Chapter Text
For the lack of a more refined word, Megumi hates his job. A lot of people have said the phrase before; it's nothing new. Expressing utter repugnance for working is a rather common sentiment, and that in itself is a strangely comforting fact. Megumi isn't alone in his suffering. Somehow, it makes him feel just the tiniest bit better that this shithole called Earth is filled with other people bitching and griping about it.
Though, that hatred is not specifically directed at B&M. At supermarkets. At retailers. At the small, 'insignificant' jobs that people rarely stop to think about. A pity, really. At the end of the day, it's only Megumi who understands the true horrors that lurk behind those freakishly tall steel shelving units. Of course, it isn't much of a surprise. There's the common assumption that stacking tins of beans, working the checkouts, and crushing empty cardboard boxes is mundane and comes with little risk. You harm yourself? It's your own stupidity. You have beef with your manager? Tough luck. You're overworked and underpaid? Your problem, not mine. It's the way of the world as everyone knows it.
That's where the commonplace couldn't be more wrong.
It's stupid to think it out loud—that there's something more to checking expiry dates than meets the eye. And really, Megumi does wish that was all there was to it. A boring job. That's all he needs. A break from the second year of his undergraduate degree. He's only here to pay off his student debt; the numbers started to get too big to ignore. It's not as if he's working here out of the goodness of his own heart. Who would willingly want to spend nine hours of their day in this dumpsite of a retailer?
Unfortunately, the monotony of the practice also doesn't make much sense when taken out of context, but from Megumi's experience, people are real assholes. Nobody prances around farting rainbows out of their butts or with stars in their eyes. In actuality, they're oversensitive, overstimulating and make Megumi feel incredibly uncomfortable with their overbearing presence. His uniform feels just that little bit tighter, like the collar of his shirt is actively trying to suffocate him.
It's pitiful to think that even an inanimate object has leapt into sentience just to free him from his misery. Yes. That's exactly how far his life has fallen. Already losing his mind, and he's barely been scraping by for a month. There are so many things Megumi hasn't done yet—including, but not limited to, busting the tires of Gojo’s car. Guess he can still do that in hell. If hell even has cars. And roads. And Gojo. Of course it will… someday. Megumi can't imagine it being the same place without him.
The collar pulls at Megumi’s skin now, as he stares down the old lady in aisle seven, eyes narrowed into what he hopes is a threatening scowl. For an wizened old crackpot, he has to admit, the ferocity of her glare is rather impressive.
It's much less so when he's reminded that she's here to complain about the pack of Andrex toilet rolls.
Ah, yes. The pack of Andrex toilet rolls. As luck would have it, the very same pack of Andrex toilet rolls that he accidentally ripped a massive hole in. The details of how, exactly, he did that continue to conveniently evade him even as he faces down this glasses-wearing, old cardigan-smothered demon. Her long, wrinkly fingers clench around the metal basket she's holding as though it's her long lost purse, not a shopping basket. Megumi didn't think it would be possible to see the pasty white shade of her skin go any paler, but he's quickly proved wrong as she lets out an offended scoff.
Usually, Megumi considers himself a rather cool-headed person, and it takes a lot more than just a simple squabble over mishandled produce to anger him. But to represent his feelings in a more physical sense—his therapist would be proud—they're rather like those wooden shape puzzles that spawn in every hospital’s waiting room. Under normal circumstances, only certain shapes can fit through and fulfill the requirements to make him lose his ever-loving shit. With the sole exception of Satoru Gojo, of course.
And, apparently, this random old lady who can't seem to take a simple no for an answer. Stubborn bitch.
“I already told you,” Megumi heatedly begins his explanation for what feels like the fiftieth time but is actually only the third. Or fourth. Maybe even fifth, at a push. Time has gone hazy and he can't exactly remember how long it's been since this pointless argument even began. He'd just been minding his own business on the way to restock the dairy fridges! Why did the world suddenly decide he had to be the one to deal with this old prune? “It says on the receipt that we don't do refunds for sanitary items.”
Which, logically speaking, is a good policy to have. Sort of like how in some jewellery shops, you're not allowed to try on their earrings, or in footwear stores, you have to wear the weird socks that remind Megumi very strongly of ballerina tights.
“But there's a hole in the back!” the old lady screeches vehemently, tapping her fake pink acrylic nails on top of the ripped plastic cover. The one on her index finger is chipped ferociously. Nobara would have a field day if she were here. The patronizing movement is very clearly done for emphasis. As if Megumi also lacks eyes glued to his skull, and is also incapable of seeing two feet in front of his own face.
Blind as a fucking bat.
Grimacing, he only just manages to hold back the visible flinch in his shoulders when the woman continues to natter on. His eyes begin to drift and as does his mind. She's got a hooked nose like a beak and a squawking voice to match. She even looks the type to own a flock of birds; a parrot or two, maybe a pair of lovebirds to make up for the lack of her own romance. “This is utterly unacceptable! I demand to speak with your manager!”
Part of Megumi almost wants to deliver up the old hag to Gojo. The voice that roars inside his head demands self-satisfacfion, seeks the judgement from another. He's loath to admit it, but Gojo has an incredibly sharp tongue. This old bitch would be torn to shreds before she could even stand a chance at rivalling his manager's wits and massive ego. But unfortunately, it's far too early for Christmas and he wasn't going to get Gojo a present anyway, even if it did score him a promotion. So instead, as ‘Beakface’—so he has endearingly and aptly decided to call her—turns to leave, swinging the basket from her arm like a Gucci handbag, Megumi reaches out to stop her.
Of course it's all from the goodness of his own heart. Absolutely.
“Ma’am—” he forces the courtesy out, though he already knows she's far from deserving of his respect. The older customers are always the hardest to deal with, second only to the gangs of teenagers. Guess he understands now why Gojo gets such a kick out of putting them in their place—if not only for the sake of his overinflated head.
She must be telepathic or something of the sort, not that Megumi believes in superstition. He's walked under ladders and opened umbrellas indoors plenty of times and he's still, unfortunately, alive and kicking. But there is quite literally no other way to explain the inhumane speed at which she turns, almost as if she can sense the very way the air changes when his hand quickly cuts through it.
Despite Megumi not so much as laying a finger on her, she lets out a ragged gasp and shrinks away from him. Someone might've thought Megumi had burned her with a hot stake, but no. The only thing that dots her wrinkled, sagging skin are a couple of moles and blemishes. No such sight of a single, angry red mark anywhere… much to Megumi's chagrin.
And then she opens her mouth again. Megumi almost gets down on his knees and claps his hands together in silent prayer. He's not a religious man by any means, but he'll beg any god that listens to make sure she never opens it again.
There's silence for a good two seconds. Two long, hard seconds where the horror quickly dawns on Megumi’s face.
There's no way she's gonna do it. Right?
Apparently, there is. The two long, hard seconds of tension quickly become two heavenly seconds of reprieve that Megumi is granted on an unspoken wish. He barely has enough time to clamp his hands over his ears as the old lady shrieks at the top of her lungs, “Don't touch me!” Her outburst is paired with a very dramatic and over the top gesture of pointing at Megumi like he's a Salem witch being sentenced to death via a burning pyre. To him, that description seems much more fitting for her, but ‘whatever makes the customer happy’, he supposes.
Her shrill scream is so loud that it somehow manages to cut through even the piercing volume of the supermarket's music. The speakers are currently blasting some pop song that Megumi doesn't recognize. Gojo's the only one who listens to that shit anyway, so he has the damn music turned all the way up to the max; it's a miracle the speakers haven't broken yet.
If she keeps going, maybe Beakface will get her wish of meeting the manager after all.
He's about to open his mouth and spit out some retort, coupled with a shocking amount of expletives—because fuck this job and fuck Beakface—when Megumi hears the scuffle of shoes somewhere to his right.
Oh, yeah. He can fuck Beakface in a completely different way by ignoring her shitty and unjustified complaint altogether.
The scuffle of shoes belong to a pair of very old and very battered trainers. Megumi can tell that much without even looking at the owner of them. Something to do with the sound they make against the polished floor. His eyes automatically flick down first. They are, indeed, very old and very battered. The top of the shoe is coated with a thin layer of dried dirt and choppy grass stains, and the laces are knotted messily over the top of it. The only reason he can tell that they're some knock-off version of Converse is because the lopsided stars printed and peeling over the fabric resemble the iconic logo. It's hard to tell what colour they originally were, but if Megumi had to hazard a guess, he would say red. He blames the assumption entirely on the guy's soft pink hair. Maybe it was originally red, too; a hard colour to pull off, but Megumi admits it, this guy does. Soft, because he watches as the teenager cards a hand through it as easily as Megumi imagines Moses parted the Red Sea.
Worse still, he looks good. Shockingly good, actually. It's not everyday—or, well, any day—that he gets to see a pretty face around these parts. As well as being total assholes, most people, unsurprisingly, are very mediocre.
Megumi is grateful that he's trained enough to keep quiet. Ever since he started working here, there's been enough talk about Gojo. His manager isn't his type; more like a father than Megumi wants to admit to himself or anyone else. And yeah, besides. He's way too old. Taken too, from the looks of it. He doubts Gojo smiles down at his phone for any other reason, unless it's just because he's looking at his own face in the camera.
"Um, hi," the teenager starts, gaze darting nervously between him and Beakface; he's rather young-looking, definitely younger than Megumi. Though one thing suggests otherwise: the twin scars on his face. One stretches between his eyebrows, long and thin where the other resembles a four-pointed star over the corner of his lips. They don't seem like the ordinary kind—the sort that kids get in high school squabbles.
Huh. That's odd.
But that aside… It's none of Megumi's business. Not like he has any reason to care about what this guy's deal is. He's a customer, so he'll get treated like one. Just because he looks attractive enough to be a supermodel doesn't mean he gets special treatment.
And apparently, he also has some semblance of a brain to catch up to his good looks. Obviously, he's conversationally apt enough to realize that he's just interrupted something very important. Judging by the way his face twists almost meekly, and his shoulders sag inward. A quick glance at the old lady confirms that her ghostly face has progressed into a deep, offended shade of red. Good. That's just what he needs.
The newcomer's voice carries well in the space; it's just as youthful as his face implies. "I'm looking for milk straws." He turns to face Megumi when he speaks. Right. Of course. Store inquiries should be directed to members of staff, and Megumi is very clearly wearing the standard B&M uniform. His collar is upturned and his visor is a little wonky, falling into his eyes and messing up the spikes of his hair, but the physical state of him is the least of his worries. Even someone with no common sense could tell that Beakface doesn't work here. For one, she's carrying a customer's basket, and for another, a care home looks to be a much more fitting place for an old timer like her.
If he was worse for wear, Megumi might have even suggested a cemetery. But hey, he doubts the old lady has done anything seriously bad enough to deserve dying. That's a little harsh, he has to admit, even for him.
Brown eyes, warm and melted like pure distilled sunlight, shine straight into his soul. "Do you know what aisle they'd be in? I can't seem to find them…" He scratches at the nape of his neck sheepishly. Frowning, Megumi turns in kind to face the new guy. He holds back the way the corner of his lips aches to twitch in self-satisfaction when the hag falls silent. At least now he knows she's not rude enough to interject herself someplace she shouldn't be.
That's deathly ironic.
Now, to the issue at hand.
It's not entirely uncommon for things to get misplaced. B&M is massive. People are lazy. Even if it only means pushing their shopping trolley back an inch, they wouldn't put a plant next to all the others of its kind. This is a grocery store slash retailer. Quite literally, it's his job to go about organizing shelves, so people don't seem to mind putting him to work, making sure he milks out every last penny's worth of the day. On occasion, he's seen customers return frozen items to the wrong freezers, and fresh produce to the wrong baskets and chillers. Because it's a regular occurrence, he's long since stopped getting irritated at shit like that. It's like Yuuta always says. It happens. Like, a lot. His time and justified rage can be spent elsewhere, invested into other things that have real and practical uses.
Like, for example, playing Mario Kart. This guy looks like he'd main Yoshi… or something.
“Milk straws.” Megumi repeats flatly.
"Yep," the guy replies, popping the p. Bouncing on his heels, he twists his ankle to a degree that looks mildly painful and Megumi winces to himself when it makes a noise. The pink-haired boy, however, doesn't seem to mind, that beaming smile of his remaining plastered to his face as if by some invisible tape. Maybe the scars on his face are just a taster, a premonition, to the teenager's rash behavior. He must break his bones a lot.
Ahem. He's getting side tracked. Again. This definitely isn't the second time.
Milk straws. Aren't those the things for kids? Sheesh, maybe this guy really is just a high schooler. Why would a grown man invest very real and very adult money into such a childish purchase? Perhaps he has a younger brother, or a kid to look after? Whatever. He shouldn't still be thinking about this. What is this now, the third time in a row? Megumi knows better than to get lost in his thoughts at a time like this.
To his knowledge, they should be with the other sweets. They should be—
"They should be in aisle twenty." When the pink-haired teenager nods earnestly, shoots him a thumbs up in gratitude, and turns to walk away, Megumi finds his own voice piping up for him. Weird. He can't remember ever asking it to do that. "In fact, I'll go with you." He's met with a stunned look. An odd feeling of surprise shoots through him when he isn't shooed away, leaving Beakface standing in the aisle alone. "If you want to speak to the manager, his office is right down the back upstairs, near aisle thirty-four upstairs. Have a nice day," he says dryly over his shoulder. "ma'am."
Their footsteps echo against the polished floors. It feels a little slippy, actually. Someone must've mopped the floors recently. "I'm sorry for interrupting," the teenager gabbles hurriedly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. A faded hoodie sticks out from underneath the dark blue denim. It's almost navy in colour, a deeper shade than Megumi's eyes. "that looked important." He turns to look down at his shoes while they walk.
"It's nothing." Megumi says quickly. His hands go to his sides, easily matching the even sway and rhythm of his steps. Aisles and shelves and fridges rise up high above them as they pass. Many of them are empty; Megumi prefers it like that. Quiet. Means he can restock without having to worry about little kids with their sticky hands and incompetent parents, pushing trolleys full of biscuits and cans of soft drink.
Thankfully, Pink Hair—a very creative name, actually—has enough common sense to not ask him any more questions; and he's easily able to keep up with Megumi even as he quickens his pace into a brisk walk. An athlete-in-training, perhaps? A high school jock? Maybe both.
Eventually, they come to a stop at aisle twenty. "Here we are. They should be down here somewhere." To bring his shoddy attempt at a tour to a close, Megumi vaguely waves a hand in the direction of the sweet treats. It's not hard, considering the shelves are practically bursting with high calorie content snacks. Just standing in the intersection between them is enough to make Megumi feel ever so slightly sick. He's never really been overly fond of sweets. Tsumiki, on the other hand…
The teenager beams at him, and Megumi forces himself to look away to avoid being blasted with the full concentrated power of the sun. "Thank you so much!" With that, Pink Hair goes to stalking up and down the shelves. Eyebrows pinched together in concentration, he peruses each row and column carefully, muttering to himself. Megumi sighs heavily and turns to go to the stockroom; he distantly remembers that the dairy fridges were empty.
At least that's one problem sorted.