Chapter Text
Florida heat is unlike any other heat Asahi has experienced. It’s not just hot, it’s humid, and it sits heavy like a blanket. It’s incredibly claustrophobic. Asahi’s not sure if the wet spot on the back of his shirt is from his own sweat or the damn atmosphere. He contemplates turning back around, thinking about his empty, air-conditioned bedroom he just moved into. Sure, it was new, unfamiliar, practically unfurnished but hey, at least there was air conditioning.
No, he can’t. He’s been putting this off for too long. It was just his luck that his car broke down a week after moving in, and is currently getting fixed. He needs groceries.
And it wasn't like Publix is far from where he lived — it’s only three quarters of a mile — but it is just so, so hot, and every step takes more and more effort. It feels like divine punishment for… something. Whatever it is, Asahi doesn’t know. He trudges along.
The Publix sign’s bright green letters welcome him. It’s his second time in this store, his second time in a Publix at all, but suddenly, for a brief moment, he understands why Floridians love the chain so much. The blast of air conditioning hits him as soon as he walks through the double doors, and it makes his sweaty face and soaked back icy-cold. Asahi takes a second to stand there, free from the suffocation of heat and humidity, and then he takes out his grocery list. It’s a crumpled piece of paper he ripped out from a spare notebook, and he unfolds it: rice, beans, coffee, chicken breast, vegetable (broccoli? carrots?), eggs, milk, soap, fruit.
The way Asahi writes his list is always spur of the moment, mainly in the middle of the night when randomly remembers he’s about to run out of something. Because of that, it’s rarely compatible with the grocery store layout, so he re-reads the entire list a few times throughout each shopping trip. It could be streamlined, he knows, but he forgets.
It’s times like these when he wishes he did streamline it: he buys a head of broccoli before he forgets he just passed the poultry section; he puts the eggs in his cart when he realizes that he needs to turn around and go back to the produce aisle to get fruit. Extra steps are frequently a byproduct of his poor grocery list system.
Asahi is back in the produce aisle, and he thinks about what fruit to buy. He’s a newly minted resident of the great state of Florida. Aren’t oranges their state fruit or something? They have to be good here, right? Yes, he must buy oranges. Asahi feels a little giddy at the concept of eating a Floridian orange when he goes back to his new house. How different are Florida oranges from normal ones? He drools at the idea of a cold, juicy orange in the heat of the summer. Yes, oranges are a good idea.
The list is slowly checked off, and Asahi makes his way to the checkout counter. A cashier wearing a bright green button-up and a black apron greets him. He has dark hair that’s gelled up with a tuft of blonde in the front and piercings on his ears. He looks really badass. He smiles cheerfully. “Hello! Did you find everything okay?”
Wow, Asahi thinks, my first cool person in Florida. He is trying to make out the tattoo on his bicep, which is obstructed by his sleeve, when he remembers he needs to answer.
“Oh — yep! Thanks!”
The cashier is scanning his groceries, talking about hurricane season, and Asahi is reading his nametag, Noya, when he remembers he forgot to get something, something he didn’t write down on his list. A really, really, really important item. Trash bags.
He momentarily panics, doesn’t realize he said “Um!” out loud, and the cashier — Noya — stops scanning his eggs, looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. He’s being put on the spot.
“I, uh. I forgot something! Trash bags! But, uh, it’s okay, I’ll get them after, haha, no worries. Sorry, thanks. Continue!” Asahi knows his face is turning red, and he mentally shoots himself for panicking, and then for being awkward after panicking, and for panicking and then being awkward in front of the only cool, tatted, pierced, alternative, badass cashier he’s seen in Florida.
But Noya is great at customer service. “Oh, no, it’s fine! There’s nobody in line after you,” Noya gestures to the empty space behind Asahi, “why don’t you run and get it real quick, so you don’t have to make another trip?”
Asahi, still panicking in awkward mode, just follows Noya’s instructions. He quickly walks back into the aisles, realizes he panic-walked into a random aisle (the wrong aisle (the canned goods aisle)), walks out of the canned goods aisle, looks at the signs, tries to find trash bags in the toiletries aisle, then the kitchen goods aisle, then the bathroom aisle, and he is in the bathroom aisle for a solid minute, eyes darting around, trying to find those goddamned trash bags, begging that Noya didn’t think his customer just walked out on him mid-checkout, or worse, started getting mad at him.
He scans the bathroom aisle for the third time when he sees Noya, peering at him from the end of the aisle. Asahi was already embarrassed, but now, he’s doubly, no, triply, embarrassed.
Noya is hospitable. He barely pays attention to Asahi’s red face, which is getting progressively redder. “Aha! I figured you got lost looking for trash bags. Here, they’re in aisle ten! Let’s go.” Noya points to the left, and leaves, and Asahi follows.
In aisle ten, paper goods, he grabs the first box of trash bags he sees and follows Noya back to the counter.
“Sorry about the bother…” Asahi mutters while Noya is weighing broccoli.
“No no no,” Noya cuts him off abruptly with a smile, “My job is literally to help customers, it’s what I’m getting paid for!”
Noya looks up at Asahi, before looking down again. “Also, it's weird seeing a big guy like you apologize to me!” He chuckles, and Asahi feels mortified thinking about how stupid he must have looked being a grown man, six-foot-one and all, panic-searching for his trash bags. “Besides, it’s no big deal, the trash bags are always in a weird spot, even at the old Publix I worked at. ”
“Yeah, this is, uh, only my second time here, at a Publix, so hopefully things will get better…“
Noya’s eyes grow wide. “Woah. Really? Like you mean any Publix? At all?” Noya’s still scanning and holding a conversation and maintaining eye contact with Asahi at the same time. It’s really impressive.
“Y-yeah.”
“Holy sh — I mean — holy moly, sorry, professionalism! Oh, and, your total is $56.95! Will that be cash or card?”
“Card, please.”
“Oh!” Noya says, “I almost forgot. You can enter your number here to sign up for Publix perks, and get five dollars off this purchase! They don’t send you promotional texts. Promise.”
Asahi enters his number, because paying five dollars less is always better than paying full price. Once the receipt is getting printed, Noya returns back to the conversation. “Have you tried a Pub sub yet?”
“Uh, sorry, a what?”
Noya’s jaw drops. Asahi is confused.
“Dude. I can’t believe you don’t know what a pubsub is. I’m not sure if you have time, or budget, today, but it's like a sandwich, like Subway, but it's made here, in Publix.”
Noya turns and points to the large DELI sign. He leans towards Asahi. “It’s so good. And I’m not saying this because I work for them. Dude. If you haven’t tried it, you need to. Today, tomorrow, next time you come back. If you need any recs, let me know. Also, there’s always at least one Pub sub on sale every week. Nine dollars for the entire thing. If you wanna know what’s gonna be on sale, let me know.”
Asahi wonders how Noya expects Asahi to “let him know,” considering they have no other way of contacting each other (he just met the guy, doesn’t even know Noya’s work schedule) but Noya’s eyes are filled with intensity, and Asahi’s never heard a stranger talk so much about a grocery store Subway equivalent, and Noya looks really cool, so Asahi nods, takes the receipt, takes his bags, thanks Noya, walks back into the heat, agonizes over his embarrassing moments, and thinks about what a Pub sub would taste like.