Work Text:
Saihara and Akamatsu met when they were five years old, barely out of their toddler years. For most of his life, Saihara has been nothing but grateful for it – for the bullies that had pushed him around, and for the fearless girl who stepped up to them and demanded they return his junior detective kit. Akamatsu’s companionship has been precious to him; even for those awkward few months in high school when they decided to try and date, to the smug satisfaction of everyone around them, and their subsequent disappointment when Akamatsu finally took pity on them both and broke it off.
She has been there for him throughout high school. Through the death of his parents, and his adoption by his uncle; through his worst cases and his best ones. For an introvert and shy teenager, Akamatsu Kaede has been a social lifesaver. He owes her much more than he will ever be able to verbalise.
It’s a difficult thing to remember in this exact moment.
“Please, Saihara-kun! It’s just for a few shifts, until we manage to hire someone new!”
“Akamatsu-san, it’s a maid café."
She gives him a wounded look. “What’s wrong with maid cafés?”
“What’s – there’s nothing wrong with maid cafés generally, but I can’t work in one. It’s me! You know me!” He pleaded with her.
“If I can work in one, so can you,” she reasons. “I don’t see a problem.”
He gapes at her. Maybe he has put too much stock in this relationship. Maybe every time he thought Akamatsu knows him better than he knows himself, he was just being delusional. Maybe it’s impossible for one human being to completely know another, and they are all doomed to forever interact with projections of their selves, never truly reaching anything real and sincere.
Time to change tactics. “I have the agency. It’s still so new, I can’t just abandon it now.”
Akamatsu has the nerve to wave him off. “You told me last week that you still don’t have that many clients,” she says. “The café is very flexible! I’m sure we can work around your schedule.”
“Akamatsu-san…” it comes out as a whine, and he would be embarrassed about it were it not for the impending doom he can see hanging in the horizon. “This is a terrible idea. Who would even pay to see me in a maid costume? I’m going to scare away costumers!”
Akamatsu’s eyeroll is entirely undeserved and somewhat condescending, in his opinion. “Please, we will have to beat them off of you with sticks. Or you could just show them your phone camera roll, that might do the trick.”
He clutches protectively at his phone. “It’s just murder scene photos?”
“Exactly,” she says, and doesn’t elaborate further. “Anyway, I’ll tell the manager you can start next week, alright?”
Saihara thinks longingly of a timeline where he could say no to anything Akamatsu asks of him. It might be a much lonelier universe, but infinitely less humiliating. He waves that version of himself a sad goodbye. “Fine. But in return you have to assist me on at least my next five cases.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Deal!” Instead of a handshake, she leans up to kiss his cheek. It used to make him blush horribly, but now he just shakes his head, part fondness and part exasperation. “Hey, maybe you’ll even enjoy it! Maybe you’ll make a friend!”
Now it’s Saihara who rolls his eyes. “You’re more than enough for me, thank you,” he says in a dry voice.
“I know you mean it as an insult, but I’m going to pretend you’re being very sweet and loving,” she informs him. “Now, come on. We should see if some of my spare uniforms fit you.”
It’s really incredible what the human body and mind could get accustomed to, he thinks to himself about two weeks later. While he has not been enjoying himself and certainly hasn’t made any friends, working at a maid café hasn’t been as soul destroying as he was worried it would be. The uniform is deceptively comfortable, especially once he convinced Akamatsu that if he wears any kind of heels he will definitely fall and brain himself to death. Most of the customers are quiet and polite, seemingly as embarrassed to be there as Saihara is. To his relief, he isn’t even the only guy working in the café, even if Shinguuji is slightly too creepy for Saihara to really be comfortable around.
Now, if he could only stop instinctively blushing every time he has to mumble out “master,” he could maybe survive until the end of the month relatively unscathed.
“Oh my god,” Yumeno, one of his more tolerable co-workers, gasps and clutches at Saihara’s sleeve. It’s been a surprisingly sleepy morning at the café, which specializes in breakfast food and usually sees much more traffic during this time. There are only a few patrons dotting the premises, all of whom are regulars. Akamatsu made fun of him after he confessed to running background checks on all of them.
“Are you alright?” he asks her.
“No,” she says, her eyes still wide. “I might be having a brain stroke. I think I’m experiencing hallucinations.”
Alarmed, he straightens. “What?”
“This guy that just came in – no, don’t look! – that’s Ouma-san, isn’t it?!”
“How can I tell if I can’t look?” he says. “And – who? Is that another regular?” He hasn’t had to deal with any of the creeps Akamatsu warned him against, and he was hoping to avoid them entirely, but if he needed to punch someone… He rotates his wrist behind his back. Maybe Harukawa’s devilish gym routine could finally pay off.
“No!” she hisses at him, appalled. “Ouma Kokichi? The youngest idol to ever break a platinum record? His last tour was worldwide and completely sold out! He has his own reality show! How could you not know him??”
He shrugs, relaxing now that he knows it’s not any kind of emergency. “I don’t really keep up with that kind of stuff.”
“Augh, you and Akamatsu deserve each other,” she says, disgusted. “I bet you just spend hours listening to boring classical music together in complete silence.”
Saihara, who could hardly deny a pastime they both enjoyed, changes the subject. “Well, do you want to take his table…?”
“Saihara,” she looks at him in full seriousness. “I will die.”
“… Right,” he nods, grabbing his notepad. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t embarrass us!” she whisper-shouts after him, and he ignores her with the practice of a well-trained detective.
“Welcome home, master,” he says in a monotone, detached voice. Akamatsu tried to make him sound more lively, and then quickly changed her mind when he gave it a go. Your customerservice voice will definitely scare people off, she told him, only barely managing to stifle her giggles. Just be yourself! That’s charming enough. He is still skeptical about it.
He finally gets a good look at their new patron. He’s shorter than Saihara would expect of a famous idol – nearly a head shorter than Saihara. Half of his head is hidden behind gigantic sunglasses, which seems like a flimsy disguise when his hair is such a unique shade of purple, framing a small, round face with elegant curls and twists. His clothes are nondescript, although the black and white checkered scarf around his neck looks expensive. He should look almost like he’s swallowed whole by his disguise, but he… doesn’t. There’s a presence to him.
Over the years, Saihara has acquired a moderate amount of pride in his deductive ability. It’s impossible to take one look at a person and know their entire life story, no matter what airport detective novels will try to tell you, but he can usually pick up at least a few details; a shiny pristine wedding ring indicating a very recent engagement, callouses on fingers pointing at a physically demanding job, body language that can spell out a person’s comfort levels. It’s a useful skill to have in his line of work, and surprisingly in this job as well. Knowing if a patron is in distress or celebrating good news is one of the first things they’re instructed to look out for, to better know how to approach them.
Ouma Kokichi is a curiously blank slate.
“Hoho… If I knew that was who was waiting for me at home, I wouldn’t have taken so long to leave work.” His voice is melodic, what one would expect of an idol, but Saihara is startled by its immediate playfulness.
“I’m glad Master could make it,” Saihara manages to say, keeping to the script. “Would Master like a menu…?"
Ouma tilts his head forward just enough that he could peer up at Saihara from under his sunglasses. A flash of purple – contacts? It can’t be his actual eye color, surely – as his gaze meets Saihara’s. It feels penetrating, sharp. Somehow, he gets the feeling that he’s not nearly as blank to Ouma as Ouma is to him.
“Definitely! I heard the pancakes are to die for!” Their fingers brush when Ouma takes the laminated menu from him. Saihara can’t help but notice the lack of callouses. It makes sense for an idol, but still Saihara thinks it suits him. Wrapped as he is in his large scarf and comfortable clothes, Ouma looks like he should always be surrounded by soft things.
What the hell am I thinking, Saihara scolds himself, mortified. “Please call on me if you need any assistance.”
“Haha, I will! Saihara-chan looks very capable.” Instinctively Saihara’s hand moves to cover his nametag, before realizing how foolish it is. He told Akamatsu that he thinks it’s a huge security risk – has she not heard about stalkers? – but she just called him paranoid and told him to spend less time reading cold cases. His name sounds… nice in Ouma’s voice. He pronounces each syllable carefully, as if he’s giving it his full attention.
Not knowing what to say, he just bows awkwardly and walks in a slightly above average speed back to behind the counter. Yumeno was there to ambush him.
“Well??” she demands immediately. “How was he???”
Soft hands. Smells nice. Terrifying eyes. “Normal,” he tells her. “You should go get his order when he calls.”
“No way,” she shakes her head violently. He sighs, resigning himself. It’s fine. It’s not like Ouma said anything weird. Saihara is just having a weird reaction for no reason. Maybe it’s a delayed response to working at a maid café.
A few minutes later he sighs again when he sees Ouma has asked for the omurice special. He hates the omurice special. But first, the drink. Akamatsu called his omajinai a mix of pathetic and off-putting performance art, and Yumeno just said he looks like a freak. None of the patrons complained so far, but surely as a famous idol Ouma would have high standards, right? Maybe Saihara would be offensive to his delicate performance sensibilities.
Carrying the tray over to his table, he places it carefully in front of Ouma, picking up the shaker and pouring him the drink. The pink liquid fills up the glass as Saihara chants soullessly: “moe, moe, kyun!”
“Thank you!” Ouma positively beams at him. “With Saihara-chan’s cute blessing, I’m sure this is going to be even more delicious!”
Traitorously, Saihara feels his face heat up. “I hope you enjoy it, Master.” And then, because he just can never help himself, he has to ask. “I thought you were going to get the pancakes?”
“I was! But then I wouldn’t get Saihara-chan’s no doubt amazing omurice art!”
Saihara lets out an embarrassed cough, averting his eyes. “Ah, it’s nothing special… I’m not very good at it…”
“That’s even better,” Ouma says. “Terrible art is way cuter than a masterpiece.”
What kind of logic was that for a famous artist?! Some of his judgment must show on his face, because Ouma pouts up at him. Even behind the sunglasses Saihara can just tell his eyes widened in platitude. “Saihara-chan wouldn’t deprive me of the experience, would he?”
“Of course not…” Saihara mutters, flustered. He clutches the tray close to his chest, like a stupid and ineffectual shield.
“Good!” the pout vanishes instantly, replaced again by that wide grin.
Walking back to the kitchen, he tries to guess what Ouma would like him to draw. Not that it mattered much – he could do a heart and maybe a cat, on a good day, which he suspects this isn’t one. Ouma reminds him of a fox, sly and playful.
Predictably, Ouma makes a huge deal out of his misshapen Omurice heart, and insists on taking a photo of it. “I want to remember this forever!” he declares. Saihara is just glad Yumeno is too distracted with her own patrons to see this circus.
“It’s really not that special…” Saihara tries to protest, only belatedly adding on the forgotten “Master.”
“No way, this is the first omurice I got from Saihara-chan! I have to remember it!”
Saihara suddenly has a very bad feeling about this. “The first…?”
“I’m definitely going to come back, Saihara-chan! I still haven’t tried the pancakes, you know.”
“Aren’t you famous?” Saihara blurts out. “Shouldn’t you go eat in famous seafood restaurants, or international cuisine, or… anywhere that isn’t a maid café?”
“So Saihara-chan knows who I am! What an honour. And what’s wrong with maid cafés?” It’s disturbing to hear Akamatsu’s echoes in the words. “None of those other places have Saihara-chan, anyway! I bet none of the servers in a fancy seafood restaurant could help me solve a murder, completely useless.”
For a moment, Saihara just blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”
From out of nowhere, Ouma produces a 4-inch-thick file and slams it down next to the omurice. Crime scene photographs immediately go spilling out everywhere. “You need to help me solve a murder! Honestly Saihara-chan, please keep up.”
When Yumeno starts screaming behind him about the photograph of a headless corpse she caught a glimpse of, Saihara just sighs and rubs at his eyes, deeply exhausted all of a sudden. “You weren’t even here for the pancakes at all, were you?”
“I would never say no to pancakes!”
“Right. And you couldn’t just go to my agency because…?”
Ouma pouts at him again. It really shouldn’t be quite this effective with those huge sunglasses covering his face. “Then I would have missed Saihara-chan’s adorable omajinai. A fate worse than death.”
Saihara snorts even as he feels himself flush again. “I’m sure.”
“Saihara, can you please take this photo away – there’s so much blood – “
“Ah, sorry Yumeno-san.” He bends down to pick up all the loose photographs. Even from a quick glimpse, he can tell the crime had to have been done using a complicated method. “The cut wasn’t quick or clean, they must have used some sort of dull blade… No, maybe a chainsaw…”
“Saihara!”
“Ah, I knew you would be the perfect guy for this,” Ouma says, satisfaction colouring his voice. “So what do you say, Saihara-chan? If you help me solve this case, I will definitely come try your omurice again.”
Why would I want that… But even as he thinks that, he feels his heartbeat pick up, his body getting excited at the promise of a good mystery. “Fine. I won’t be working here for long anyway.”
Devastation washes over Ouma’s features like a well-rehearsed trick. “That’s tragic! I’ve never seen an omajinai like yours, Saihara-chan. What a loss to the maid café industry.”
Saihara is very tempted to tell him exactly where he can shove his stupid compliments. “I can still change my mind…”
“Absolutely not, a maid’s word is her honour!” Ouma declares. “Besides, I changed my mind. It will be much better if I’m the only one who can witness Saihara-chan’s omajinai.”
Saihara makes sure to stomp just a little bit harder when he turns around to walk to the kitchen. He wonders if he can convince the cook to put salt instead of sugar in Ouma’s desert…