Chapter Text
Loathing should be considered the smelling salt of the emotional spectrum with the way it manages to heighten one’s senses to every miniscule detail in the surrounding environment.
Like the dry, sterile scent of the recently mopped floors. The stupid ad for chicken nuggets playing on loop over the radio. Kazuya’s ugly knit sweater moving in front of him.
Mei rolls his eyes as he paces reluctantly behind him. He had told Kazuya that the sweater was hideous when he waltzed into their bedroom earlier this morning. He had told him to take it off. But Kazuya just made a crude joke, grabbed what he had come in for, and left just as swiftly as he had entered. Maybe if he had taken the constructive criticism to heart, he wouldn’t be followed by such an angry Mei right now.
But no, Kazuya had to shrug it off like he always does.
So, Mei continues to pout behind him as Kazuya saunters through the aisles, methodically checking items off of his neat list and humming along to that infuriating nugget ad and naturally being the annoying little shit that he is.
Mei lets out a quiet huff to release some of the tension building up in his head. Then, he grabs the first brightly packaged box of bullshit that catches his eye and tosses it into the basket Kazuya’s carrying. Whenever he gets dragged into the terrible, soul-sucking chore of grocery shopping, he plays the ‘how many items can he throw in the basket until Kazuya gets pissed off enough to say something’ game. (Some may be more keen on calling it ‘retaliation’, but Mei prefers to not take such a negative perspective.)
There’s already two packs of gum, a pair of tongs they don’t need, and a carton of unreasonably priced strawberries that Mei will definitely not share with Kazuya once they get home. The newest addition to his stash looks like it could be pasta. Or crackers. He didn’t really know. Or care.
He reaches out for a jar of pesto and throws that in as well.
Kazuya catches a glimpse of the basket’s newest addition. “Were you thinking sandwiches or a pasta dish?” He asks casually, fully aware that Mei’s attempting to get a rise out of him and poking back by acting like he’s oblivious to it.
Mei doesn’t respond—because responding would mean conceding victory to Kazuya—and pretends to look thoughtfully at the shelves instead. Kazuya returns to his actual shopping without another word.
Mei had been very much enjoying his couch time during this rare type of off-day that gets sprinkled throughout their season. While he was relaxed in the cushions, Kazuya made himself busy and tidied up the place for some godforsaken reason. Mei had inquired about it and said they should just hire a cleaner. Kazuya ignored his suggestion because he’s an asshole.
They had barely seen each other during the past month. Most of their very limited interactions happened in the genkan of their shared flat, one bursting through the front door desperate for a bath, the other slipping on shoes to catch the team bus. They’d share a couple of words, maybe a kiss if time allowed, and then they’d be off on their way. It’s exhausting, the constant in-and-out, the push of the sponsorships, the pull of their teams, Mei just wanted one day of reprieve.
But of course, Kazuya’s dumb glasses had to pop up behind his phone screen and ask him to go grocery shopping.
“Why?”
“So we have dinner today. And tomorrow. And the rest of the week.”
“Doesn’t your team have chefs for that? If your owners are too cheap, I can always grab an extra to-go box for you.”
“I don’t want their food,” Kazuya pushes Mei’s phone away from his face to grab his full attention. “Besides, home cooked meals taste better. Please come with me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my day off, Kazuya. I don’t want to do any activity that involves me leaving this couch.”
Kazuya remained persistent after that. Honestly, Mei was too irritated to remember how Kazuya managed to take him hostage. He just somehow ended up here, watching him debate between soy or almond milk, picking one up and putting it back with the trepidation of someone making a life altering decision.
“Do you have a preference?” He suddenly asks after swapping the two milks in his hand a couple times.
At first, Mei maintains his silence but then Kazuya prods again. “Neither.”
“Whole milk?”
“No.”
Kazuya sighs. “Mei, I’m getting this stuff for you.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You don’t need it now, but in a couple of days, when I’m Fukuoka and you want a midnight latte, I’m going to be getting a text complaint about how there’s no milk in the fridge.”
Mei narrows his eyes and turns away, never one to pick a fight when he knows he’s going to lose. “Almond.” He mumbles, just barely audible, and walks away.
Kazuya nods with a smirk and grabs the bottle. Mei retaliates by grabbing a pack of puddings. Kazuya eyes the package before returning to his list.
“So confident you’re going to win tomorrow?” He comments, referencing Mei’s habit of rewarding himself with a sweet treat every time he pitches a winning game. A habit which Kazuya had accidentally trained him into doing during the brief time they were a battery on the U18 team all those years ago. Mei remembers how he couldn’t stop talking about a new dessert café that had just opened, and Kazuya, bored with the poor performance the other team was putting up, had challenged him to a little game of their own. The bet? A dish and a drink of Mei’s choice. (And, of course, Mei won. He wouldn’t be deserving of the title ‘Prince of Tokyo’ if he couldn’t win a bet based on his own athletic ability.)
Even after they had split ways to their respective professional teams, Mei continued to get the occasional challenge from Kazuya:
Get a hit and give the camera a little wink.
Bet you can’t work the word “beans” into your post-game interview.
You know what would be sexy? Stealing a base.
Of course, these challenges are without any prizes from Kazuya given that he’s on the other side of the country doing his own thing, but Mei was satisfied with rewarding himself. If he succeeded, he kept with the theme of Kazuya’s first ever challenge and bought himself something to eat, sending pictures to Kazuya each time. Mei rarely got a reply but he knows Kazuya looks forward to those messages. Once, he had forgotten to text Kazuya after a draining game that went three innings longer than Mei’s legs could handle and got a call from Kazuya the next morning, checking in on him to make sure he was okay.
Mei smiles fondly at the memories. “Of course we’re going to win. I’m pitching.”
Kazuya smiles back at him. “I know.”
For a split second, Mei can feel his affection for Kazuya blooming, manifesting itself as a warmth in chest, and Mei hugs his arms around himself to try and hold onto it. But then he remembers he’s supposed to be upset with Kazuya and raises his nose with a huff before walking away again, arms still wrapped around his body. That draws a chuckle out of Kazuya.
“My suffering is no laughing matter, Kazuya.” Mei remarks.
“I know, it’s terrible, having to spend time with your devilishly handsome, two-time MVP boyfriend. Who knew Narumiya Mei was so charitable?”
“I am. They ought to engrave my name on a bench somewhere.”
“I’ll be the first one to sit on it if they do.”
“That giant butt of yours would probably break it.” Mei kicks his bum for good measure, choosing to not comment how easily his foot bounces right off of it. Show-off , he scoffs in his head.
“Oh, you’ve noticed?” He grins cheekily, knowing full well that Mei is very much bothered by the fact that glute development comes ten times easier for Kazuya than himself. Mei slaps him on the arm, and Kazuya has the audacity to start laughing.
If Mei grabs a fistfull of candy on his way toward the checker and chucks it in the basket, it’s because Kazuya is an asshole who deserves it.