It isn't the convenience store worker's fault you had such a shitty day. Really, you can blame that goddamn hard-boiled egg.
pairing: 7/11 Worker Hanamaki Takahiro x f!reader, SFW oneshot, 4.8K
notes: COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF EGG JOKES! apologies if you're allergic and/or hate eggs hehehe
written for the Anilysium (formerly Haikyuu Headquarters) SFW Collab "Meet Ugly"! Masterpost can be found here.
a NSFW option at A03 is listed at the end of the fic; however the Tumblr version will only be SFW!
i literally could not have finished this without the help of @vivianvampyric, @karasunowo, @vanille--kiss and @xmyshya ;;; thank you all so much, i honestly might cry cause i love and appreciate y'all so much hehe. and shoutouts to @miyans for the title of the fic!
It isn’t the convenience store worker’s fault you had such a shitty day. You know it. He knows it. Hell, the old woman standing in line behind you knows it.
And yet you can’t stop your voice from raising, tears streaming down your cheeks as you sob openly in the middle of 7/11.
The day had started off badly—you woke up late in the first place, running around to get ready for work, unable to have your usual coffee and breakfast. You’d missed your train by ten seconds, resorting to taking the cramped and sweaty bus where a man had been pressed against you almost the entire ride. When you finally arrived at work, you found out that a customer’s file you had been working on for weeks had somehow become corrupted, with only half the file able to be salvaged. You and a co-worker had rushed to redo the file before the boss came knocking, but he was less than pleased with your efforts, and he let you know by yelling at you in front of the entire office.
On the subway ride home, you held in your tears even though they pricked at the back of your eyes. During the walk back, you stopped by the 7/11 for a beer and some pick-me-up ice cream, determined to cry yourself to sleep while watching some dumb romance movie so you could blame your puffy eyes on the main character’s breakup instead of your failures.
You took a shuddering breath as you passed the worker your items, but your eyes flitted around the counter restlessly when he asked, “Is there anything else?” There certainly was—your fingers grabbed a chocolate bar, then a pack of gum, then landed on a packaged hard-boiled egg.
It was the egg that was your downfall.
“An egg, huh?” The worker commented and made you look up with a pout. “Rough day?”
Hanamaki Takahiro. At least that was what his nametag said, pinned to his green long-sleeved shirt. It clashed with his rosy brown hair, and the amused quirk to his matching brown eyebrows made the tears you fought so hard to contain line your bottom eyelids. The amusement dropped from his face as soon as he saw the tears leak down your cheeks, his entire body frozen as you started sniffling.
That stupid, goddamn egg.
It’s the entire reason you’re shouting at the poor worker.
“So what if I want to eat an egg!” You yell, hastily wiping your eyes as tears continue to trickle down your cheeks. “Can’t a girl eat an egg in peace?!”
“I—yeah, yeah, sure, of course,” he tries to placate you but it’s too late.
“Who are you to comment on my food choices! Eggs are delicious, okay?! Just ring me up already!” You snap as you try and fail to contain your sobs.
“I was just trying to make small talk.”
“Well don’t!”
It’s awkwardly silent as he bags your items and takes your money, and you avoid each others’ eyes as you receive your change. You hear the old woman mutter something as you stalk out but you’re too annoyed to care. The entire walk back to your apartment, you’re seething to yourself at the audacity of the worker to comment on your food choices, hastily wiping the tear stains off your cheeks.
It’s only when you sit down on your bed and pull the beer and egg out of the bag that mortification floods you. What the heck were you doing, yelling at an innocent worker for making small talk? You were in a bad mood and that wasn’t his fault; how was he supposed to know that a random girl had the worst day possible?
You groan and flop back on your bed, kicking your legs in embarrassment. You should apologize. Go back to the 7/11 and say I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Bow and grovel for your outburst and explain that you had a bad day.
But glancing over to your shoes in front of your door makes you frown, and you throw a pillow over your face with a whine and one last flop on the bed.
Maybe next time.
Every time you walk past 7/11 on the way to catch the subway, your eyes flick inside to see if Hanamaki Takahiro is working. Sometimes he is, sometimes he isn’t, but every time you decide not to go in. As annoying as it is to go to another convenience store, you make the trek, because every time you even think about going back in, you nearly die of shame.
When you tell your friend the story over drinks that Saturday night, she nearly falls over from laughing too hard, and you have to grab her arm to keep her upright.
“Stop laughing!” You whine as she wipes a tear from her eye, and she finally answers when she’s caught her breath.
“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes, waving a hand in your direction. “It’s just so funny. You know what you should do?”
“Other than die of shame?”
“You should buy him an egg as an apology gift.”
You scoff, setting down your drink with a shake of your head. “I think that’s the same thing.”
“Was he at least cute?”
You take a second to think about it. He was a bit cute, and maybe that’s why your embarrassment has kept you from apologizing. His smile was contagious and you’re sure if you were in a good mood, it would make you smile too. But when you think about him, you remember the way his eyebrows shot up in surprise, the way his lips curled into a grimace as you yelled at him for no reason.
With a sigh, you take a swig of your nearly empty beer and frown. “He sure was.”
“Your luck stinks,” your friend laments before patting the table. “Get us another round? I’ll be right back.”
You nod and begin to wander over to the bar top when you see him.
The flash of pinkish brown hair is what you notice first, then it’s that laugh—the same one he gave you when he was trying to joke with you at 7/11. Hanamaki Takahiro sits at a table with a dark-haired friend of his, laughing over a story the friend is telling, an empty glass to his right.
This is your chance. Sure your friend had joked about the egg as an apology gift, but what better “I’m sorry” gesture is there other than a beer at the bar? You order four pints, and when the bartender passes you two of them, you excuse yourself. Your hands are tight around the handles of the glasses as you approach the table, giving yourself a mental pep talk before you appear in front of them.
“Hello,” you begin before cursing your awkwardness.
“Hi,” Hanamaki answers, surprise evident in his lifted eyebrows and curious smile.
“I don’t know if you remember me but, um.” You shift on your feet, trying not to pull your gaze away from his stare even though you feel ready to run back to your table. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. You know, for yelling at you. While you worked.”
You set the beers on the table and gesture to them, hopeful eyes on Hanamaki’s reaction. If he accepts your apology, if he says it’s alright, then you’ll be able to put this whole thing behind you and—
Someone starts laughing, and you turn to see the dark-haired man with lazy eyes pointing a knowing finger in your direction.
“You’re the crying egg girl.”
… crying egg girl?
“Mattsun, you dick,” Hanamaki scolds in disbelief before he starts awkwardly gesturing between the beers, his friend “Mattsun”, and your face that’s stuck raised in surprise. “What he means is, uh, thank you. Yeah, thanks, it’s no problem. I can buy you a round after this if you want, uh…”
“That’s not needed,” you meekly respond, cheeks flushed dark red. If the world could swallow you up right now, that would be extremely helpful. “Anyway, um, sorry again. Bye.”
You hightail it out of there, running back to the bar to grab your other two drinks, but not before you hear Hanamaki yell, “You’re going to be autopsying your own body next, man, what the hell?!”
Every time you pass by the 7/11 on your way home to and from work, you clearly hear the voice of the dark-haired man at the bar ringing in your ears: crying egg girl. How embarrassing. It makes you duck your head as you pass by, averting your eyes from the large open windows and the pinkish-haired man who always seems to be manning the front counter.
It’s about a week later, on your way back after a long day, when someone calls for you with a loud, “Hey!” You almost wish you would have kept walking when you see Hanamaki Takahiro standing in front of the 7/11 front doors, a bottled coffee in one hand, ruffling the back of his head with the other.
“Um, hi,” you offer back, eyes bouncing down the street toward your apartment complex, brain quickly trying to figure out how you’re going to get out of this one.
“Are you on your way home from work?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh good. I’m on my break,” he explains and you try not to show your nervousness on your face. It’s so awkward. So awkward, in fact, that you feel a ripple up your spine, feet shuffling unconsciously to get the hell out of there. “Well, uh, I just wanted to say… sorry.”
Hanamaki holds out the bottle of coffee to you and you blink at it in surprise, tilting your head. “What’s this for?”
“An apology present. For what my friend said. Well, I guess what I said. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Your cheeks warm at the gesture and you take the coffee, holding it close to your chest as you mutter, “You didn’t have to.”
“Eh, I wanted to,” he shrugs nonchalantly before pointing with his thumb to the store behind him. “You can swing by anytime you want.”
Does he know you’ve been avoiding the store? Been avoiding him because of how awkward you were feeling? You nod, eyes flicking down to the nametag on his shirt to avoid his knowing eyes. He notices your gaze, giving you a lazy grin that makes your heart thump in your chest. He really is handsome now that you’re getting a better look at him, and his light eyes regard you with a strange caring instead of the embarrassment or scorn you expected.
“Name’s Hanamaki Takahiro. My friends call me Makki, so you can too if you want.”
“Oh, um, I couldn’t,” you flush, fumbling to put the bottled coffee in your purse. You raise your hand in a goodbye greeting, giving him a light smile. “Then I’ll see you around, Hanamaki-san.”
“Wait!” You turn back to him, tilting your head as he grins. “What about your name?”
“Oh,” you laugh breathlessly and offer it to him. Your heart goes absolutely crazy when he repeats it back to you, like he’s testing it out on his tongue for himself. Now it’s not embarrassment over the egg incident that’s making you want to run back to your apartment, but embarrassment over the fact that you’re flushing and stuttering for a near stranger like a schoolgirl in love.
“Well, bye then!” You call before turning on your heel, practically running down the street so you can hide your face in your pillow in peace.
Even though the embarrassment over the “egg-cident” (as you like to think of it) is just about over, a project at the office means late nights and no opportunities to visit the little convenience store on the corner. It’s another rough Friday when you finally drag yourself off the subway, a rumble in your stomach and a sigh on your lips. The beer and the little bento you put on the counter make the worker laugh, and when you look up, Hanamaki Takahiro is smiling down at you.
“Rough day?”
Not again.
You jokingly grimace, reaching in your bag for your wallet. “Do you want me to start crying again?”
“I would prefer it if you didn’t but if you need to, sure.”
“No thank you. I already embarrassed myself once, no need to do it again.” His laugh is like music to your ears and you decide then that you want to hear it again and again. “Do you always work here or something?”
He nods a few times as he scans your items, looking up at you with a grin, “And when I’m not, I’m at home playing video games.”
“Exciting,” you giggle then pause.
The same packaged hard-boiled egg that made you cry is near the cash register again today and you hear your friend’s voice in your head as you stare at it. You should buy him an egg as an apology gift. Can you really?
Your fingers move without thinking. You place two of them on the counter and blink up at him innocently as he scans them. When you finish paying and he bags your groceries for you, you grab one of the eggs from the bag and hold it out to him.
“Here.”
“Huh?”
“It’s for you,” you press. His confused stare makes you flush, but you stand your ground, shaking the egg in front of him again. “You gave me a coffee last time as an apology so I want to give you this egg as an apology.”
He snorts once before he takes the egg from your hand, considering it for a second before setting it down next to the register.
“What if I didn’t like eggs?”
“Who doesn’t like eggs?” You ask incredulously.
“I could have been allergic.”
“Then I would have felt really sad for you,” you tease, grabbing your shopping bag from the counter before giving him a wave. “See you later.”
“Is that a promise?” he teases in return, and you don’t miss the way his lips quirk up as he wiggles his fingers in a lighthearted goodbye.
It happens so gradually that you don’t even realize it, but soon you find yourself spending more and more time at 7/11, eating your bentos at the counter as Makki leans against a chair at your side, laughing as he recounts stories from his high school days in the Miyagi Prefecture.
In return, he listens to your stories about university, your complaints about your work, and your laments about living away from your parents. He’s easy to talk to, always returning your banter with a funny comment that makes you laugh or a joke that makes you roll your eyes but smile nonetheless. You enjoy your time there (even though your wallet doesn’t) and a few times, you spend your after-work evenings conversing with him until the sun dips below the horizon and you have to get home to shower.
Summer bleeds into the beginning of fall, and it’s a windy September day when Makki (as you now call him) waggles his finger at you jokingly.
“You got me in trouble.”
“What did I do?” You scrunch your nose at him as you try to fix your windblown hair and clothes, wandering over to the bento section to look around.
“My boss says I need to, and I quote: stop spending so much time on non-7/11 matters.”
“Oh no,” you laugh airily as you set a pork cutlet bento on the counter. Even if it’s a joke, you do feel a bit bad about taking up so much of his time. You shift on your feet, biting your bottom lip before looking up at him with an apologetic smile. “I’ll stop coming so much then.”
“I have a better idea,” he tells you before he reaches into his pants’ pocket.
He holds out a folded piece of paper and you take it, curiously opening it. On the inside is his phone number, written in scratchy black ink that goes jagged around the edges and shows his nervousness. You look back up at him in surprise, and the same nervousness is on his face as he scratches the back of his head.
“We could meet outside of the convenience store if you’d like. I’ll even take you to eat some eggs.”
“I eat things other than eggs!” You protest, pretending the flaming in your cheeks is from your indignation rather than the way your heart pounds in your chest from the offer.
“Then what do you like?”
“The gyudon from Yoshinoya is pretty good.”
“The one with the runny egg on top?”
“Yeah,” you reply immediately before you see a sly smirk rise to his lips. You puff your cheeks out and huff out your annoyance. “Don’t look at me like that, Makki!”
“Sorry,” he laughs. And laughs, and laughs, until you’re cracking a smile and joining him, playing with your still messy hair thanks to your nervousness. Makki is sly when he leans on the counter, tilting his head at you. “So when should I expect your call?”
You pretend to think about it, ignoring the heat in your cheeks as you tap your lower lip with your finger. “What time do you get off work today?”
“9.”
“Then 10.”
“How about 9:30?”
“9:45, and not a minute sooner.”
He fakes being wounded for a second before he shrugs, finally ringing up the food you had set on the counter minutes ago. It’s quiet as you hand over your money and receive your change, but as soon as he hands the bag out for you, he gives you a blinding smile.
“9:30.”
“You’re so impatient,” you scold playfully, taking the bag from his hands and waving goodbye to him as you exit the store.
The entire walk home, you can’t keep a smile from your face. You aren’t sure where this is going to lead, aren’t sure what your future date has in store for you—but the one thing you are sure about is that 9:30 can’t come soon enough.
There are barely any people at Yoshinoya when you arrive, so you’re able to grab a booth near the back so you can sit. Your nervousness made you come ten minutes early, so you drum your fingers on the table as you scroll through your phone, heart racing in your ribs. You’d asked him out on a whim last night and he had joked that you beat him to the punch by barely a minute, but when you arrive at the restaurant first, anxiety hits you like a freight train and makes your leg bounce underneath the booth.
Makki walks in just on time, his smile brightening when he sees you already there, and it begins an evening of laughs and smiles. The anxiety melts away with your banter, and your bowls stay half-empty for a while as you both chat. Eventually the dinner ends, and even though you both go back and forth on who’s going to pay, Makki wins out in the end after you lose at rock, paper, scissors.
“You know, I think that’s the first non-convenience store meal I’ve had in weeks,” Makki muses as he walks beside you, rubbing his full stomach. It’s close enough to walk and he insisted on walking you home, though you’re sure it’s because he wanted to prolong the date.
“Wait, really?” You ask incredulously as you blink up at him. “You don’t cook?”
“I can make a very delicious bowl of cereal,” he comments back with a grin.
“Let me cook for you sometime,” you offer, cheeks coloring at the way his expression lights up with excitement. “I’m decent in the kitchen.”
“What’s your specialty?” He asks, but before you can answer, he holds up his hand. “If it’s anything to do with eggs, I won’t let you live it down.”
You can’t tell him that you’re a master at making tamagoyaki so you instead say, “I’ve heard my udon wins hearts.”
“You don’t need udon to do that.”
Your eyes flick up to him but Makki isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at the sky, scratching behind his head, and you know he is just as nervous as you are. It makes you burst into a fit of giggles, and that’s what makes him finally look down at you with a raised eyebrow.
“What?”
“Next Saturday,” you tell him with a smile. “Come over and I’ll make you udon.”
“Friday,” he counters as he points in your direction. Your building is close now, lingering like a phantom that you don’t want to acknowledge because you aren’t ready to go home. “I get off at 6.”
“But if you come over early on Saturday, we can watch a movie.”
“I like the way you think,” he teases before you stop in front of your building and turn to him.
“Then come here at 4PM on Saturday and I’ll knock your pants off.”
Makki can’t contain his snort, putting his hand in front of his face as he tries not to laugh. “I think the saying is knock your socks off.”
“Whatever,” you mutter in embarrassment, pushing on his shoulder as he laughs again.
Before you can drop your hand, he grabs onto it, tugging you forward so you land against his chest. Your surprised squeal gets muffled into his strong chest as he wraps his arms around you. Makki’s heartbeat is loud against your ear as you hug him back, and you’re sure yours is just as loud when you pull yourself away, ducking your head to hide your flushed cheeks.
“See you Saturday.”
“Yeah, see you,” you greet in return, a smile stuck on your face as you race into your apartment.
The entire week, all you can think about is your approaching date on Saturday. Luckily it goes quickly, aided by the fact you’re absolutely swamped with work, spending too much time at the office and going home to eat and pass out. Saturday morning, it’s difficult to wake up but you force yourself to, cleaning the apartment before getting started on the udon broth.
Five minutes to four, there’s a knock on your front door and your heart just about stops. You fix your hair and your clothes, checking yourself out in the mirror near your front door before you open it. Makki stands on your doorstep, looking handsome in his beige sweater and jeans, and the nervousness you’ve avoided all week thanks to your workload hits you full force.
“Um, hi,” you lamely greet, stepping aside for him to enter.
“Hey,” he replies casually, slipping off his shoes before loudly exclaiming, “Please excuse me.” You shake your head at him as he checks out your little apartment, though with how small it is, he’s looked at everything in less than five minutes.
“Sorry it’s so small.”
“It’s better than mine,” he laughs as he takes a seat on your bed, leaning back on his hands. “Something smells good too.”
“What, you didn’t believe me?” You joke as you wander over to the TV, going through the options of movies you both can watch. He settles against the wall when you pick one, legs stretched out in front of him. You climb next to him, handing him the remote as you do.
You only remember the first thirty minutes of the movie; the rest is a blur thanks to how fast you fall asleep. You don’t mean to but the long week catches up to you without you knowing it, and your bleary eyes blink a few times before they open at once.
The TV is pitch black, and the only sounds you can hear come from above you. Wait, above you? It takes you a moment to realize the thing underneath you isn’t a pillow but Makki’s thigh. You spring up, wiping the corner of your mouth for drool, your tired eyes blinking away the fog as you stare at Makki and his amused expression. Checking the clock on your wall shows you it’s just after 6PM.
“I’m so sorry!” You wince, clapping your hands together in apology.
“No reason to be,” he placates you, setting his phone off to the side. “The movie wasn’t very good anyway.”
“Still,” you mumble awkwardly, scratching the back of your neck. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
“You’re cute when you sleep,” he grins. “Even cuter when you’re drooling on my leg.”
“Shut up, I did not!”
“If you look at my pants—”
You cut him off before he can tease you with a high-pitched, “I’ll heat up dinner!”
You use the excuse to run to the kitchen and calm yourself down, making two bowls of udon and eating them at a little lap table you prepared on the ground. There’s enough for seconds, which Makki very willingly slurps down, and when he’s done he leans back against your bed with a satisfied sigh.
“You weren’t kidding,” he jokes, patting his stomach. “Your udon really does win hearts.”
“So I succeeded then?” You giggle, stretching your legs out underneath the table.
“A perfect score. I bet you got a lot of those in school.”
“I actually—” You begin to say but pause the minute his foot knocks against yours. It isn’t a coincidence because he grins and does it again, his head tilting playfully as you stutter to add, “I was a B student, thank you very much.”
“Really? I pegged you as the student council president type.”
You scrunch up your nose, daring to move your foot against his when you ask, “Why?”
“With how much overtime you’ve been pulling? The word overachiever comes to mind.”
“The word overworked should come to mind instead.”
Makki throws his head back with a laugh and you can't help but giggle along with him, wiggling your toes against his skin just above the top of his ankle socks. You talk about this and that, never a pause in your conversation, and your feet keep playing with each other under the little table the entire time. It feels right sitting with him like this, full of laughs, smiles, and happy conversation—so when he announces he has to get going thanks to an early shift tomorrow, you can’t help the way your heart drops.
“Right, right,” you mutter as you pull your legs away from his and stand up.
There’s a wicked grin on his face as he brushes past you to get to the front door. “Don’t look so disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed!” You argue though you both know it’s a lie. You’d like him to stay longer but you know it’s not possible with his schedule.
Makki slips on his shoes before he turns to you. “Ah, almost left without the most important thing.”
“What’s that?”
His pointer finger taps his lower lip and you flush at the look on his face—a strange mix of confidence, excitement, and nervousness.
“What are we, a married couple?”
He laughs at your joke, hand starting to drop down by his side, but you catch it with your own, fingers tightening around his hand. Makki opens his mouth to say what you assume is one of his joking retorts, but you don’t let him. You stand on your toes and press your lips to his, and it’s slightly awkward for a second thanks to his open mouth, but then he’s kissing you back, his other hand cradling your cheek.
Your shared kiss tastes like salty udon, his thin lips moving against your own cautiously like he’s afraid to make a mistake. But it’s not a mistake, and you tell him that with a tug on his sweater to make him step closer. His body is warm against yours, your fingers curling in his shirt when he pulls back then kisses you again and again as if he can’t get enough.
Eventually he pulls himself away and his cheeks match the rosy underhues of his hair—a first for him and you memorize the expression. You hope to see it again and again, sure, but this one is special. A perfect memory of your first kiss together.
“Message you later?” He whispers against your lips with a grin as he steals one last kiss for good measure.
“If you don’t, I’m going to be mad.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we? Then I won’t get to hear your egg-cellent jokes.”
“Go home, Makki,” you frown jokingly, pushing at his shoulder until he laughs and opens your front door.
“Until next time then.”
You wait until he disappears out of the house and his footsteps fade down the hallway before you squeal and launch yourself into your bed. You roll around with your hands on your burning cheeks, kicking your feet in excitement.
Until next time.
Your fingers are buzzing with excitement when you grab your phone and unlock the message thread you have with Makki.
Next time isn’t going to schedule itself, now is it?
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