up too much mischief, so just let me know if he does anything remotely overdramatic.”
Seriously, how could there be no one else available to cover tomorrow’s shift? How odd. And unlucky. And cruel for the universe to do.
Saihara sighs softly, beginning to clean once more, biting the inside of his cheek as he nudges the espresso machine slightly. Admitting inevitable defeat is the only choice at this point. “I understand.”
“Momota-kun will be with you as well, hm?”
“He barely tolerates Ouma-kun on a good day. Seems I’ll probably be the only one capable of handling him tomorrow night,” Saihara murmurs. There are many times where he can recall holding Momota back just to stop the guy from punching a smug Ouma in the face. It’s too common of an occurrence for it to be anywhere near normal—it’s a little alarming how it’s also becoming part of their daily routine. Firmly, Saihara shakes his head, muttering quietly to himself, “...He wouldn’t punch him in front of the customers…”
Tojo perks up at Saihara’s mumbling. “Did you say something?”
“A-Ah, nothing.”
It’s just four hours with him. He’s not that bad. Momota-kun only tried killing him a few times, which is a lot less than I would expect. I can just… keep my distance. Make sure he’s making drinks properly. And not doing anything bad. Or weird. Or drawing a lot of attention to himself.
Saihara sighs again, for the umpteenth time that night.
---
The next day, Friday, arrives quickly.
Saihara reaches his fingers up to the sky in awe, clear wonder on his face. It’s begun to snow, he realizes—they’re entering the wintry months now, and it’s definitely been more frigid than usual in his apartment, though there’s no denying how pretty snowfall is. It’s merely slight right now, no doubt that it may very well grow heavier later.
He hums to himself softly, the air and atmosphere way too bright for his impending doom. It’s a little early, but arriving at the coffee shop in order to just psych himself up and prepare for Ouma’s own arrival is a good enough reason to head over there already.
Taking one last surveyal of the light snowfall, he hums again. The drive to the coffee shop is quiet, save for the Christmas music coming from the radio. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” can be pretty uplifting at desperate times such as these, he will soon discover.
Once he parks his car, his phone buzzes—the light snowfall dances along the windows in a lighthearted flurry. With a lilting hum he takes his phone out of his pocket, turning it on and checking the notifications.
coffee chums ٩( ᐛ )و
ouma-kun -_- : walking 2 the shop right now !!
ouma-kun -_- : cant wait to arrive and liven things up lololololololololol ಠ_ಠ
harukawa-san >< : i hope u trip and get buried by the snow.
momota-kun ^_^ : And never see the light again!!!!
chabashira-san :O : Yes, please fall and never get up! :D
ouma-kun -_- : ……
ouma-kun -_- : WHAT THE FUCK ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡
Harukawa is the first to meet his eye when he comes into the coffee shop through the back entrance, crimson red narrowing slightly as she puts another bag of ingredients on the shelves. “Hey. You’re early.”
Saihara nods sheepishly, shaking himself off like a dog, clearing any snow that’s fallen on his puffy jacket. Harukawa protests at this, eyes narrowing even more as he shoots her an apologetic smile. “...Yeah. It’s snowing.”
“You just shook yourself like a rag doll and snow went flying everywhere. It’s pretty easy to tell,” Maki mutters with a small sigh, turning back and continuing to restock the shelves. There’s a moment of silence, very Maki-like, before she speaks again. “Oh, good luck with that asshole, by the way. Make sure Kaito doesn’t end up bludgeoning in his head or something. Especially in front of the customers. That would give bad reviews.”
Saihara blinks. I’m pretty sure bad views will be the least of our worries if that happens...
“But if he doesn’t bludgeon his head in, I’ll do it next time I see him,” Harukawa says, finishing up and dusting off her hands with another antagonizing sigh. “Because I know that purple-haired creature is going to fuck this up somehow.”
And because Saihara’s luck has been terrifyingly bad lately (seriously, what is up with the universe being so cruel?) of course it is at that very instant—right after Harukawa had finished saying her sentence in one breath—that the door bursts open in the most ungraceful manner ever, multicolored flashes of a purple-haired boy tripping inside with even less grace than he had when blasting the door widely agape.
“Speak of the goddamn devil,” Harukawa says darkly.
Ouma grins, tip of his nose a startling shade of pink, snow dusting his long sleeve shirt and the top of his purple beanie (with a soft little puffball on the end, which is just a little adorable, not that Saihara would ever admit it to himself).
“Ah, haha! Did you miss me that much, Harukawa-chan?” Ouma giggles in that irritating fashion of his that only he can manage to conjure up. He gives another chortle before beginning to shake himself off, very much like the way Saihara had, just—with a lot more force, turning him into a blur of extravagant color as the snow swirls around the room in a whirl. “Just couldn’t wait for me! I know I’m popular and all, but—”
“Stop talking before I maim you,” Harukawa mutters before Saihara can interject, rolling her eyes and effectively making Ouma’s lips shut tight. She shrugs her jacket on soundlessly, before granting Saihara a look that he can only guess is meant to be apologetic. “That’s my cue to leave. Bye.”
Dread sinks into the pits of Saihara’s stomach, heavy and unsettling. “Ah, w-wait—”
“Oooh, so cool! Even Saihara-chan is a little early, too!” Ouma exclaims, in the middle of patting his own cheeks in order to probably regain some color in them. “Everyone wants to talk to me today, ah, I just really am that popular, hmm?”
“Try saying that when Kaito arrives,” Harukawa says, voice threatening, before promptly exiting out the door. Saihara stares at it as it closes, the same dread from earlier slinking around his ribcage and hugging it like vines. If Ouma notices the tension in his body, he certainly doesn’t make a move to properly acknowledge it (or do something to make it dissipate, for that matter). Instead, he hops over to where Saihara is standing, a small bundle of energy.
“Hi, Ouma-kun…” Saihara greets quietly, turning away in discomfort. Ouma blinks and backs off, though the shit-eating grin on his face doesn’t make any effort to leave.
“My first time working a shift with Saihara-chan! Isn’t that just the most exciting thing in the world? Aren’t you so excited, Saihara-chan? I’m so excited I could die!”
“I don’t know if ‘excited’ is the right word,” Saihara says, taking off his coat and getting ready to tug his apron on. “If anything, why are you wearing just a long sleeve sweater? It’s started to snow this afternoon, so it’s cold…”
Ouma huffs—Saihara blanches, wondering if he’s said something wrong—but the purplenette merely tugs off his beanie, shaking it wildly in order to make the snow fall off (Saihara bites his tongue in order to refrain from complaining of Ouma’s… less than orderly ways of cleaning his clothes). “Aw, jeez, Saihara-chan! I’m wearing a beanie, too, not just a long sleeve, y’know? I thought you’d at least pay that much attention to me to notice.”
Saihara swears he can feel a headache blooming. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes with the guy. “Sorry.”
“And now you apologize. Gosh, you’re a weird guy,” Ouma grumbles, having a lot of gall to say that, coming from him. “Well, to answer your question, I don’t get cold easily. So stop being all pissy over my lack of clothing suitable for this weather. Weirdo.”
Saihara cannot get a read on him at all—how frustrating. Unbelievably cheerful one second, and making a fuss the next? How was anyone able to tolerate him during their shifts? “Please, just… come with a jacket next time, at least. You’re so small and you walk all the way here, you’re bound to get sick if you keep that up.”
“Oh? Is Saihara-chan commenting on my height now?” Ouma says, such an abrupt change in tone of voice. A lot of things about him are unceremonious, but man, is it sure off-putting to experience. As if wanting to give Saihara the full show, Ouma sniffs, his dramatics turning up immensely. “Jeez, fine. I’ll just get Momo-chan to punch you.”
Saihara bites his tongue—again—to avoid making an unnecessary comment. (He’s pretty sure Momota will prefer punching Ouma, not Saihara.)
Save for Ouma’s humming and nonsensical rambling from time to time, Saihara finishes putting on his apron in silence, and it’s not long before Momota arrives. He comes with way too many jackets on, layers upon layers coating his body, but the distaste in his eyes is clear as soon as he notices Ouma in the room.
“Oh, I was joking about being so popular, but I guess I really am,” Ouma gasps as soon as he meets Momota’s eye. “Because Momo-chan is looking at me so intensely! Are you in love with me or something?”
“Don’t even suggest something like that, dumbass,” Momota grouses, quickly beginning to remove coat after coat after coat. “I just got here and I’m already drained as hell all thanks to you.”
Saihara agrees silently, taking mental note of the time. He should hurry. “Hi, Momota-kun.”
“Oh, Saihara! At least there’s one normal guy here.”
Ouma snickers, eyes gleaming as he leans towards Momota, the other boy dodging him in clear disgust. “You said one normal guy! If you’re referring to Shumai, then does that exclude you? Does that make you not normal? Aw, Momo-chan! This lumps us in the same category!”
“I hope you trip and crack your head open,” Momota says.
Saihara honestly just wants to get this over with. As soon as possible. Then he can go home and watch a movie as it snows and bundle up with hot chocolate. And relax (with no bickering Momota’s or Ouma’s involved). “Let’s hurry, alright? And Ouma-kun, please don’t cause too much trouble…”
“Of course I wouldn’t! Not when it’s my first time at the counter and with my beloved Saihara-chan!” Ouma springs up, the color back in his cheeks as he twirls around. Saihara hadn’t even noticed he had put his apron on, but admittedly it looks a bit too big for someone of such a small build. He stifles a giggle as Ouma twirls again. “Nuh-uh, I won’t cause any trouble! Promise.”
Momota starts, “You and your lyin’ fuckin’ mouth—”
Saihara is so, so tired already. “Let’s go.”
---
For such a time in the afternoon, the only true customers end up being people who want to study and lounge around (with the sporadic customer coming in and out in a hurry). It’s one of the reasons Saihara would rather prefer working evenings; it gives the shop a cozier feel, and with the new addition of the light snowfall drifting around outside, the shop truly is cozier than ever.
With the exclusion of Ouma and Momota’s never-ending bickering, of course. Seriously, Ouma can’t keep expecting Saihara to stop Momota from punching the smaller one when he’s already busy working at the cash register.
“Guys, please, you’re causing a disturbance,” Saihara utters under his breath (he has lost count of how many times he’s sighed in annoyance ever since their shift had started). He taps his foot against the floor slightly, watching as people pass outside of the shop, the snowfall beginning to come down heavier. “You’ll all get killed by Tojo-san if she finds out you guys wouldn’t stop fighting.”
Sure enough, onlookers are beginning to glance over at the counter when Ouma lets out a particularly loud squeal, probably having dodged another one of Momota’s swings. “It’s not my fault Momo-chan is being so mean to me!”
“Momota-kun, maybe you should—”
Ouma squeaks from behind Saihara, a flew clattering noises emerging—Saihara can only imagine what’s going on behind him, what a pain—but there’s not much time to turn around before there are arms wrapping around his waist, small and thin.
Ah—
This time it’s Saihara’s turn to squeak, startling slightly from the sudden touch of physical contact, before the same arms squeeze his torso slightly. Unless Momota just so happened to become suddenly scrawny and bony, it can only be a certain purple-haired boy. Saihara stammers, “W-Wait, Ouma-kun—”
“Saaaihara-chaaaaan, he’s going to kill me on the job,” Ouma all but wails, Saihara shushing him intently as even more customers spare unsettled glances towards them. Lowering his tone considerably, Ouma continues (not without an extra squeeze to Saihara’s middle), “I can’t focus on being a good barista if stinky Momo-chan doesn’t stop…”
Saihara flushes, because what the fuck Ouma, swallowing harshly as the smaller boy presses himself closer to his back. Jeez, what brought this on all of a sudden? “Ouma-kun, uh. I’ll… tell him to stop…”
“No, it’s fine! I think I’m good here! All pressed up against warm Saihara-chan,” Ouma chirps, definitely in his own Ouma tone of voice proving he just wants to be an absolute dickish tease. “It’s cold in this coffee shop, y’know.”
“Ah, but said you don’t get cold easily—”
“That was a lie,” Ouma says without an ounce of hesitation. “You’d think Saihara-chan, with his good intuition, would be able to pick up on that, hmm?”
“W-Wait—”
“Aw, man, I’m just trying to mess with you,” Ouma says, voice taking on such a dizzyingly petulant tone. Wanting to intentionally mess with him, hm—Saihara doesn’t feel particularly reassured by the easy admittance. “Truthfully, though, I’m fine right here. Mhm. Unless Momo-chan wants to peel me off your back like a leech?”
Saihara ignores Momota’s pointedly loud retorts at that remark, only sucking in a breath through his teeth and awkwardly patting at Ouma’s hands. “Um. Sure. Just get off when someone comes up to the counter.”
“It depends on if I feel like it. Who can say, hm?”
Gosh, Ouma-kun, you’re absolutely terrible.
“Stop torturing Saihara, you snotty-nosed asshole,” Momota protests from somewhere on Saihara’s side. “How much more infuriating can you get?”
“Don’t answer that, Ouma-kun,” Saihara murmurs, shutting down Ouma’s definite response that was about to come (Saihara swears he heard the smaller boy take an inhale). He swallows thickly again; for someone so petite, Ouma sure is quite warm—Ah. No. Weird.
“I wasn’t going to,” Ouma objects, a clear lie. “And I’m not torturing him. You’d have to be blind to not realize that Saihara-chan likes this.” Like a goddamn cat, Ouma nuzzles his cheek against Saihara’s back. Saihara struggles to breathe. Again . “It’s my first time working a shift with Saihara-chan! I’ll never let go of him now. He’s so warm!”
“Miss me with that gay shit,” Momota says.
He just wants to get a reaction out of me. And because he’s Ouma-kun, it’s working. But this is fine. He’s fine. No, that sounds weird—am I the one making this weird?—Ah. No. Weird.
Clearing his throat when the bell at the entrance jingles, indicating someone is walking in, Saihara nudges Ouma faintly. When the smaller one doesn’t make any move to relinquish his hold, Saihara begins to squirm a bit, desperately pushing him off a bit as the customers—two students, it seems—begin approaching the counter.
Giving one final push to Ouma, nudging the other off of him (he swears he can hear Ouma snicker like a demon when he does) Saihara coughs slightly as he straightens up to face the customers. Shit. He really does hope he’s not as red in the face as he actually feels. Fuckin’ Ouma-kun and his smug little ways.
“H-Hi, um—” he coughs again when his voice comes out raspy, bringing his fist up to his mouth as he simultaneously hears another one of Ouma’s quiet chortles from behind him, “Welcome. What would you like?”
When one of the students blinks, unfazed and seemingly also unsure of what to order, Saihara steps in. He’s not dubbed one of the shop’s best cashiers for nothing, but this time around someone—he who will not be named—stunted his performance a bit. “I can give recommendations, if you’d like? Um. We have our Gingerbread Latte, Peppermint Mocha…? Oh! And we also have our Festive Special Holiday Bombs!”
The pair orders the last option, their Holiday Bombs, and Saihara hums happily when he receives a generous tip. He had just finished returning the change when there’s a small tugging on the back of his shirt, and he turns around with a small squeak, only to meet Ouma’s eyes.
“Ah, Saihara-chan, the Holiday Bombs…?” he says, for once sounding genuinely baffled. “I’m not too sure on how to do that?”
Ah, right, Saihara can’t be too sure Ouma received the proper training for this particular special serving of theirs. “Why don’t you ask Momota-kun? I’m sure he knows how.”
“There’s no way I’m working with him,” Ouma and Momota both bluntly state in unison.
Saihara was expecting that, but he sighs anyway, dejected as Ouma continues to tug on his shirt. Momota would probably end up mauling Ouma in the middle of making drinks—really, it’s an absolute miracle that Ouma is still relatively unscathed after these few hours. “Okay, um”—Saihara spares a glance towards the entrance, there seem to be no new customers—“I can help you for a bit, then?”
Ouma’s face erupts into a wide smile, fisted hands in Saihara’s shirt releasing to instead pump into the air as a sign of clear victory. “Yay! Saihara-chan sure is nicer than stinky Momo-chan!”
Saihara ignores that comment, instead letting a small smile tug at his own lips as he makes his way towards the shelves in the back part of the counter. Ouma bounds after him like a puppy, no doubt intrigued (and obviously clingy to Saihara in particular, if his previous actions haven’t been a clear indication of that).
“So our Holiday Bombs are really just hot chocolate bombs,” Saihara says, pulling down a tray of said bombs on one of the shelves. “And the hot chocolate bombs are just spheres made with chocolate—they have hot chocolate mix and marshmallows inside. We have some premade right here.”
“Oh, so cool! So the customers drop the bombs into hot milk, and they explode and stuff and then they mix it and it becomes hot chocolate? That’s not boring at all!”
Saihara holds back soft laughter at Ouma’s tendency to be easily excitable, nodding at the older boy as he bounces up and down and surveys the hot chocolate bombs. “Yeah. And we serve this by putting the bomb and cup of hot milk on a tray, as well as give a small note, with something like ‘Happy Holidays’ written on it. Cool, huh?”
“So damn cool,” Ouma says in breathless wonder, running a finger over one of the spherical hot chocolate bombs. Saihara has no chance of stopping the fond grin that finds its way to his face, silently agreeing with Ouma, patting the top of the smaller boy’s head gently. Like a dog. If Ouma is weirded out, he doesn’t make any move to comment (thankfully).
Together, the two of them work to prepare the order, Ouma adding in his two cents from time to time as he scribbles out a small note on a Christmas-themed stationery note card (not before Saihara makes sure to tell him to not write anything absurd and/or anything that will get him fired). When their fingers brush against each other—brief, a whisper of skin against skin—Ouma stalls slightly, letting his touch linger, as Saihara struggles to swallow harshly, heart picking up thrice its usual speed. Ouma doesn’t take any action to move, not moving not speaking not doing anything, just letting the warmth of his clammy hand mingle with Saihara’s. Saihara blinks—his breath hitches. Why…?
As if gathering his bearings, Ouma suddenly moves, giggling a little bit as he moves to put a hot chocolate bomb on the tray. “A-Ah—heh! Let’s go serve this order, Saihara-chan!”
“W-Wait, Ouma-kun—”
“Mhm, I’m so excited to give this away, mhm!”
(Had he done that on purpose? Was it an accident? It’s Ouma-kun—who knows?)
Saihara shakes his head in disbelief, fingers twitching at his side as Ouma takes the tray with a pointedly loud hum, skipping over to the pickup part of the counter in order to give it away. Saihara’s heart still hasn’t calmed down—damn it, why—but there’s no mistaking the lingering electric buzz of skinship that dances delicately on his skin.
---
By the time the shop nears its closing time, the interior has already been cleared out, Christmas music drifting mellowly from the speakers as Saihara counts the accumulated tips. Fluorescent light, warm and orange, paints the walls in ways so tender and cozy that Saihara can’t find a reason to complain as he glances at the empty chairs and tables.
“It’s snowing harder now,” Momota notes from next to Saihara, making him jump a bit.
“Wow, Momo-chan notices that obvious detail, how smart!” Ouma says, tone condescending and dripping with sarcasm in true Ouma fashion. He pops another piece of milk chocolate in his mouth (when the hell did he get those?) and munches happily, only screaming a little bit when Momota lunges towards him without any eyes of the customers to look on.
“Come on Ouma-kun, it’s late, stop provoking him,” Saihara laughs slightly, amused as he works on holding Momota back. Ouma sticks his tongue out peevishly, before popping another piece of chocolate in his mouth.
The purple-haired boy groans, hoisting himself up on the counter and sitting on it, beginning to swing his legs back and forth in the way a small child would do. “I’m bored. So bored. No one’s even coming in,” he complains. “Can’t we do something fun?”
“Go on and walk home,” Momota snaps, giving a sharp glimpse to the windows of the coffee shop. Save for the streetlights, it’s almost pitch-black outside. Nope, it would not be comforting at all if Ouma were to go out there and walk alone, in the heavy snow; Saihara’s pretty sure he’d suffer a heart attack from worry before Ouma could even step a foot out the door.
“Walk home? In this weather? Oh, man. Momo-chan wants me to die,” Ouma pouts.
“Please don’t say something like that, because Momota-kun is just going to agree with you,” Saihara says, effectively holding Momota back. “He would very well hit you upside the head, Ouma-kun, don’t tempt him.”
“Hmph, it sounds fun to be killed by Momo-chan, but my dearest Shumai wouldn’t ever let that happen, hm? He’ll protect me. I know it, right?” Ouma suggests, voice tilting innocent as Saihara stutters in return, before snickering with an impish grin and eating another piece of chocolate.
Saihara just shakes his head, letting go of Momota in order to begin cleaning the countertop in a pathetic attempt to distract himself. Even just being in the same vicinity of someone like Ouma is enough to make his head spin and the world warp. Humming along with the Christmas music that sprinkles the air, he takes out a rag and begins wiping away.
“I made Saihara-chan nervous! Score!” Ouma exclaims, Saihara turning an even more brilliant shade of red, crimson adorning his cheeks as he shakes his head (again). How do words work when he’s around Ouma? “I think this victory calls for a celebration. Saihara-chan, stop cleaning and let’s go make some Holiday Bombs for ourselves!”
“Gosh, get a room,” Momota laments, sparing a glance at his watch and taking a deep breath.
“Silly Momo-chan, we are in a room!”
Momota doesn’t make a move, only sending a death glare to the smaller boy (thank goodness, because Saihara doesn’t have any more strength in order to hold back Momota). “...If it’s alright, I’m going to head out now, it’s 8 and we don’t have customers. Are you okay with me leaving him here with you to close the shop, Saihara?”
While Ouma complains about being treated like some unlikable bug, Saihara merely nods. As confusing as Ouma is, it’s not like Saihara absolutely detested the guy—and anyway, leaving Momota and Ouma together alone would just be an absolute trainwreck of a decision. “I can stay with him. You can go, if you really need to…?”
There’s no missing the clear relief on Momota’s face, probably saying his silent thanks to whatever entities are up there that he doesn’t have to spend anymore time with such an annoying pest like Ouma Kokichi. “I owe ya one, Saihara!”
Yeah, yeah… “He’s tolerable,” Saihara murmurs as he wipes down another stain on the otherwise spotless countertop. Ouma must take that as praise, because he squeals in another victorious manner—Saihara can’t stop the quirk of his lips this time.
Momota, obviously making quick work to ditch them and escape the evil clutches of one Ouma Kokichi, says his goodbyes and is gone in an instant, disappearing out the front door instead of using the back. He waddles out into the snow like a penguin, all of the jacket layers puffing him up and making him look like the Marshmallow Man (something that Ouma points out in amusement, eliciting a soft chuckle from Saihara).
There’s a beat of silence after Momota exits. Another quick beat. Then, “We’re alone, Saihara-chan, how exciting.”
Saihara can’t lose his nerves here—
It’s Ouma-kun, just Ouma-kun—
“Ah, exciting?” Saihara stammers out, avoiding Ouma’s expectant gaze on him, fixated and intense. Still, though, out of the corner of his eye he can see the clear smirk on the purplenette’s porcelain face, just bordering on the edge of teasing, somewhere in between sly and delighted—
Ouma giggles, in a way that suggests he’s fully aware of the effect he has on Saihara, and honestly, Saihara wouldn’t be surprised if that’s truly the case. He chortles, hopping off the counter in order to approach Saihara, “Yep! Because we barely spend any time together, y’know? Don’t you wanna spend time with me? Hey, hey, Shumai! Don’t you?”
Saihara backs up, hitting the counter. “Ouma-kun—”
Ouma giggles again, spinning on his heel at the last second, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s okay. I know you wouldn’t wanna spend any time with me. I’m just terrible and annoying and you regret letting Momota leave.”
This time Saihara does move—he can’t let Ouma can’t think like that, could he?—and puts a hand on Ouma’s shoulder. “That’s not true, Ouma-kun! I do enjoy your company, I—”
Ouma laughs and whirls around, so fast that he’s a blur, because that’s all he truly is—a blur, an enigma, splashes of clashing color and thoughts and words—before leaning towards Saihara. “Got you right where I wanted,” he grins, before shoving a piece of milk chocolate in Saihara’s mouth, evoking a muffled noise from the blue-haired boy.
If Saihara wasn’t blushing rose-red before, he surely is now.
“You’re so fun, Saihara-chan!” Ouma chirps, delivering the final blow by booping Saihara on the nose. “Not boring at all. Well. I’ve had my fun right now, it’s cold, can we do those hot chocolate bombs thingy again?”
Saihara chews and swallows the chocolate piece, the sweetness melting on his tongue, barely registering what had just happened (whatthefuckthisisweirdandhe’scutebut—) while he gathers his bearings. All the while, Ouma watches him all smugly, doubtlessly enjoying himself as he toys with him. Damn it—Ouma has him wrapped around his finger already, melting in his hands like putty, and no matter how hard he tries, Saihara knows that he won’t be able to resist.
“Speechless, huh? Well, that’s fine.” Ouma reaches up, going on his tippy-toes in order to retrieve the tray of hot chocolate bombs on the shelf. “Jeez, why’d you put these so far up?”
“S-Sorry?” Saihara fumbles for the right words, if there really is anything remotely correct to say in a situation like this. “You—I can’t get a read on you at all.”
“I tend to present myself that way,” Ouma admits breezily, picking up a hot chocolate bomb and beginning to roll it between his thumb and index finger. A bundle of energy, surprising and bursting, Saihara’s kryptonite that makes him malfunction and fail to conjure up the correct words. As if acknowledging this, Ouma looks over his shoulder to flash a grin at him that makes his heart skip a beat. “But I know you won’t be able to get enough of it!”
Saihara, still slightly dazed and equally as flushed in the face, stumbles over and takes his place next to Ouma. He really can’t take anymore of Ouma’s playfulness— “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
Ouma chuckles softly, pouring himself hot milk from the kettle, purposefully bumping himself into Saihara’s side lightly. “Aw, loosen up. Let’s share some hot chocolate!”
And all Saihara can do is stare on, eyes trained on the enigma that is Ouma Kokichi in all of his small stature glory, singing hushedly to himself an unrecognizable song as he finishes pouring the milk. After setting the kettle back down, he looks at Saihara, finally granting him a small smile that seems as genuine as it can get, considering it’s coming from somebody like him. Amethyst meets gold—warmth and cold interlaces—before Ouma turns his gaze to meaningfully examine the hot chocolate bomb.
“Would you like to take the honor and drop it in, my beloved Saihara-chan?” Ouma questions, pushing the mug in his direction. Just before Saihara can take the chocolate sphere, Ouma perks up and bounces on his feet, a small noise coming from his lips. “Oh, wait! The note! It’s not complete without the note!”
“Note—?”
“Duh, the one that comes with every order? Go on and drop it in, though, I’ll go write something down for you.”
Saihara watches as Ouma scoots over along the counter, brandishing a pen and getting ready to scribble down a note that Saihara has no idea is going to say. Oh, well—Saihara turns back at the mug of hot milk that Ouma has prepared for them to share, before letting the hot chocolate bomb drop in with a little plop! The sphere bobs around for a bit before it splits open down the middle, hot chocolate mix bubbling up in a wondrous sight.
“I finished writing the note, and I have a spoon for mixing—oh, you put it in, so cool!” Ouma squeals, returning to Saihara’s side; pressing in real close, flush against his skin. He brings up Saihara’s arm, pressing the written note—folded-up, Saihara realizes—into the bluenette’s hand. “Don’t open it! Only open it when I say so.”
Saihara blinks, attention successfully diverted as he searches for an answer in Ouma’s expression. “Uh, why?”
“Because you’re not supposed to read it yet? Jeez. Saihara-chan asks so many questions and makes too many deductions. I’m not trying to do anything shady.”
Well, that’s not believable at all.
Stirring the hot chocolate with the spoon he had brought, the purplenette speaks up again, obviously not out of ideas just yet. He sure does seem keen on keeping Saihara entertained—or, maybe, this is because he’s entertained by Saihara—bright voice piping up and stirring picking up speed so intensely that the hot chocolate almost spills out of the cup (Saihara saves the drink by putting his hands protectively over Ouma’s just in time). “Oh! Oh, Saihara-chan, let’s do that latte art thing! Y’know, where you do that thing where you make designs on lattes, except this time it’s on hot chocolate?”
“Ah, where you steam milk and then pour it to make patterns on the top of the latte?”
“Yep! Wow, I’m absolutely brimming with such good ideas today! Is it the cold getting into my brain and making it go all weird and smart?” Ouma laughs, hands warm and soft under Saihara’s burning hold. “I’ll go steam the milk, if you’ll excuse me, Saihara-chan.”
“A-Ah—” Saihara yields his hold on Ouma’s hands, electricity from the contact akin to the tingling sensation from earlier when they had brushed against each other, still all cozy and exhilarating all the same, an oxymoronic statement if he’d ever heard one. “Yeah. Don’t take too long.”
Saihara notes that the hot chocolate bomb Ouma had chosen lacked marshmallows, surely because marshmallows would foil the latte art—he’s not sure if that was an intentional choice, because such a boy is unpredictable—and he fiddles with the note that’s still sitting in the palm of his hand, before stuffing it into his pocket. Thankfully he’s patient; if Ouma had instructed him to not open the note until told to do so, then there must be something significant in it. Right? Right.
Maybe. There’s really no telling. Not when it’s Ouma, of all people.
Ouma returns, successfully yanking Saihara out of his own thoughts, pitcher in hand and grin at his lips. “Hi, I’m back. Glad to see me?” Before Saihara can have a chance to even answer, Ouma puts the pitcher on the counter with a soft clink. “Here ya go! Fill me in; how’s your latte art skills?”
Saihara isn’t the best at it, and the last thing he wants to do is say he is and then make a fool out of himself in front of Ouma— “I’m not that good…”
“Well, it’s amazingly convenient that I’m good at it, though!” Ouma declares. His smile only grows wider, though not so cunning, more on the genuinely excited side of things. As if unable to hold himself back he grasps onto Saihara’s hands in jittery eagerness, not giving Saihara a chance to react before he rubs his thumbs on the smooth skin. “I’m totally not using this as an excuse to hold your hands, Shumai, okay? Let’s get started on the latte art.”
Saihara swallows harshly, breath catching in his throat as Ouma’s hands—too hot, too soft—hold onto his own; the purplenette’s touch is surprisingly gentle, tenderly guiding Saihara’s hands to the pitcher. Saihara takes the hint and wraps his fingers around the pitcher’s handle, the other boy not letting go once.
“You can just relax, Saihara-chan!” Ouma says, voice absolute and certain in a way that makes Saihara flinch. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m good at this, by the way. I’ve been blessed by the latte art gods.”
As if to prove it, Ouma gently directs Saihara’s hands, pouring the foamy milk cautiously. Ouma is remarkably silent, save for his occasional giggles when Saihara slips up a little bit—he also offers the occasional praise. Warmth erupts within Saihara’s chest without warning; it seems as if Ouma’s hands aren’t the only source of it.
“And now we use a toothpick,” Ouma says, taking the liberty of doing this part by himself, “In order to put eyes and a nose. This is a bear, by the way. It’s a bit boring, maybe, but you have a weird tendency to liven things up all the time, Shumai.”
Oh. What does that even mean?
Saihara has no time to mull over it before Ouma nods triumphantly, gesturing to the hot chocolate (now with a lopsided bear design on the top). “Wow! It’s perfect,” Ouma says in awe. “And I’m not lying, okay?” He turns, sending a grin as warm as the feeling in his chest in Saihara’s direction. “You did well.”
Saihara’s face goes aflame, matching the heat that’s coursed all over the rest of his body. The frigid snow pelts against the windows—as intense as the boy in front of him.
“Let’s sit at one of the tables?” Saihara suggests after a moment of quiet, voice nervous. “It seems a lot more comfortable than staying over here at the counter…”
“If that’s what Saihara-chan wants, that’s what Saihara-chan gets,” Ouma expresses, half looking like he’s about to take Saihara’s hands in his once again. Saihara watches as the smaller boy stares at him, gaze glimmering, before he turns to leap over the counter in a parkour-esque way. “Come on, my beloved! Bring the hot chocolate—don’t ruin the design!”
---
“I know you’d have to have been reluctant to work the same shift as me,” Ouma says, knowing sparkle in his eye after taking another sip of the hot chocolate from his straw (albeit more careful than before, because he had burned his tongue only, like, 5 minutes prior). “I mean, Harumaki and Momo-chan absolutely hate me.”
Saihara shrugs while quietly taking a sip from his own straw. Ouma sits across from him, waiting for him to say something. “I don’t think they hate you. I mean, you’re pretty hard to handle, y’know?”
Ouma laughs, loud and completely self-aware. “Nishishi, of course! Even I don’t know how to handle myself sometimes,” he pauses, “But that was a lie. I know I’m difficult. But even though I am the way I am… you don’t react like they do.”
He speaks the last words with what can only be curiosity that Saihara has unknowingly piqued, violet eyes sweeping him up and down in a surveying manner. He takes another sip of the hot chocolate, nose and ears already dusted pink from the way the inside of the shop is getting colder with each minute the snow gets heavier.
“To be fair, I think I have more patience than the both of them do combined,” Saihara says, biting on the straw out of habit. “But you’re really not bad. Honest.”
“Well, that’s a relief, I don’t know what I’d be able to do if my Shumai hated me, as well!”
They finish their hot chocolate in shared silence, uncharacteristic for Ouma, though Saihara can suppose that there’s only so much energy that one small person can have. With a quick glance to the windows he can faintly make out the way the snow is falling in a heavy flurry; it sure is going to be a hassle getting to the car and driving home in this weather.
He turns his attention back to the boy in front of him, who is busying himself with tracing the rim of the mug with his finger. Suddenly, Saihara is concerned, and for a good reason. “Ouma-kun, don’t you walk home?”
“Yeah? Um, I said that before?” Ouma tilts his head. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s snowing hard. You shouldn’t…”
Ouma closes his eyes, unfazed. “It’s fine, Saihara-chan. I’ve been through worse.”
“...Is that a lie?”
“I don’t know, is it?” Ouma says, eyes opening. “Who knows? Not me. Anyway, what are you suggesting? I’ll just have to walk home and rely on luck. Maybe you’ll find me in an alleyway all frozen to death. And you’ll have to kiss me to unfreeze me and bring me back to life. Ooh, wouldn’t that just be so cool?”
Saihara sputters, “Ah—what? S...Stop messing with me. I don’t want you to freeze to death at all, so no, that wouldn’t be very cool at all.” And because Ouma makes his brain absolutely cease to function, and because he cares about the little shit more than he may be willing to admit, he takes a deep breath and steels himself. “Let me drive you home. Please.”
Ouma blinks.
For a second, he seems genuinely taken aback, a look of surprise crossing over his face briefly; it’s gone as soon as it arrives and instead he chortles, throwing his arms up to meet at the back of his head in one of his signature poses. “Oh? Saihara-chan totally said that like he’s not giving me a choice! Are you trying to kidnap me or something?”
“That’s not it at all—!”
“—Really, though, it’s fine,” Ouma brushes the suggestion off, instead getting up from his chair as Saihara watches in bewilderment. He brushes his clothes off, as if getting ready to make a break for it. “You don’t need to worry, Saihara-chan. This way, if I do freeze to death, you won’t have to deal with Harukawa-chan or Momo-chan trying to murder me every time they even catch a glimpse of me!”
“Ouma-kun—please,” Saihara says, reaching out and catching Ouma’s hand in his before the smaller boy can take off. “I’ll… be worried about you if you try to walk home, okay? Please, just… let me do this. It’s snowing. You won’t be safe.”
Ouma is silent for a couple of beats, unable to gather words, before his face drops in defeat and a pout tugs at his lips. “Oh... Saihara-chan is so pushy. If you’re going to be that insistent, though, fine. Maybe just this once I’ll let myself be kidnapped by someone as strange and confusing as you are.”
(It is at that moment that the realization dawns on Saihara; maybe Ouma is just as confused by him as he’s confused with Ouma—both enigmas to the other, unable to figure each other out, a tangled mess of curiosity, each other’s source of peculiarity that both of them desperately want to fathom.)
That’s how Saihara finds himself at the back exit, having already put up all the chairs and locking the front entrance with Ouma’s minimal help (he mostly just complained about how long Saihara was taking) and getting ready to leave. Ouma already has his beanie on, little puff ball at the end bouncing in the most endearing manner possible.
“Let’s go, I’m sleepy,” Ouma whines, a small hand coming up to rub at his eyes as if to prove his point. “Shumai should lead the way. I don’t know where your car is.”
As soon as Saihara opens the door, they’re hit with a cold blast of air, one that draws a squeak of surprise from the both of them. A hand coming up to shield his eyes, he instinctively reaches for Ouma with his other free one, making no comment when Ouma’s hand finds his in a grip so natural that he would’ve been startled in any other circumstance.
“It’s so snowy!” Ouma complains, saying the words in a way that suggests he wants Saihara to change the weather or something. His grip on Saihara’s hand tightens immensely when the door to the back closes, sealing their fate. “Ah—”
They manage to take a few steps in the back part of the stores that line the street, a narrow alley that Saihara’s car is a few minutes from. The cold air bites and nips at Saihara’s skin without remorse as he practically pulls Ouma along, snow flying into his eyes as he shields his face with a little more desperation.
“S-Saihara-chan, you’re too fast—!”
Saihara pauses in his tracks, turning to briefly face Ouma—it may be dark, but there’s no way he can miss the lack of color on his cheeks, with the exception of the unnatural pink flush beginning to spread over his skin. Saihara is hit with a pang of concern when he realizes that the boy is still wearing nothing but his long sleeve shirt; even in the faint blackness of the night, he swears he can see Ouma’s teeth chattering.
“Ouma-kun, take my jacket,” Saihara says without a second thought, releasing Ouma’s hand in order to shrug off his outerwear. “And don’t protest. I’ll be fine.”
“W-Wait, Saihara-chan—”
“I said don’t protest,” Saihara repeats, not so stern; mostly just troubled by the fact that the smaller boy looks too fragile in the moonlight as pale as his cheeks. Saihara drapes his coat, very obviously oversized on the petite Ouma, over the other’s shoulders while taking caution as to not knock off the beanie.
“Cozy,” Ouma grins up at him teasingly, but merely snuggling into the larger jacket more comfortably.
Saihara sighs in relief, taking Ouma’s hand again—
“Oh,” Ouma says.
“Oh—?” Saihara says, following the purplenette’s gaze all the way down to where their fingers are intertwined, safe within each other’s grasp. Oh. Oh. “I’m so sorry, Ouma-kun, I didn’t realize...!” He immediately lets go of Ouma’s hand, embarrassment seeping into his bones.
Ouma tilts his head again with a small smile. “Oh. Don’t let go. I was fine with it, just taken off-guard for a sec,” he murmurs, voice getting lost in the whistling wind. He reaches down, takes Saihara’s hand once again and interlaces their fingers safely. “Come on! I might get blown away in this weather if I don’t hold onto your hand, anyway!”
Saihara, still a bit startled and cheeks still a bit aflame, nods in reply. He starts to lead the way again, focusing this time on the heat coming from Ouma’s hands, trying to not keep looking back at the boy who still has his oversized jacket clinging to him, whose eyes are starkly discernible through the whipping snow—amethyst, mauve, wisteria.
---
The drive to Ouma’s apartment is an even cozier experience.
The heater was immediately turned on to the max, first thing upon entering the vehicle. Christmas music came comfortably from the car radio; Ouma had told Saihara his address before starting to talk, the conversation slightly one-sided (Ouma dominates conversations way too easily) before his chattering gave way to sleepy mumbles. He eventually fell asleep with his head against the window, soft breaths easy to miss with the louder holiday music coating the car.
How odd a day.
(Saihara certainly had not expected to enjoy himself as much as he did.)
It’s so stupid, really—why does he keep flushing red whenever he thinks of Ouma’s hands in his, what an idiot—but at the same time, Saihara just can’t get enough of him. Of this. Of them.
He hums to the beat before they arrive at Ouma’s apartment.
Saihara parks the car, taking a long look at Ouma’s sleeping figure, beanie nearly pulled down to the point where it almost covers his eyes, hands clutching onto Saihara’s jacket tightly. Adorable, Saihara wants to think to himself, before he promptly smothers the thought and grabs ahold of his bearings.
“Ouma-kun, we’re here,” Saihara says in a low voice, reaching out to poke at Ouma’s cheek, which has regained some of its color. Jeez, the guy is going to make him keel over and die one day from worry—Ouma is just too small, how could Saihara not worry? “Ouma-kun. Kokichi?”
Ouma blinks his eyes open, no doubt trying to wake himself up some, before sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck as if a light switch had turned on inside of him. “Oh. You actually brought me home, I guess you’re really not kidnapping me, huh?”
“Uh—is that what you would have preferred or something?”
“Who can say?” Ouma shrugs, rubbing at his eyes with balled fists as a yawn leaves his lips. He blinks slowly, before turning his head to face Saihara with a small roguish grin; Saihara can see some genuinity in such a devilish look. “You really do intrigue me. Ah, you can open the note when I go inside look there”—he points at one of the apartment windows—“That’s mine, on the third floor. Just… you can look up at me to make sure I got inside safely.”
Saihara nods in affirmation, but is soon shaking his head when Ouma starts to try taking the jacket off. “Wait! You can keep the coat, it’s fine. Really. You need it more than I do.”
Ouma puckers his lips, as if considering it, before he hums and brings the jacket closer to his body. “Whatever. I’ll keep it out of pity. To tell you the truth, it stinks just as much as Momo-chan does.”
Saihara rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the amused upturn of his lips. That has to be a lie.
“I’ll be off now, thanks for bringing me home, my beloved,” Ouma says without missing a beat, grinning like he had won the lottery when he manages to successfully induce a small sputtering noise from Saihara. “See you soon, if you don’t miss me too much!”
With that, the smaller boy opens the car door and leaps out of it with nonexistent grace, slamming the door behind him so hard the vehicle shakes. Saihara watches, in quiet thought as Ouma walks along the path, enters the apartment and disappears until he is no longer.
Ah—the note.
Saihara fishes it out of his pocket, eager and terrified at the same time, unfolding it with gentle care:
for my shumai !!
the next time we meet, it should be under the mistletoe~
aha, too fast? well. i must be a snowman, because one glance at you makes my heart melt.
oh, was that too fast again? am i a snowflake, because i just keep on falling for you—
sorry. i’ll stop with the shitty pickup lines, hehe (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧
p.s. all i want for christmas is you!
p.p.s. go on a date with me?
all yours,
kokichi
Saihara is red in the face by the time he finishes reading such a dizzying note. What the—
Heart thudding and threatening to beat out of his chest cavity, he looks up to the apartment building, still flustered and hands shaking. There, in one of the windows: Ouma is grinning at him, waving, a knowing look on his mischievous little face.
Saihara holds up the note, dazed, showing Ouma through the car window. The purple-haired boy stops waving, the amused look on his face quickly being replaced by curiosity—Saihara has made his decision already.
Still holding up the note, Saihara nods his head. Yeah, I’ll go on a date with you.
Ouma falters, before his eyes widen almost comically, the directness of the answer catching him off guard completely.
(Saihara may be pretty far away, but there’s no way he can fail to see the undeniable crimson blush that adorns the boy’s face in its entirety.)