Work Text:
This isn't that bad.
Your day was going well, despite the slight hangups. While Naoya did make you come in early to open, and you accidentally got Nanami, the hot dude who worked at some store on the west wing, the wrong smoothie (apple and apricot sound really similar when you're working in a loud ass food court) everything was going pretty well. It was only about an hour until you got off and the traffic seemed to be dying down, people more interested in getting actual food and not smoothies, which was your restaurant's specialty.
“Slacking off,” A voice said from the side of you, making you jump slightly.
You roll your eyes once you see him; Getou Suguru, the tattoo artist from the tattoo parlor on the second floor.
“Of course not,” you respond, typing something in the cash register to give the facade of performance, “What sends you here.”
“I’m thirsty. Make me one of your juices or something.”
You roll your eyes before grabbing a medium cup.
“You gonna pay for it?”
Getou dramatically clutches his chest before gasping loudly, drawing the attention of nearby customers.
“Pay? Me ? I can’t believe that you would make your best friend in the entire world, the Bill to your Ted, the peanut to your butter, pay for one of these overpriced concoctions. Honestly, you should be paying me to drink them.”
This is how things always seemed to go with Getou; it was almost like he specifically allotted time into his busy schedule (he was an amazing tattoo artist, for all he was worth. Every time you passed him on your way out of the mall he was working on some new piece) to come down and annoy you.
“They’re not juices,” You say, throwing frozen pineapples, greek yogurt, orange juice, raspberries, mangos and coconut shavings into a blender, “It’s a smoothie.”
“Same difference—”
“ And ,” You continue, pouring the smoothie into a cup and snapping on the lid, “I doubt you know my name. But here’s your drink.”
“I know your name,” Getou scoffs, taking a sip.
“What is it?”
“Uh,” Getou stammers, looking around the food court, “I know it I just can't pronounce it—”
“It’s [Y/N],” you say, rolling your eyes, “It’s not hard to pronounce.”
“[Y/N],” Getou repeats, tapping his finger against his chin, “A beautiful name for a beautiful cashier.”
“I am not making you another drink. I get off in 35 seconds .”
Getou frowns, sipping obnoxiously.
“I believe you could do it in sub-25 if you try hard enough.”
You type your information into the cash register before taking your apron off, putting it under the counter.
“ Kick rocks .”
You lift the divider and walk out from around the counter, turning to face Getou when you hear a slight tear and feel your foot lifting out your shoe.
Dammit .
“That’s karma,” Getou laughs, looking at your shoe. The vamp seemed to come off of the soul, the stitching broken and messy. There was no way to fix it (at least no way that you knew, since you didn’t work in the field of shoe refurbishment) and these were the only pair you could use for work since they had non-slip outsoles.
“Fuck you dude,” you sigh, bending down to assess the damage, “I don’t get paid until Sunday, I can’t believe I have to buy another pair.”
Getou pats you on the back sympathetically, still drinking his smoothie.
“I have a friend who works at Foot Locker, you know.”
“You have friends ?”
“Anyways,” Getou says, “I have a friend who works at Foot Locker. Tell him you know me and he’ll give you a discount—a good one too. He gets like half off on every shoe.”
“I don’t know,” you say quietly, weighing the pros and the cons. On one hand, half-off would be nice since the shoes are normally around 80 dollars. On the other hand, you didn't trust Getou (despite liking him enough to give him free drinks) so maybe he was setting you up for embarrassment.
“Just think about it,” Getou says, throwing his drink out and walking away.
In the end, the idea of saving money seemed to trump all your other suspicions.
“Welcome to Foot Locker! Can I help you with anything?”
You turn around and look for the owner of the voice, stopping once you see a kid who looks no older than 15.
“Uh, kind of. I need work shoes,” you say, pointing down to your battered pair.
He cringes a bit, looking at you with a flash of pity before looking around the store.
“Alright, I’m gonna send you over there to Gojo,” he says, pointing to a tall man with silver hair, “He should be able to help you.”
You nod quickly and walk across the store, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in your left foot. You walk up to the attendant, watching as he fixes a display shoe, before clearing your voice.
“Hello…the boy in the front told me you could help me find new work shoes? I just need to know where your non-slip section is.”
The man, Gojo, looks you up and down, nodding before crossing his arms. You can feel your face begin to heat up; you weren't expecting to be met with such scrutiny, especially not for asking such a simple question.
“Yeah, I could do that for you,” he says motioning for you to follow him, “You Getou’s friend?”
“Friend is a strong word,” you laugh, following Gojo, “I make him smoothies. I’m surprised that he talks about me.”
Gojo looks at you, slightly tilting his head.
“This is actually the first he’s ever mentioned you. He said that if some hot person comes into the store looking for work shoes, they are his friend and they should get my discount.”
Your eyes widen at the idea of Getou calling you hot.
“And you assumed he was talking about me?”
“Naturally,” Gojo says, like it was the easiest conclusion he has ever come to, “You are incredibly good looking, and you did come in here asking for work shoes. You even admitted to knowing Getou.”
“I guess I did, but—”
“—Anyways, so they’re right here,” Gojo interrupts, motioning towards a wall of shoes, “Black, white, blue. Take your pick.”
Your eyes gravitate to a black pair, similar to the ones you were already wearing.
“I’ll take this I guess,” You say, showing the shoe to Gojo, “If you have it in a [Y/S/S], that would be great.”
Gojo nods, quickly disappearing into the back of the store before coming out and handing you a box.
“Try-on benches are around the store. Use whichever one you like.”
“Okay, thanks.”
You begin to walk away, turning your head preemptively to see him still watching you. It makes your hands tingle; you’re not sure what exactly it is about him but Gojo seemed to leave you speechless, stumbling over your every word.
You’re so embarrassing , you say to yourself, shaking the thought away.
Was this really you? Someone who gets all hot and flustered due to a sales associate doing his job (and maybe flirting with you but that is beside the point). You shake your head, taking the shoes out of the box.
It’s just been a long day. I’m fine.
You take your shoes off and put your left foot into the left shoe, frowning once you realize that there's no way to get your food entirely inside.
“That’s strange…I know I’m a [Y/S/S],” you say to yourself, checking the tongue of the shoe.
“Finding everything okay,” Gojo says, seemingly popping out of nowhere.
“Yeah…I’m fine. I think you got me the wrong size though.”
“Impossible,” Gojo says quickly, “I know this store like the back of my hand. I have the entire inventory committed to memory.”
“That’s cool and all, but I can’t fit this and I know I’m a [Y/S/S]. I don’t think this box is right.”
He frowns before kneeling down in front of you. It’s a strange gesture, but you don't remember the last time you have been to a shoe store so maybe it’s customary. You hold the box out for him to check but he grabs your foot instead, squeezing it softly.
“Ah! What the hell,” you say, pulling back and putting both feet on the bench, “What did you do that for! I was giving you the box —”
“You’re right,” Gojo whispers, making eye contact, “You’re definitely a [Y/S/S]. I have made a grave mistake.”
“Could you have not figured that out by looking at the box—”
Gojo takes both shoes before disappearing into the back room again, leaving you sitting on the bench. The guy from the front is milling around the store, restocking laces, and you almost debate asking him for help instead, but Gojo comes back before you think enough about it to reach a decision.
“These should be the right size,” Gojo says, handing you the box.
“Okay,” you say, holding the new shoes to your old ones. They looked about the same size, so you found no need to try them on.
“Cool,” you said, putting on your shoes, “Then I’m ready to pay.”
“You sure,” Gojo asked, “Maybe you’d like to try them on…”
“No, I’m fine,” you assure him, “I trust you enough.”
“Oh…okay,” he says, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks, “I can ring you up, then.”
You follow Gojo to the cash register, holding the box of shoes under your arm. He types something into the register (presumably his admin username and password followed by his employee ID but how would you know it’s not like you have worked for three shoe stores who all have the SAME EXACT FUCKING REGISTERS which allows them to have the same login process) before motioning you to hand him the box. You do it wordlessly, unsure about what you should say to him.
“Your total is 39.99. I gave you my employee discount.”
“Thank you,” you say, putting your card into the card reader.
“It’s not ready yet.”
“What?”
“The card reader,” Gojo repeats, “You put it in too quickly. Put it in now.”
You apologize before putting your card in again.
“Okay, it went through this time,” Gojo says, grabbing a bag from under the counter and bagging the shoes. You watch as he puts the receipt and another small piece of paper into the bag.
“Here,” he says, sliding it across the counter, “Have a great day.”
“Thank you,” you say before walking out the store, giving the boy in the front a nod out of courtesy. You begin to walk towards the mall exit, trying to go as quickly as you can since it was still pretty embarrassing that you were wearing some busted-ass shoes.
He never told me what the original price was , you realize, reaching into the bag for the receipt, I wonder how much I saved.
Your hands touch a piece of paper before pulling it out, frowning once you realized it wasn't the receipt. Still, you were curious as to what it was, half expecting it to be some sort of promotion and the other half expecting a coupon, and you were shocked to find out it was a number, accompanied by a short “ call me <3 ”.
When the hell did he write this? You watched him the entire transaction (not for any reason—he was simply in front of you so that was where your eyes ended up) and would have noticed if he took time to draft a note. It took him seconds to grab the bag, which means that it must have been written beforehand.
Asshole
, you think, throwing out the note and walking towards the train.