Work Text:
”Just give me five minutes, you impatient twink! I’m right around the corner!”
Yeah, right.
Ouma sits alone at a table in the coffee shop, nursing a cup of latte (doused in a copious amount of syrup). He continues to scroll through his phone, irritated beyond belief, because his slut of a best friend decided to be late to their little meeting.
He shoots a quick text to Iruma, blowing bubbles into his drink. ”you here yet?”
Five minutes later, he’s yet to receive a response. He’s almost positive that Iruma’s out fucking around now, and that doesn’t help his case at all because he literally has a meeting with a group of his friends in an hour. He decides to shoot one last message to her, hoping she actually responds.
”i swear, if u don’t hurry the fuck up, im going to—”
“—H-hey, is this seat free?”
Ouma jumps in surprise, and he accidentally presses the send button too soon. He looks up to see a stranger standing before him, golden-yellow eyes staring directly at him. However, the stranger quickly adverts his eyes when Ouma meets them. That’s when Ouma becomes aware of how full the coffee shop had gotten in the time he was waiting. The only open seat is in front of him: the one he’s currently waiting for Iruma to take.
He’s half tempted to decline, but also, he wants to accept just to spite Iruma for being late. He had made her promise to arrive in time, but she’s still nowhere to be seen.
He takes a closer look at the stranger, narrowing his eyes. He has navy-blue hair that reaches just above his shoulders, and he looks like he’s literally living off coffee. There’s also something he realizes, and it’s that this guy looks very familiar.
(And attractive, but that’s not going to sway his already solidified decision.)
“…Yeah, you can sit, but I planted a bomb underneath your seat, so watch out,” he answers. A lie, obviously, but the stranger looks like he at least considers it, eyes widening.
“There’s a what?” He asks, eyes darting to the empty seat, and Ouma snickers. He sets down his phone and crosses his legs, propping his elbow against the table.
“That was a lie!” He reveals, and the look of confusion and wariness on the other’s face is enough to give him an idea of who this is. A part of the police force, perhaps…?
“I didn’t do anything with the chair, by the way, I’m telling the truth,” he continues, grinning. The stranger furrows his eyebrows, before sighing reluctantly and taking the open seat. As expected, nothing happens.
“See? I told you there’s nothing,” Ouma says, shrugging, and the other hums. The stranger reaches into the bag that had been hanging off his shoulder, then pulls out a laptop.
Working here, huh? Ouma realizes, leaning into his seat. Well, he supposes this place does have the right atmosphere… even if it’s unnecessarily crowded now.
That’s also when he notices the sticker taped on the corner of the laptop. “Detective Saihara,” it reads…
“A detective, hm?” Ouma reads, curious. “That’s probably why you look like you haven’t slept in ages, nishishi!”
The stranger (Saihara, he supposes) winces, staring at him in confusion. Then, he seems to realize that Ouma had been referring to the sticker on his laptop, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, a detective… but do I really look that bad…?” He asks. Ouma giggles.
“That was a lie. You look amazing, Sai-ha-ra-chan~!” He remarks. The name sounds nice on his tongue, surprisingly. And for once, the compliment isn’t a lie, because damn, Saihara is actually very attractive, even with his funny emo look.
He takes another look at the other, getting a hold of his appearance. Golden-yellow eyes and navy blue hair, he’s already established that. He also notices that Saihara has long, feminine eyelashes, that frame his eyes quite well. His eyes unwillingly trail down to his lips.
Looks soft… he thinks to himself, then mentally facepalms himself, because that is a very random thought he shouldn’t be thinking of anyone he just met.
“Yeah, pretty…” he mumbles to himself, which might have been a little too loud, because Saihara seems to have heard it.
Saihara’s face turns red, and his eyes dart away. “T-thank you?” He says, and it comes out sounding more like a question than anything. “Cute” is the first thought that crosses his mind, and he freezes.
...Goddamnit. He blames hormones.
(But the fact still stands that he never found anyone attractive upon first sight. Almost never.)
“Well, never mind that, what are you working on?” Ouma asks, switching the topic. Saihara blinks, before he opens his laptop.
“I’m cleaning up a case, actually,” he answers. Suddenly, a yawn slips past his lips. Ouma grimaces when he once again registers that he finds it unbelievably cute.
That also brings up the question of: does Saihara even sleep? It sure doesn’t look like he has a healthy sleeping schedule, upon first glance.
“Sleepy?” Ouma teases, amused. Saihara blinks, before shaking his head. However, the yawn that slips past his lips again only proves Ouma’s conjecture further.
“N-no, I’m not,” he answers, and Ouma can tell immediately that it’s a lie. “I just haven’t had my coffee yet, that’s all.”
Coffee. Well, he figured. “Yeah, coffee!” Ouma exclaims enthusiastically. “I looove coffee, especially black coffee!”
(That is a blatant lie. He absolutely loathes black coffee. Coffee, in general, actually.)
Saihara seems to believe him for a moment, before his eyes trail down to the cup in Ouma’s hand. They narrow, before widening, and Saihara lets out a surprised noise.
“U-um… is that a lie?” Saihara asks, and Ouma tilts his head. He turns the cup around in his hand. Then, he remembers the paper that’s taped onto the side, with his own name, and all the ingredients listed under the drink’s name. All the ingredients, including the extravagant amount of sweetener he demanded.
He smiles. Well, he supposes it is a detective’s job to pay attention.
“A-accusing me of lying?” Ouma asks, sniffling in false sadness. “How rude of you, S-Saihara-chan!”
Saihara looks panicked at his sudden change in expression, and quickly shakes his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come off as rude!” He apologizes. Ouma blinks away his fake tears, snorting. A typical response, really, but it’s still funny to him.
“You’re so fun to tease, my beloved,” he comments. The nickname slips out before he can stop it, and they both freeze.
Ouma manages to regain his composure quicker than Saihara, coughing into his fist nonchalantly. Saihara looks visibly flustered, his cheeks tinted with a light pink color.
“Anyways,” Ouma continues quickly, hoping it doesn’t sound too rushed. “You should get some coffee, because I don’t want to be accused of murdering you if you die here.”
Saihara smiles sheepishly. “I-I really don’t think it’s that bad,” he mumbles, but relents nonetheless.
Saihara’s hand makes its way to his pocket, before his eyes widen. Ouma watches in curiosity as the other boy sighs reluctantly, grimacing.
“Hmm? What happened?” He asks, playing with his plastic straw. Saihara offers him a sheepish smile.
“It’s nothing, I just forgot my wallet,” he answers. Ouma frowns, raising his eyebrows, and his hand gravitates towards his own pocket.
Now, he isn’t one to randomly offer to buy someone’s drink for them, because he’s not that generous. But, hey, there’s a first time for everything, right? And it definitely doesn’t have to do with the fact that he already finds Saihara very interesting. Definitely not.
(That’s what he tries to tell himself… it doesn’t work.)
“I’ll pay for you,” he suggests, pulling out his own wallet. Saihara’s eyes widen.
“No, you don’t have to!” He insists, waving his hand dismissively. “I can go a day without coffee, really.”
Ouma snorts. “You literally yawned twice in the five minutes we’ve been talking. And you look like you haven’t slept in ages, like I said earlier. Are you sure you don’t need coffee?”
Saihara’s face turns red, and he adverts his gaze. “W-well—”
“See? That’s why I’m getting something for you. Don’t think this will be a regular occurrence, because I’m not actually this generous with others!” He claims, sliding a bill to the detective.
(He realizes shortly after that what he just said implied that they would meet again, but it’s already too late to correct what he said. If he’s being honest, actually, he wouldn’t mind seeing Saihara again.)
Saihara’s lips thin into a line thoughtfully, and he stares at the bill offered to him. Then, he sighs.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Saihara says, smiling, and Ouma swears his heart skips a beat. Fuck. He looks away, pulling his hand back, and hums.
“…You owe me one for this, don’t forget,” he remarks, nose twitching. Saihara chuckles softly, and Ouma sees him nod in his peripheral vision.
(Saihara seems to agree that they’ll meet again.)
“A-ah, also,” Saihara suddenly starts, and Ouma listens. “I still haven’t gotten your name. Can I have it?”
Oh… that’s true, actually. Ouma has Saihara’s name, but he never shared his own identity. He almost considers making up a name on the spot, but decides that he’s formed enough of a bond with the detective to share.
“…Ouma Kokichi. Remember it well, Mister Detective,” he comments, ignoring the way his heart beats annoyingly in his chest. Saihara seems satisfied with the answer, nodding happily.
And, again, Ouma can’t help but feel that the face looks very familiar.
Half an hour later, Saihara excuses himself from the shop, with a final “Thank you,” to Ouma. It is exactly after Saihara leaves, that Iruma bursts into the coffee shop, looking disheveled.
“What the fuck was with that message?” Iruma asks, walking up to his table and slamming a palm against the the smooth surface, garnering the attention of several customers around them. She shoves her phone into his face, pointing towards his last message that had been abruptly cut off. “I thought you were dying or something!”
Ouma snorts. “Was Iruma-chan worried about me? What took you so long?” He shoots back, frowning. Iruma clicks her tongue, sliding into the now empty seat across from him.
“An accident in the lab, idiot,” she mutters. He guesses that speaks for the way Iruma’s hair sticks up in several directions now. Well, he’s a bit doubtful… but he’ll let it slide.
“Well, at least I had company while you were gone,” Ouma remarks, shrugging, and Iruma balks at him.
“Tch. Lying little bastard,” she mutters, crossing her arms. “No one in their right mind would want to sit with you.”
As you’re sitting with me right now, he thinks smugly. Well, it’s not like she has to know about his unprecedented meeting.
Research is something Ouma absolutely loathes to do. But his interest had peaked ever since his meeting with Saihara, so the moment he returns home, he pulls up Google.
Detective Saihara… something about the name and face seem familiar. Very familiar. And it may just be Ouma’s knowledge of several other detectives, but he could’ve sworn that he’s talked with Saihara at least once before.
When the name of his agency appears, Ouma realizes why he found him so familiar.
He smiles behind his phone. Saihara was the one that helped with his “missing person” case, it seems.
(”Your friend has gone missing?” A navy-haired detective asks Ouma.
”Well, yeah, isn’t that what I just said?” Ouma questions back, frowning. Deep down, he’s scared, because quite frankly, he doesn’t want to lose any of his members.
”…Don’t worry. I’ll take your case.” The detective says, smiling. The same warm smile Ouma sees two years later, at a coffee shop.)
It isn’t until a week later, that Ouma (quite literally) bumps into Saihara.
He’s walking in the direction of his apartment building, right around the corner from the coffee shop, talking on the phone with Iruma.
“I told you, I wasn’t the one who took your underwear, what the actual fuck,” he laments, sighing, and he hears someone choke behind him. Well, without context, what he just said does sound a bit weird, he supposes.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been walking with his eyes shut, because suddenly, he feels himself walk into something soft, and he jerks back.
He opens his eyes, and when he looks up, he sees familiar golden-yellow eyes staring back at him.
“Oh… Ouma-kun?”
Ouma’s lips instinctively break into a grin at the familiar voice. “Saihara-chan! Fancy meeting you here!”
Saihara blinks, before smiling softly. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, and Ouma sees him fiddle with his sleeve. “It’s nice to see you, though.”
Ouma feels his own cheeks heat up at the last statement, and he folds his arms behind his head, rocking on his heels.
“So we meet again, hmm?” He remarks happily. “It’s almost like fate!”
That visibly flusters Saihara, who coughs quietly into a closed fist. His eyebrows scrunch together, and Ouma has to stop himself from combusting right then and there. Who gave the detective the right to be so adorable anyways?
When Saihara composes himself, he brings his gaze across the street, to the coffee shop they had met at before. Then, his gaze travels back to meet Ouma’s.
“Ah, well,” Saihara starts, a blush tinting his cheeks, “I guess I do owe you a drink, Ouma-kun. Are you free?”
Ouma blinks. He has to replay the words in his head twice before he realizes that the detective is asking him out.
(Not on a date, he tells himself. This isn’t a date.)
Ouma grins, trying to hide his momentary internal panic, and nudges Saihara’s shoulder. “Is that even a question? For Saihara-chan, I’m free anytime, so be glad I’m blessing you with my presence today!”
(He can also reveal the fact that they’ve met before, because Saihara seems to have forgotten, too.)
As he walks with Saihara to the place where it all began, he suddenly thinks that life will get a lot more interesting.