Work Text:
Whirrrr.
“State of the art, high powered…”
Whirrr.
Clink.
Clink.
“Ego friendly…ego….? Ah, eco.”
Whirrrr.
“…..”
Clink.
“….What does eco even mean?”
Clink. Clink. Clink.
“All for the low price of-“
CLINK.
“HEY.”
Murayama smacked the whirring fan, it’s oscillating blades returning to their normal hum.
Muttering to himself, he picked up the magazine from the counter. Running his finger underneath the words, he continued reading.
“All for the low price of- A HUNDRED THOUSAND YEN?”
Murayama brought the magazine closer to his face, reading the numbers again with wide eyes. An exasperated sigh left his throat.
He slammed the magazine shut and threw it to the ground. It hit the floor with a loud slap.
“WHY ARE VACUUMS SO DAMN EXPENSIVE?” He groaned loudly.
Grabbing the nearest object in proximity, he was midway breaking the broom over his knee when his brow suddenly furrowed.
“I shouldn’t break this” he mumbled to himself as he defeatedly let the broom fall to his side.
Murayama jumped as he heard the electronic door chime. He whirled around, clutching the broom in both hands.
A customer entered the store, and Murayama made eye contact with them as they walked in. He slightly bowed in acknowledgment, reciting a formal “welcome” as he did so.
The customer looked to be a salaryman, and he returned Murayama’s greeting. He was fanning himself with a newspaper and let out a hum at the sight Murayama’s rickety fan sitting atop the counter.
“Dreadful weather we’re having, huh? The heat is unbearable.”
“Ah- yeah, it’s..really hot out.” Said Murayama.
“Looks like you’ve got that to keep you company though.” The customer gestured to the fan.
“Oh- yeah, it’s a little old. And loud. And annoying.” Murayama lightly smacked the clinking fan.
The customer chuckled. “If it works, it works, right?”
The corners of Murayama’s mouth lifted a little. “Y-yeah, I guess so.”
Suddenly the customer glanced up, adjusting his glasses. “Ah, your head is bandaged. Are you alright?”
“Ah-? Oh, yeah, just an accident. I’m ok now.” He bowed. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Gotta be careful, don’t overdo it.”
As the customer walked away, Murayama ruffled his own hair, his nose scrunched up. He poked at the bandage and winced.
Murayama had always known he had the tendency to be awkward in conversation.
Not when he had Seki and Furuya at his side, or when he was hurling insults while beating the shit out of people, no he was fine there. It was beyond all that, the fistfights and gangs and such, that was tough.
In the normal, everyday world, Murayama was a little awkward.
Especially when it came to people.
Furuya insisted he had always been that way. Even before a steel pipe fell on his head.
Yeah.
Not the pussy freakin’ sticks in gang fights.
No, like an actual steel framed pipe.
Clang. On the noggin. Murayama’s noggin.
When he came to, Seki was sobbing at his bedside, Seki’s dad with a hand on his shoulder saying he knew he’d pull through. Furuya squeezing him half to death and the nurses rushing to his side. Nearly all of Oya High in the hallways of the hospital.
He had been out for three days, apparently. And he lived! Hooray!
The problem was he had forgotten the past week. Completely.
Something about mercury in retrograde and am-nee-see-a or something. He forgot what the doctor said.
He tapped repetitively on the counter.
He could recall nearly everything he had lost before the accident, though st first it was just nothing. Blank. His face would get even dumber whenever he tried to think.
Which the doctor discouraged, by the way, saying it would come back to him eventually.
But it had been more than two weeks. And he still couldn’t replace his bandage with his bandanna.
He was now working at a convenience store cause there was no way in hell Furuya would let him do construction work while he was recovering.
So here he was, early on a summer evening, melting in a 7/11.
There wasn’t much to do to pass the time on his shift, other than lean back on a foldable chair behind the cash register and barely feel the current from that rickety fan sitting atop the counter. Once or twice he’d close his eyes, maybe put a magazine over his face, but never fully fall asleep (as much as he wanted to) since he was still on the clock.
When Murayama decided to leave the entrance to the store open in hopes of a cool breeze, he had to leave his eyes open to notice customers, rather than the usual chime of the door alerting him that someone was there.
So then Murayama would turn on the radio that his boss always kept in the store.
He’d comb through the channels listening for something interesting. Talk shows were fun, but he’d get a headache near his bandaged head listening to the same voices for more than an hour. Purely music channels were fraught with commercials in between the songs, but Murayama found a pretty decent channel with old rock music and less annoying advertisers.
At around 10 in the evening on that hot day, Murayama found himself sweeping while some old rock played on the radio, the music distant as the cicadas roared outside. Murayama found the cacophony of noise calming.
Sure, quiet was nice, he just wasn’t that used to it. Ever since he had left Oya Koukou, quiet was one of the things he was getting used to having so much of.
It was weird, yeah. But talking to fill in the space didn’t help much. Murayama had come to find that adulthood was much quieter than he thought it would be.
Y’know, besides that clink clink and whirrr.
It was then Murayama heard it. A noise that drowned out the already hectic buzz of a summer evening.
At the roar of an engine, Murayama sat up, craning his neck to peer beyond the open door and to what little he could see of the street outside.
The deafening noise of the engine became louder and louder until Murayama was sure that whatever motorcycle it belonged to was right outside, slowing and revving before it came to a stop.
He knew that engine, cause he had known it way longer than just a month.
“Cobra-chan.” He murmured.
The blond walked in, cool as ever. Hair mussed with sweat and in a white shirt and some sweats.
If there’s one thing Murayama hadn’t forgotten, it was his all-consuming crush on this god of a man.
“…Murayama.” Cobra greeted. “How’s your..?” He gestured to his head.
“Ah, well, it hurts like hell.”
“Still?”
“Yeah. But it’s alright since I’m not- y’know-“ Murayama clenched his fists together in a fake boxing stance
“…That’s good?”
Before awkward silence settled between the two of them, Murayama cleared his throat. “Did you come here to buy something?”
“No, I asked the tall one where you worked.”
Murayama blinked. “Where I worked?”
“I heard about your head injury but I was out of town.”
It slowly dawned on Murayama. “Ah- oh- you were- worried? About? Me?”
Cobra rubs at his neck and oddly enough, he looks a little…embarrassed? And Murayama’s head begins to spin.
Murayama’s first instinct, call it customer service, is to 90 degree bow.
“THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN-“
Thunk.
He hits his head on the cashiers counter in full force.
He crumples to the ground.
—
When he comes to, he breathes in some soft smelling shampoo.
It’s not his hair. He uses five-in-one or something.
He opened his heavy eyelids and was greeted by pale blond.
Huh. That’s not his hair either.
His head slowly raises and he is made aware of his body being jostled, his body slumped against a back and someone’s loud breathing.
“Cobra…chan?” He mumbles.
“We’re almost to the hospital.” Cobra’s voice is loud, and definitely panicked.
“My head hurts.” Murayama groans. It feels like his head is being split into two, and something warm is trickling down the side of his face.
“Hold on, Murayama, just hold on”
Murayama’s eyelids close as he’s swallowed by black once more.
—
Murayama dreams of vacuums, blond hair, and the 7/11 logo.
—
This time, the doctor and Furuya were in agreement that Murayama was not to leave the hospital until his head injury was completely healed.
Thankfully, Murayama didn’t have to worry about Mercury in retrograde. Or losing his memories. Cause he still remembered the smell of Cobra’s shampoo. And Cobra, who now visited him often. Even if it was only out of guilt, Murayama didn’t mind. They were slowly getting closer, and the little Yoshiki’s running around in his braun thought of this whole situation as an absolute win.
As he sat in his hospital bed, watching some fool break into people’s houses to raid their fridge, he couldn’t help but think it was worth it.