Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not a convenience store meet-cute, no matter what Kuramochi cackles about later, because Kazuya will go to his grave before he admits that his life briefly devolved into a series of adorably interlocking rom-com cliches. The facts of the matter are this: when they met it’d been a long day, Kazuya was tired, and if it were up to him he’d been about two seconds from wringing a total stranger’s neck. 

(“Yeah, whatever,” Kuramochi will scoff, “Wouldn’t kill you to admit that something you didn’t plan for actually turned out pretty good, you control freak!”)

This is what happened on the day they met:

Kazuya hears him before he sees him, because the sliding doors play a jingle when any one walks through, and also because the newcomer is tromping impossibly loudly through the small store. He doesn’t call out a greeting to the only customer here at nine-thirty on a weeknight, because Kazuya is busy applying discount stickers to today’s leftover prepared meals, and also because he’s Kazuya and he refuses.

The Lawson he works at is a small one, slotted between an aging herbal pharmacy and a bookstore. It’s located just off the main street, and there’s a much bigger Family Mart two blocks away by the train station. Between the location, the narrow space, and limited stock, there usually isn’t much nighttime foot traffic, making it the perfect choice for a low-key part-time job, just enough extra cash to more comfortably offset the bills his athlete’s stipend mostly covers.

All in all, it’s usually pretty quiet and uneventful, and tonight is too until he hears a terrific crash, the soft plaps of a lot of stuff hitting the floor, and a muffled “Crap!”

Kazuya sighs, and goes to investigate. 

As he rounds the aisle, Kazuya can already tell exactly what happened. The figure kneeling in a pile of instant noodle bowls and snack cups has a bulky sports bag slung over one shoulder, and in the narrow space he’d probably spun around and hit the shelf hard enough to send stuff flying. 

“This one humbly apologizes!” the stranger yelps, “I’ll clean it up, um, I don’t think anything got damaged, but—” He pauses to look up and falters, staring at Kazuya for a full two seconds before shooting to his feet to bow - except this time, his bag smacks into the open refrigerated case behind him, knocking over a bunch of canned drinks. One hits the floor with enough force to pop open, adding a puddle of sticky carbonated juice to the mess around their feet.

“—I’ll, uh, pay for it…?” the stranger finishes weakly. The broken-open can fizzes merrily onto the floor. 

As he straightens, Kazuya gets a good look at him. He’s wearing a Hosei university windbreaker, but it drapes loosely enough that it looks like he hasn’t quite grown into it. Probably some klutzy first year, then.  He’s already stooping again to gather more fallen merchandise, gingerly shaking juice drops off the plastic packaging. 

Kazuya should probably say, It’s alright, okyaku-san, or I’ll take care of it right away , but before he can say anything at all Kazuya has to dart forward and grab the guy’s bag strap as he turns to prevent it from colliding yet again with more bottled drinks. Startled, the guy promptly drops a cup noodle package, and it bounces into the juice puddle before rolling to a stop at Kazuya’s feet.

They stare at each other for another full two seconds.

“You sure about that?” Kazuya asks as he lets go, “Because at this rate, the mess you’re making might be more than you can afford.”

(Later, Kazuya will wonder why he responded like that; he’s always been perfectly capable of maintaining a blandly polite veneer on the job, dealing with harried salary workers or obnoxious high schoolers. He’ll chalk it up to being worn down that day from back-to-back lectures, a group project session, and practice, and surely, surely the repeated farce of one clumsy dingbat knocking shit down over and over again has to be enough to push anyone's patience to the limit, right?

"Love at first sight,” Kuramochi cooes annoyingly. Kazuya kicks him.)

The stranger’s jaw drops. A bowl noodle balanced at the top of the pile in his arms makes a bid for freedom as he starts sputtering, but this time he catches it left-handed as it falls in an admittedly impressive display of reflexes, not taking his eyes off Kazuya. “ What? Look, I—I’m really sorry! I said I would help, okay!”

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Kazuya replies, taking the pile from the stranger’s arms. He looks like he’s about to resist, but surrenders the stack of five or so instant noodle packs and even trails along as Kazuya circles swiftly back to the register, snagging one of the dented juice cans on the way. He’s still staring as Kazuya rings it all up, chewing on his lower lip and looking torn between scowling and blurting out more bizarrely archaic apologies.  

Suddenly, it actually is kind of funny: the combination of this guy’s constipated, cat-eyed expression and the way he just kept making things worse, straight out of a slapstick TV comedy bit. Kazuya’s still going to have to clean up the mess and put everything away, but somehow it’s not so bad anymore, better at least than the time some drunk asshole spilled beer inside the coolers and simply looked through Kazuya as he walked away. 

“Your total’s ¥2,200,” Kazuya says, pushing a shopping bag and the money tray across the counter.

Stranger guy snaps to attention, clearly just realizing what Kazuya’s been doing while he spaced, and he garbles out, “Wait, I didn’t even want that stuff—!”

Kazuya quirks a brow at him, and doesn’t bother stifling his smirk.  “Oh? I thought you said you were going to pay for it?” 

“Y-yeah, but—! Oh, whatever!!” Noisy's whole face is warm, bright amber eyes glittering and cheeks pink as he hauls his bag around to fish out his wallet and pay. His fingers are, too, when Kazuya has to personally hand him his change because all his stuff covers the money tray. 

“Enjoy,” Kazuya says. When the stranger scowls, he can’t resist adding, “I’d probably be careful with the can, too, if I were you.”

The guy’s mouth works, but in the end he only snatches the shopping bag and, hilariously, mutters an incongruous “good night” as he stomps from the store.

“Have a good night,” Kazuya says serenely, and goes, snickering, to fetch the mop.

---*---

Incredibly, he actually comes back.

Two days later, Kazuya hears a familiar voice say, “Oh! It’s you again,” as the guy places his basket on the counter. Today he has a Hosei university cap jammed over messy brown hair, and he’s still only wearing a windbreaker, even though it’s ten at night in early December. Kazuya shivers every time the automatic doors let in another puff of chilly air.

“I work here,” Kazuya points out as he starts emptying the basket on the counter. “What’s your excuse?”

The stranger blinks. When his face isn’t scrunched into a shout, it’s actually kind of cute. More importantly, there’s something about that open expression that just invites provocation. “My excuse?”

“For coming back here,” Kazuya clarifies. Then he smirks. “After that debacle last time, I’d probably just find a different convenience store to blunder around in.” 

It’s so cold out, but the stranger’s face heats up instantly. “This is the closest one to my stop! How am I supposed to know you’d be here again?!” He reaches into the shopping basket too, shooing Kazuya’s hand aside so he can shovel his own purchases onto the counter top. “And it was an accident, okay, I’ll be more careful!” He punctuates this by slamming down a bottle of pocari hard enough to nearly pop something. At Kazuya’s pointed glance, he colors and places the next item, a prepackaged meal container, a little more delicately.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Kazuya drawls. He bags the rest of today’s purchases, a handful of onigiri and a few bottled drinks, then holds up the bento after making change. “Do you need this heated up?”

“Yes, please.” This Lawson is small enough that they don’t have a self-service kitchen area, so Kazuya warms the container in the microwave behind the counter while the guy wanders away. By the time he’s done bagging that too, Loudmouth has returned with a hot can of green tea from the heated case, which he slides across to Kazuya alongside exact change. As Kazuya reaches for the roll of paid stickers, he says, “Keep it, that one’s for you.”

That catches Kazuya off guard. “Me?” 

“Yeah,” Noisy says, scooping up his bag. “I really am sorry that I made a mess for you yesterday, even if you made me buy a bunch of stuff that was perfectly fine! And you look kinda cold, so…” When he smiles this time, it’s mostly just sheepish. “Anyway, I gotta go, thanks for warming it up!” 

With that, he trots off into the winter gloom, leaving Kazuya staring and a hot can warming his chilled fingers.

---*---

Because he lacks any sense of shame or, apparently, a working kitchen, Sawamura starts showing up regularly, blowing in every other night to buy an armful of snacks and a late-night convenience store dinner.  Because Kazuya is incredibly bored and only capable of re-reading the same issue of a baseball magazine so many times, this becomes a Thing.

He learns Sawamura’s name the next time he stops by, because Sawamura runs out of bills and pays with card. Even with that knowledge, Kazuya never calls him by name, greeting him each time with a simple “hey” and running commentary on Sawamura’s selection of the day, and Sawamura never asks for his.

“Karaage-kun, really?” Kazuya asks, as Sawamura plops down a couple bottles of sports drinks, a packaged meal, and then points to the heater case of fried chicken. “Do you seriously eat junk food every night? I thought athletes watch their diet.”

“What’s wrong with karaage-kun?” Sawamura accepts the carton of fried chicken, popping one in his mouth immediately before shoving the rest in the shopping bag. “It’s protein, protein!” He can practically see the gears clicking in the other boy's head as Sawamura catches up to the last part, gawking as he asks, “Wait, how d’ya know I’m an athlete?!”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Kazuya says, leaning on the counter, chin in hand. He points to each item as he says, “It definitely couldn’t be because of the sports bag, or the hat, or the baseball cleats...”

He’s unprepared for the way Sawamura suddenly leans into his space. Over the past week and a half, he’s quickly grown accustomed to Sawamura’s brand of noisy boisterous cheer, but this, this is different: his eyes are practically glowing, brilliant amber centimeters from Kazuya’s face, proximity warming the air between them. The cleats in question, tied by the strings and looped over his shoulder bag, clatter against the counter top and dislodge chunks of turf that Kazuya's going to have to wipe down later. “You can tell it’s baseball, huh! I thought I saw you reading Baseball Monthly the other day. Do you like baseball too?!”

Kazuya doesn’t say, uh, yeah, I started for Meiji in the spring league this year, or I eat, sleep, and breathe baseball. Instead, he leans back, escaping that warmer air, and says, “Something like that. Get your shoes off the counter, idiot.”

It’s a testament to how enthused Sawamura is about this newfound shared interest that he doesn’t even rise to the bait. “That’s cool,” he says. “I'm on Hosei’s second string, but with all this extra training I’m gonna pitch first string in spring, just watch!”

“Is that why you’re always here late?” Kazuya asks, curious. “Extra training?”

“Yeah, most of the time. Sometimes I’m at the library, too. The librarian got mad when I used to sneak food in, so now I have to wait until after I’m done with practice and studying to eat!” 

“I see,” Kazuya says. The microwave pings behind him, and he pulls out Sawamura’s dinner—carbonara and a side cutlet—and hands it to him with the usual disposable utensils. “Well, here you go, mister second-string big shot. I’d love to see the look on your coach’s face if he saw you eating this many carbs four times a week.” 

“Ugh, don’t you start too,” Sawamura groans. He trades his shopping bag for a hot can of tea for Kazuya, because that’s apparently part of the Thing now too. Incredibly, Kazuya doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’d rather drink coffee. (In retrospect, that should have been telling enough.) He just pops the can open and takes a sip as Sawamura waves goodbye, letting the heat travel down his throat and sink into his chest.

---*---

This pattern continues until a second week of now-nightly late encounters, when Sawamura finally complains, “Do you always have some smartass thing to say about the stuff people buy?” He drums his fingers on the counter top as Kazuya rings him up. He’s always fidgeting, too much energy for his lanky body, amber eyes glinting in the cool fluorescent light.

“Nope, just you,” Kazuya returns easily. He turns over a juice can to label it as paid, noting that it’s the same brand as the dented can he’d made Sawamura buy the day they met. “Haha, do you actually like this stuff now?”

“It was actually pretty good,” Sawamura says, defensive. “Not like the instant noodles, though! They were all spicy, I had to drink like five cups of water to eat them!”

The mental image of Sawamura stubbornly sweating and swearing through awful spicy noodles he didn't even want sends Kazuya into a fit of silent laughter. “If you didn’t like them, you could have just thrown them away.”

“You made me pay for them!! And you shouldn’t waste food!”

“I’m not sure instant bowl ramen counts,” Kazuya snickers. “And pipe down, noisy-kun, if anyone else was here they’d be deaf from all your yelling all the time.” 

Sawamura scowls at him. “Well, maybe I would if you quit calling me that! I have a name, you know!”

“Oh? I wouldn’t have guessed, you’re always responding to it…”

“It’s Sawamura, okay! Sawamura Eijun! Pleased to meet you!” Abruptly, absurdly, Sawamura bows slightly at the waist, like he’s a salaryman who just met Kazuya and not an unruly university kid who has been shouting at Kazuya at random, extremely loud intervals across several weeks. Sawamura holds the pose for a beat, only his eyes darting up to meet Kazuya’s, until Kazuya—he can’t help himself. He snorts loudly, chuckles blooming into a full-on belly laugh as Sawamura flushes red. 

“What’s so funny—” Sawamura’s eyes drift to Kazuya’s chest, where he isn’t wearing a name tag, and settles for shouting, “—you… jerky-clerk-san!!” 

It’s just too much. Kazuya laughs until he almost cries. Watching a storm of emotions flicker across Sawamura’s expressive face—embarrassed, angry, briefly fascinated, begrudgingly delighted before circling back to mostly just angry—Kazuya thinks he’s never met anyone like him: pinging back and forth between overly familiar and strangely formal, brazenly stupid and utterly charming. 

“Ah, Sawamura, you’re always a riot,” Kazuya says, straightening at last. 

“And you’re always an asshole!” Sawamura returns. He looks supremely put out, but he hasn’t stormed away or gone all stricken or stony, like a decent number of people previously exposed to Kazuya’s unique brand of off-putting-ness. Somehow, he just looks even more fired up, as though finally introducing yourself to a convenience store clerk after two weeks of regular banter is a personal challenge, and not just an excruciatingly fumbled social interaction literally any one else would have power walked away from by now. He’s straightened from his bow, but he’s still leaning on the counter, fired up and in Kazuya’s face like always, and he points as he shouts, “This is the part where you introduce yourself back, you know!”

“Miyuki Kazuya,” Kazuya says. He has to remove his glasses to dab at his eyes, grinning unrepentantly as he replaces them, Sawamura’s face coming back into full focus. “Nice to meet you too, Sawamura.”

---*---

Sawamura’s visits are usually pretty brief, especially when there’s a rare other customer around, but now that he knows Kazuya likes baseball, he lingers a little longer each time to chat about his team’s latest shenanigans, his training goals, and, one time and at great length, about some baseball anime he likes. Kazuya learns that Sawamura doesn’t really watch games because he’d rather just play instead. (This logic apparently does not apply to the baseball anime. “It’s about the characters and their relationships, Miyuki Kazuya! That’s different!”)  It does help explain how he still hasn’t done the mental math to add up Miyuki Kazuya and baseball into first-string catcher for a rival university, but then again, whenever they meet Miyuki’s wearing a Lawson uniform, so.

He does always ask about Kazuya’s day, but surprisingly enough, he picks up pretty quickly that Kazuya doesn’t really like talking about himself, and anyway he’s easy enough to distract so Kazuya never does offer up the whole truth. The calculating streak in Kazuya recognizes what a great opportunity Sawamura’s naive openness presents; a different part of Kazuya, one that’s self-aware enough to realize that he enjoys Sawamura’s visits for what they are, holds it back.  He has scorebooks and strategy and exams to deal with, for the team and for the future, almost every hour of every day of the year; the twenty minutes a night that Sawamura drops in, buying tea for Kazuya and wheedling him to just try watching Cross Game, it’s worth it: those are just for Kazuya.

He’s not above admitting that he likes mind games, but with Sawamura it’s much more fun to simply push his buttons, wind him up and watch him go: joking about how all the egg-salad sandwiches Sawamura’s eating are probably going straight to his gut. (This backfires only once, Sawamura immediately and indignantly stripping off his jacket to flex impressively, shouting that It’s all going to his pitching arm, thank you!!, the muscles of his left bicep straining the thin t-shirt he wears underneath. Kazuya flicks Sawamura’s change across the counter to distract him, hiding behind his can of tea and feeling distinctly overwarm.)

Kazuya’s semi-anonymity ends when Sawamura slams into the store one night, shouting “MIYUKI KAZUYA, YOU SNEAKY BASTARD!” so suddenly that Kazuya jerks and bangs his head on the counter, dropping rolls of register tape and cursing softly.

“Sawamura, what the hell?” 

“You deserved that!” Sawamura scowls ferociously as he flounces through the aisles. He whips around the endcap and chucks yakisoba bread at Kazuya, frown deepening as Kazuya snatches it easily out of the air. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you play for Meiji, you traitor! I take back inviting you to our games!”

“I’d probably be there anyway,” Kazuya says. Sawamura’s got that cat-eyed look again, sparking bright and spitting fury. Now that the quasi-secret is out, he pauses for a moment to contemplate what it’d be like if, or when, they meet on the diamond. If Sawamura’s eyes shine the same lambent gold when he stares down a batter. There’s a delighted curl deep inside him that really wants to find out. “Putting aside the fact that they’re publicly televised, it’s not unusual to go to watch rival games for data gathering.” Kazuya reaches across to poke him, hard, in the soft apple of his cheek. “Oi, I bet you’re thinking something stupid, like, ‘that Miyuki Kazuya’s been spying on me all along!’, but I never asked anything about your team, did I?”

“No,” Sawamura admits, but he smacks Kazuya’s hand away, pouting full-force. “But you could’ve said something! I can’t believe all this time, you’re that Miyuki Kazuya, and you never told me!” 

“Not my fault you don’t pay enough attention to the Big 6,” Kazuya says, trading the yakisoba bread for Sawamura’s actual dinner, gyudon bento, plus the usual can of hot tea purchased just for Kazuya. “Seriously, first year, reading up on opposing teams is basic knowledge. I was kind of surprised you didn’t realize right away. What finally tipped it off?”

Since no one’s around, Sawamura rips the package open and takes a huge bite, chewing noisily as Kazuya makes a face at him, moving to warm Sawamura’s bento without being asked. “My senpai saw me trying out the core stretches you told me about, and when I told them about you, first they asked how I know the Miyuki Kazuya, and then they all called me stupid when I told them ‘he’s a friend from the conbini I go to’! Just ‘cuz I didn’t, I dunno, try to be all sneaky like you and learn some Meiji secrets!”

“I didn't sneak anything, and you definitely couldn't,” Kazuya shoots back, toying with a roll of stickers. “So in the end, no harm, no foul for either side. Aren’t we all lucky that you’re such an airhead!”

“I hate you,” Sawamura announces. “I’m never coming back.”

“Sure, sure.” The microwave dings, and Kazuya fetches Sawamura’s food and bags it as he polishes off the bread. “Here, heated it while you were being loud,” Kazuya grins. “Free service.”

“It’s always free, jackass! That’s literally your job!” Sawamura shouts, but his stern expression cracks when Kazuya laughs and he joins in too. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? Giving me all that crap about an athlete’s diet when you work in a conbini! I bet you eat junk all the time too.”

“I only work part-time in the off season,” Kazuya protests. “And I cook for myself. Does it look like I eat this stuff all the time?”

“Well, obviously not with that kind of body…” Sawamura says absently, giving Kazuya a once-over that’s as blatant as it is offhanded, like he’s considered it before, and that sends Kazuya’s heart stuttering pleasantly into his lungs. Before Kazuya can say anything, Sawamura seems to realize what he’s doing, cheeks flaring red as he changes the subject with the grace and delicacy of a cannon ball. “A-anyway, you still should’ve said something! You should make it up to me, Miyuki Kazuya!”

“Oh, and how’s that?” Kazuya asks. As Sawamura brightens and opens his mouth, he puts a hand up and cuts him off, “Don’t even think about asking me to catch for you, moron, you know that’s just more data, right?”

“Yeah, but I wanna pitch more, and Hayashi commutes, so it’s just the net for me!” Sawamura whines. It looks like he’d come straight from the field today, like he does some nights, preferring to stop at Lawson before going home to eat and shower. The practice jersey under his unzipped windbreaker still has field grit clinging to it, and he smells like sweat and grass. Despite himself, it does make Kazuya wish he had a mitt and the free time to walk out of here and enjoy playing some catch-ball in the clear night. 

It’s a foreign feeling, wanting to spend time with someone like that, and far removed from the shape of their usual interactions: the simplicity of their normal transactions, the hello-banter-buy-goodnight cleanly patterned, an uncomplicated pleasure to look forward to each night. Outside, maybe, it could be so different, with all the terror and thrill that unknown capacity implies. 

“Too bad,” Kazuya says instead, taking a warm sip of green tea as Sawamura pouts and starts gathering his stuff. “Come up with something else, and I’ll think about it, if it’s not a huge hassle.”

Sawamura considers this for half a second and says, “Then, cook for me sometime!”

Kazuya’s going to regret revealing that tidbit, he can tell already.  “Ehh? That definitely sounds like a huge hassle.”

“Too late, I’m gonna hold you to that one!” Finished gathering his stuff, Sawamura actually has the nerve to poke Kazuya back before he leaves. Cheeky bastard. Kazuya waves him off, absently watching him go until the sliding door chimes and another customer walks in.  

He’ll be thinking about it for the rest of his shift, as he restocks and tidies and cashes the register out in preparation for the guy who works the graveyard hours. Thinking about it on the short walk home, all the meals he’s cooked for one since middle school. After he showers he gets a glass of water and sips it standing in his kitchen, picturing Sawamura leaning across Kazuya’s countertop the same way he leans up against the check stand, cajoling Kazuya to hurry it up with his food, humming while he waits. 

Strange, how easy it is, to sketch Sawamura into the empty spaces of that mental image. Maybe because it’s just similar enough to their usual routine to be less unknown, less scary. Maybe because it’s Sawamura.

Maybe, Kazuya thinks, and tonight he leaves it at that.

---*---

Anyway, just because Sawamura’s just about the least observant person Kazuya’s ever met doesn’t mean everyone else is too. (Maybe unobservant is a bit harsh: it’s definitely a combo of that pitcher’s ego that’s self-absorbed enough to prattle on about towel drills without asking how exactly Kazuya knows so much about baseball, plus Kazuya’s own misdirection.) By contrast, Kazuya likes to think he’s pretty damn attentive: good at cataloging personality tics and body habits, personal buttons and weaknesses.  All this is to say there are at least two separate events that gets Kazuya thinking that maybe Sawamura is more or less airheaded than he thinks, and also that maybe Kazuya is more attracted to him then he thought.

The first one is less pleasant. Kazuya’s had admirers in highschool, but catching first-string on Meiji and improving his hitting stats has definitely boosted his personal fanclub. (Kazuya has heard them cheering in the stands, but didn’t know it was an actual thing until Kuramochi found a Miyuki Kazuya-kun Fanclub! thread on the student forums and showed it to him, absolutely incandescent with rage. That had been a fun day.) 

So while Sawamura had gotten introduced to Miyuki Kazuya, catcher, on accident, a couple members of Meiji’s baseball fanclub come across Miyuki Kazuya, Lawson clerk, by accident too, but it’s infinitely worse.

Day one has a girl who clocks him the moment she walks in. Her eyes widen and she spends about fifteen minutes gawking timidly at Kazuya before she leaves. Day two brings the same girl back, except this time she has a friend who is, unfortunately, much more pushy, and has spent the last ten minutes or so trying to wheedle out Kazuya’s contact information under the cover of an interview but definitely with the implication of or, you know, we could just have coffee and chat~ while the timid friend browses the sweets selections and pretends not to eavesdrop. Kazuya is trapped behind the register and the only reason he hasn’t sent them packing is because being polite to people who haven't broken merchandise all over the floor is in his literal job description, and he’ll have a hard time finding any other brainless part-time work that pays him to occasionally sweep the floor but mostly to watch NPB clips on his phone, hidden behind the register.

“I’m afraid I really don’t have any free time,” Kazuya is saying for the third time when the doorbell chimes. He makes eye contact with Sawamura for half a second, whose open mouth shaped around a good evening, Miyuki Kazuya! shout immediately closes when he sees the girls. Kazuya lifts a shoulder in the general direction of the register. “I’m working late, too, so my time’s pretty spoken for.”

“My schedule’s very flexible,” the girl says brightly. “So—”

Internally, Kazuya grits his teeth, but before he can say anything, Sawamura pops his head around the aisle and yells, “Excuse me! I can’t find what I’m looking for, can you help me?”

“Excuse me,” Kazuya says, scooting around the counter a touch faster than necessary.  Back by the refrigerator case, Sawamura is peeking with little to no subtlety over the snack aisles at the girls, knees slightly bent because he’s a little too tall to hide, and he looks charmingly ridiculous. Kazuya’s never been so glad to see him. Aloud he says, “What can I help you with,” and under that, “not that I don't appreciate it, but what exactly are you doing?”

“They’re still there,” Sawamura whispers back. Loud enough to carry—or to be honest, Sawamura’s regular speaking volume—he says, “I wanted to buy some Calpico!” They’re both standing next to the case that is definitely stocked with Calpico. Kazuya raises one brow. “But I think you’re all out, can you check the back or something?”

Kazuya has to muffle a laugh in his sleeve. Sawamura grins impishly at him, leaning against the case to block the view of the Calpico bottles that are definitely not missing. He didn’t think Sawamura had it in him to be devious, but Kazuya’s not complaining. “Of course, okyaku-san,” Kazuya says, suppressing another chuckle at the face Sawamura makes at the title, and he proceeds to hide out in the back room for ten minutes until a tap on the door lets him know that they’ve gone. When he emerges, Sawamura is already waiting by the check stand with a packaged chicken katsu sandwich, Kazuya’s tea of the day, and - Kazuya snickers - a bottle of Calpico, too.

When Sawamura takes out his coin purse (baseball-shaped, of course) to pay, Kazuya waves him off. “Consider it thanks,” Kazuya says, fishing a couple yen coins from his own pocket and dropping them into the register. “Color me impressed, Sawamura, that was surprisingly clever.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not, but it doesn’t sound like it, so the regular Miyuki Kazuya must be back!” Sawamura retorts, squinting at him. “I wasn’t gonna butt in, but when that girl was talking your mouth does that thing when you’re trying to pretend like you’re a nice person, so I thought maybe you needed help. You should thank the great Sawamura-san!”

Kazuya lets the nice person comment slide, mostly because it’s true, and partly because he’s turning over the thought that apparently Sawamura has his own catalog of Kazuya’s expressions, which is mildly disconcerting. 

He covers his momentary lapse by singsonging obsequiously, “Thank you very much, okyaku-sama~”

Sawamura pulls a face again. “It’s so weird to hear you being polite. I like it better when you just act like your normal rude self! Though I guess it would’ve been bad if you were mean to those girls, ‘cuz they don’t know how you are, so you’re extra lucky I stepped in!”

The unexpected level of consideration in Sawamura’s usual word vomit stutters Kazuya’s heart in his chest again. This is getting to be a problem, Kazuya thinks, ruefully, and he’s so distracted he doesn’t think twice about the question that bubbles up in reply: “Got some experience dodging admirers, oh-so-great Sawamura-san?”

“Ugh, it’s not even for me!” Sawamura complains, twisting the Calpico open. “You know Softbanks’ Furuya, he just got drafted this year, right? Well, we went to high school together and girls were always falling all over him, but that bastard’s useless at anything but pitching fastballs and hogging the mound, so me and Harucchi had to get good at covering for him so he could get away...” He launches immediately into a story about how Furuya almost slept through an actual confession, and Kazuya listens with half an ear as his thoughts rapid-fire through no confessions for Sawamura, really? to nice and finally mm, guess we’re being pretty obvious today, huh, Kazuya. 

Today he’s learned that Sawamura apparently pays enough attention to Kazuya to read his microexpressions, but fortunately he hasn’t learned how to read minds yet, so Kazuya just half-smiles while he listens, the two of them curved together over the counter top while Sawamura chatters.

---*---

The second event is so innocuous, but it’s enough to get the gears in Kazuya’s mind turning again: Sawamura comes by with his own friend in tow, who turns out to be the Harucchi he’s frequently mentioned in passing.  According to Sawamura, Kominato Haruichi is his best friend, possessed of super sharp hitting skills, and is simultaneously a gentle soul and an abject devil. 

Kazuya can see it. Kominato has clear, rose-pink eyes softened by the curve of his pale bangs, but his high school batting stats suggest that he doesn’t miss a thing. This is confirmed when Sawamura introduces Kazuya as “my Lawson guy,” and both Kominato and Kazuya quirk a brow at the possessive while Sawamura, blithely unaware, leads him off to fill a basket with study night snacks.

Kazuya tunes them out as they chat about upcoming finals, moving automatically to reheat the pair’s chosen bentos when Kominato says, “Eijun-kun, should we just use the microwave at your place? It’ll get cold on the way back, I think…” 

Kazuya pauses, because he’d asked Sawamura the exact same thing weeks ago, curious why Sawamura would want his food reheated in-store when this Lawson is too small to include a dedicated dining area. (“I don’t have a microwave at my place yet,” Sawamura had explained, flapping his arms at Kazuya’s incredulous stare. “Look, I didn’t think about it when I moved in, okay! I don’t cook at all and I’m hardly home so it’s easier to just buy stuff here and head back!”)

“Uh, well,” Sawamura hedges, turning as pink as Kominato’s hair. 

If Kazuya were a kind person, he would bail him out and say something like, yeah, a lot of people do that, or busy student life, I get it. But since he’s Kazuya and he enjoys watching Sawamura squirm, and because there’s a not-so-secret suspicion warming his throat, Kazuya says, “Tsk, tsk, Sawamura. You mean all this time, you had your own appliances after all, and here you are exploiting me for free service instead!”

“Don’t give me that, it’s still your job!” Sawamura explodes, twisting his baseball coin pouch in agitation. “I don’t use it that much, and—and it’s, like, tradition or something at this point, so who cares!” 

“Or something,” Kominato echoes. He peeks at Kazuya while Sawamura mutters venomously about how Miyuki just lazes around all night if he didn’t give him something to do, so really who’s doing who a favor, huh!, sliding Kazuya a secretive smile as he accepts their shopping bag.  When Sawamura passes Kazuya his usual tea, grumbling out a see you tomorrow, jerkface, Kominato is considerate enough not to comment on that, either: he just arches a brow at the exchange and wishes Kazuya a quiet good night as he follows Sawamura out, whose ears are still pink in a way that has nothing to do with the cold bite of January air.

Nobody else comes in for the next hour, which is plenty of idle time for Kazuya to replay recent events. In his mind’s eye there’s two Sawamuras: the one with the impish grin by the Calpico case, savvy enough to cover for Kazuya when he was trapped, but too self-absorbed bragging about his baseball goals to follow up do you like baseball too with so, what position do you play. There's the Sawamura that’s flushed and stuttering, caught in his own half-truth about microwaves, and the one that’s somehow not at all embarrassed to say weird stuff like, this is Miyuki Kazuya, my Lawson guy. 

It brings him back to the first time Sawamura handed him canned green tea and said, you looked like you were cold. The second time, when Kazuya had thought, huh, I guess this is a Thing now , and every time after that, flashing forward to each night that Sawamura stops by to warm him with idle chatter and hot tea. Sawamura handing him a heated can and little puzzle pieces each time - shoujo manga is the best but I also like Kurosawa movies, I’m looking forward to spring ‘cuz the sakura are so pretty, natto is gross and you should stop selling it, hey catch for me sometime! Just fifteen, it’s fine! 

Fragments upon fragments, but in moments like these - snickering with Kazuya behind the Calpico case, wanting to eat Kazuya’s cooking, obliviously tipping his hand - he still manages to exceed Kazuya’s expectations. Kazuya, laser-focused on baseball all his life, has only formulated profiles of opposing players to beat them later; Sawamura is the first puzzle of which he wants to gather more pieces together just to build a bigger picture, instead of smashing it apart.

So, I guess this is a Thing now, too, Kazuya thinks.  It’s not a totally new revelation, but his heart is doing double time all the same.

---*---

Ultimately, because Kazuya’s life is not a romantic comedy, no matter what Kuramochi says, there is no string of torturous will-they, won’t-theys following the night Kazuya side-eyes the revelation that he like-likes Sawamura, mentally capitulating to the reality that he would, in fact, also like to see more of Sawamura than twenty minutes a night in the chilly blue box of a convenience store. There is no dramatic, earth-shattering Realization, but that's fine. What happens is enough to shake Kazuya anyway.

The thing is, Kazuya doesn’t even find out until much later what the problem that day actually was.  (Later, he’ll discover that there was no awful personal cataclysm - Sawamura just had a really, spectacularly bad day.) All Kazuya knows is that one night in late January, Sawamura shows up way later than usual, looking more tired than Kazuya has ever seen him. He greets Kazuya but he’s totally spacing, his usual fire and energy compressed into the hunched line of his shoulders as he stares blankly at the prepared food case for ten entire minutes.

(Later, when Kazuya thinks about that night, he’ll realize that that was the wildest part - one look at the tight, unhappy curl to Sawamura’s mouth and impulse had seized him. He’d long had a sneaking feeling that it would be like this everywhere Sawamura goes: throwing wrenches into the careful clockwork of Kazuya’s life, shifting the gears of his routines a fraction at a time until Kazuya's path realigns in a different direction. Off the diamond, Kazuya is not an impulsive person; the crazy part is that Sawamura makes Kazuya want to make snap decisions, and he doesn’t fully mind.)

When Sawamura finally shuffles up to the register, Kazuya gets a good look at the bags under his eyes, stark shadows carved deeper by the store's harsh fluorescent lighting. It's extra dreary and quiet tonight, brief snowfall muffling normal street traffic; this plus Sawamura's wan half-smile in the sterile light makes everything feel vaguely unreal, uncomfortably insubstantial compared to Sawamura's usual vibrant presence. He doesn’t look ill, but he doesn’t look great either.

Kazuya glances at the clock, at Sawamura zoning out where he stands, and he makes up his mind.

Sawamura starts when Kazuya grabs the basket and walks around the counter, heading back to the merchandise shelves. "Uh…?"

"Can you wait a few minutes? I need to clean some stuff up, but I'll be done soon."

"Okay??" Sawamura says, clearly bewildered.

He doesn't let himself think too hard about what he's doing as he puts Sawamura's selections back, as he punches out and exchanges hello-goodbyes with Kanada, who's on the clock after him. He continues not to think about it until he's finished shrugging out of his Lawson polo and jams his beanie and coat on, striding back out front to where Sawamura waits, looking a little less dead on his feet but much more confused.

Kazuya snags him by the crook of his elbow as he brushes past, releasing the moment Sawamura wheels around and starts following. They walk for maybe thirty seconds, Sawamura trailing close behind, before he finally asks, "Um, what's happening…?"

It’s not snowing anymore, but the air outside is biting enough for Kazuya to turn up his coat collar. He hopes it hides the redness he can feel floating up to his cheeks. “It’s a five-minute walk to my place,” he finally says, “And you’re so late tonight you actually caught the end of my shift. It’s less of a hassle today, so I guess I’m finally making it up to you.”

He can practically feel Sawamura’s gaze burning holes in his side; mercifully, he doesn’t say a thing, which Kazuya is incredibly grateful for because generally speaking Kazuya would rather die than talk about his feelings, but also because it would probably cost the entire stock of his gathered courage if he were forced to actually vocalize you look exhausted and I’m kinda worried and maybe it’s my turn to finally give you something back. 

Because it’s mortifying enough to admit that their Thing has become a highlight of his days, drinking tea he doesn’t really like just because a boy he does bought it for him, listening to inconsequential stories he won’t remember as they wait for the microwave Sawamura doesn’t need to heat his mediocre conbini meals. Because he’s Kazuya, he would be perfectly content to continue relegating the errant thought, fuck I like him so much, to the periphery of his mind’s eye. But it’s only because of tonight, seeing Sawamura so subdued, that Kazuya will let that background awareness flood through him: like dozing off in a patch of afternoon light and waking hours later, half conscious that some subtle warmth had gone. Because it might just be a single day without the usual noisy, cheerful Sawamura, but that’s a day he’s going to miss because somehow now he always wants more of them.

Because he doesn’t have the words to say it, not yet. But he can act instead.

They walk the three blocks over and up to Kazuya’s apartment, tromping up the open stairwell in silence. Sawamura clocks the solitary pair of house slippers as Kazuya lets them in, but he doesn’t comment on it until he’s put his bag down by the kotatsu, glancing around curiously. He looks better already, in the soft light of Kazuya’s apartment, or it maybe it’s just the way his golden eyes are flicking inquisitively again to the TV, to the tidy pile of textbooks on the kotatsu top, to Kazuya himself, trading his outerwear for an apron. “Wow, you have a 1LK all to yourself?”

“It’s what I work for,” Kazuya answers. He fills a glass with water and pushes it across the counter. “Drink,” he orders, and Sawamura picks it up, glancing at him curiously. “You can sit over there. It’ll probably be twenty minutes or so.”

“Okay,” Sawamura says, but instead of sitting in the living room he stands there sipping his water in silence, watching as Kazuya takes a moment to sift through his fridge and fetch out ingredients for dinner. Something fast but filling, Kazuya thinks, settling on pork shogayaki. When he’s done he comes around to Kazuya’s side, placing the empty glass into the sink and watching in silence as Kazuya grates ginger and heats up a skillet.

The kitchen is silent except for oil sizzling in the pan. Kazuya starts wondering if this was a mistake: is it weird to force your friend-sort-of-friend to come over for dinner, just because he looks kinda upset? Maybe all Sawamura needed was, like, a shoulder pat and an encouraging word? Maybe he’s called this all wrong. Maybe this is too different after all. God, Kazuya is so bad at this. Maybe—

“Thanks,” Sawamura says, sending Kazuya’s train of thought to a screeching halt. “I didn’t really think you were taking me seriously.” When Kazuya glances at him over his shoulder, Sawamura snags the trailing end of Kazuya’s apron string, tugging gently. “The cooking thing, I mean. I was kinda joking, back then, but I’m…” He trails off without finishing his thought. “Can I help with anything?”

“I don’t know,” Kazuya says after a beat, swallowing his pulse, “you might burn a hole in my pots or something.”

“I told you that story to explain why I buy take-out all the time, not so you can make fun of me about it!” Sawamura says, letting the apron string go. He’s glaring half-heartedly at Kazuya, but even so the sight of Sawamura leaning against the sink, arms crossed and gold eyes narrowed in the kind of scowl Kazuya always provokes, goes a long way to settling him. 

“It’s fine,” Kazuya says, and means it. “Can you check the rice cooker for me?”

Watching Sawamura poke around his kitchen, fetching utensils and dishing up rice, that’s what convinces him that it really is fine: there’s nothing to be nervous about when it’s the same Sawamura after all, pressing up to his shoulder as he peers into the pan to see what Kazuya’s making, no different than how he jostles across the check stand to show Kazuya stupid Nico Nico clips too late at night. Watching Sawamura setting the kotatsu top for two because Kazuya doesn’t have a dining table overlays the mental image he’d conjured weeks ago, strikes a humming chord in his chest that he doesn’t have to examine closely to understand perfectly.

He flips the TV on for background noise after he brings the last of the dishes out. It’s just the shogayaki and a handful of stir-fried okra, plus miso soup reheated from the fridge, but the way Sawamura claps his hands as he says, “Itadakimasu!” makes it seem like he’s been served a feast.

“What the heck,” he says, eyes widening after the very first bite. “You’re really good at cooking!”

Kazuya adopts an offended moue as Sawamura takes another huge bite. “The fact you’re so surprised is kinda rude, isn’t it? You feed a guy, and this is what you get…” He laughs as Sawamura’s eyes widen again, clearly about to start backpedaling, and says, “Okay, stop, I was kidding, don’t choke and spit food all over my table, please.” 

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sawamura says, successfully making it through his mouthful without spraying crumbs all over. Given the way Kazuya has previously seen him wolf snacks down, this is a remarkable display of restraint. “You’re a slippery guy, Miyuki Kazuya, but you’re different than what people say!”

Sawamura’s got a habit of dropping casual non-sequiturs in their conversations, but this is the weirdest one yet. “Mm, finally doing some data-gathering of your own? I guess it’s better late than never, although I don’t recommend trying to cram for baseball.”

“No, that’s not it,” Sawamura corrects. He taps his chopsticks on the edge of his bowl, thoughtful for a moment, and Kazuya pretends to watch the TV while he thinks. “Y’know that time that girl was bugging you? I heard them talking before they gave up and left. The tall one was saying that she didn’t think you’d be as stand-offish in real life as everyone says, and the other goes, ‘isn’t that how Miyuki-kun is, let’s just go.’ I didn’t get what they mean by ‘everyone,’ though. What the heck was up with that?”

“Probably the fanclub,” Kazuya replies, not taking his eyes off the TV. He doesn’t elaborate, even when Sawamura incredulously mouths fanclub? “They like hanging around after games, but I don’t like doing interviews, and I don’t go out of my way to play nice, so they’re really not wrong.”

His heart clenches when Sawamura says, “Well, then I think they’re wrong!”  

“Really?” Kazuya asks, more lightly than he feels. “Aren’t you the one always yelling about what a jerk I am?”

Since Kazuya is still staring fixedly at the TV, Sawamura leans into his side, knocking their shoulders together. “Yeah, but you let me in here anyway,” he says. “If I’d heard those girls call you a cold, distant jerk on day one, I’d totally agree! Not anymore, though.”

“Oh?” He doesn’t want to ask. Sawamura hasn’t moved away. He’s totally going to ask. “What about now?”

“Now?” Sawamura’s voice vibrates against his side, and when he finally turns his head, he thinks this time he’ll be prepared for the way that golden-eyed stare pins him. He isn’t. “I think Miyuki Kazuya’s actually a lot warmer than he lets on.”

Kazuya could say, I’m really not, or he could say maybe to the right person. He could fish for better words to articulate the way he feels, when Sawamura looks at him like that: like a hot drink on a cold night, waking fire as it floods through him. 

But because he’s Kazuya, he just smirks and says, “I suppose I could be running a temperature…” Sawamura bristles, probably gearing up to unload more mawkishly sentimental word vomit, and Kazuya’s heart can only withstand so much unvarnished sincerity in a single night, so he taps the backs of his chopsticks to Sawamura’s bowl and says, “Shut up and eat. This is a limited time offer, you know! Who knows if I’ll ever cook for you again, and I’m definitely never going to catch for you, so you better enjoy this favor while it lasts.”

“Asshole,” Sawamura says. But he’s smiling as he picks his chopsticks up again.

(It’s a lie, of course: he is going to cook for Sawamura again, and one day he’s going to catch for him too, but neither of them know that yet.)

---*---

On February fourteenth, Sawamura comes in to buy a pack of nama chocolate. Kazuya finds him munching on it outside by the back alley exit as he waits for Kazuya to finish changing.  Sawamura greets him for the second time that evening with a grin and a chunk of chocolate, speared on a tiny plastic fork for Kazuya to try. Kazuya rolls his eyes but leans forward to accept the bite, a drift of bitter cocoa powder dusting his cheek while the creamy chocolate melts sweetly on his tongue. 

“Hey,” Sawamura says. His knuckles brush Kazuya’s jaw. “Can I…”

Kazuya, like always, lets him in.

---*---

This is what becomes the new pattern of their days: in the next few weeks Kazuya will still work second shift and Sawamura will still come by to bother him. He’ll stay for only a handful of minutes, but Kazuya won’t mind because by now Sawamura will text him to pass the time. (They’ll have exchanged phone numbers weeks ago, Sawamura mailing him pictures of cats and constant reminders to go to sleep soon. By then he’ll have learned that Kazuya actually prefers coffee to tea; this will be considered another brief but intense betrayal, brushed off with a kiss.) When April arrives and spring baseball season hits full swing, Kazuya will quit because he won’t have the time to take shifts at Lawson anymore, but it’ll still be fine because he'll get to see Sawamura when he comes over instead.

He’ll come meet Kazuya at the station on the main street after practice, on a brisk March evening like this, when it’s still cool out but the smell of spring is blooming into the air. Kazuya categorically refuses to hold hands, but when he finishes his grocery shopping he checks his messages and waits by the station until Sawamura pops out, grinning as he falls into step beside Kazuya.  

Sawamura’s in the middle of complaining about some professor or other when his stomach grumbles, loud enough that Kazuya and probably a bunch of pedestrians can hear it.

Kazuya gives him a pointed glance. “Let me guess… you skipped lunch today?”

“Not on purpose! I had two lectures today that are like, super far apart, so I didn’t have time to buy stuff, and since I didn’t go to Seven last night I didn’t pack anything!” 

“Seven, really? After all those weeks at Lawson. What a disloyal customer.”

“Shut up, I wasn’t going there for the food!” Sawamura grumbles. Because it’s been weeks and you can apparently get used to anything, including stupid, sweet guys who give you minor heart palpitations, Kazuya doesn’t even blink at this impromptu confession. “It’s not like they have a stamp card or something. You should’ve given me a discount for being your best customer.”

“What, and encourage your karaage-kun habit?” Kazuya taunts. “It’s a good thing you’re getting cut off, or there’s no way you’ll keep up now that baseball season’s here!”

What he doesn't say is that the bags he's holding contain more groceries than Kazuya usually buys, his shopping list already expanded to account for meals for two. That he's already thought about what side dishes will still eat well at room temperature, for a busy guy without time to stop and heat his lunch. Mostly because it’s more fun to poke Sawamura in the gut and laugh while he shouts obnoxiously in Kazuya’s ear, but also because while Kazuya might be a little smitten, he’s still going to hold some cards close to his chest.  

Sawamura hasn't earned that much of him, Kazuya thinks, not just yet. But he probably will, considering that just yesterday they'd sat crowded close under Kazuya's kotatsu, squabbling about the game Sawamura came over to watch together. He figures that they could have a lot more tomorrows just like that: Sawamura trapping Kazuya's ankle between his own as Kazuya teases and he argues back. He can already see Sawamura's smile as he sits there sipping tea, a tiny pocket of perfect warmth framed against the indigo square of night waiting just outside the sliding glass door.

They spend the walk home bickering about how Sawanura would definitely starve if left to his own devices, and how Kazuya doesn't feel like cooking tonight because he went shopping already and has studying to get to, and contrary to appearances he's not actually Sawamura's live-in chef.

"Okay, yeah, it's pretty late to cook," Sawamura concedes, with an air of magnanimity that tears Kazuya fondly between wanting to kiss him or kick him. He bumps their shoulders together as Kazuya unlocks the door, and as they bundle into the tiny genkan Sawamura demands, "Then, heat up something for me, please!"

"Aren’t you presumptuous,” Kazuya quips, “assuming I keep leftovers lying around to feed you," but Sawamura is already flipping the apartment lights on as he toes his shoes off, like he already owns a spot in Kazuya’s space. Like he does. When he turns to help Kazuya with the grocery bags, he takes Kazuya's hand too, bright-eyed gaze expectant and adoring as he waits for Kazuya to fold.

He can’t help but feel a little helpless, in the face of that look and what all those tomorrows might bring.

"Okay, fine, brat," Kazuya sighs, but the sounds come shaped around a smile as Sawamura cheers, and he doesn't resist at all as he closes the door, Sawamura squeezing his hand and drawing him away from the cool lamplit evening and into warmer light.