Tittle: Stranger Things
Summary: So she's out of coins and full of laundry, the vending machine is a hateful device sent straight from hell, her fave piece of lingerie goes missing after ruining her entire life (or wardrobe, at that), and this random shirtless dude with the most impressive soccer legs ever is set on playing detective on her case. Surely, stranger things have (never ever) happened here.
Prompts: coin laundry, convenience store, vending machine, bus stop, collectors
A/N: This is a Secret Santa gift to my dear friend Kyuu [heart heart]. I did my best to incorporate all your prompts because it so happened that they made the most amusing storyline! The title has ZERO to do with the plot lmao, it's actually more from the lyrics of The Hanging Tree than the actual TV show with that name.
Warnings: Foul language. A lack of common sense. Memes. I have a weird sense of humor.
.
.
He walks into the laundromat with two messy bags of dirty clothes and the confidence of a superhero, swinging his whites into washer four and punching an obscene amount of suits inside number six. From two machines down the line, Shiho side glances at the peculiar stranger with a mix of awe and curiosity.
His profile stands out in the ocean of rumbling machines, a boy around her age with hair raven as night and skin kissed by sunlight. He wears a Tokyo Spirits uniform, the distinguishable white and blue stripes sticking to his skin in a thin coat of sweat. He seems too much of a new face to be a regular, yet he's recognizable enough to give a sense of familiarity. A new recruit for the team, perhaps? That would explain his attire, his hot-blooded mannerisms and the extremely impressive, well-toned legs she's been staring at for the past ten seconds—
Wait, that's not the point! The point is that Shiho swears she's seen him somewhere before, but she can't pinpoint where.
Suddenly, the stranger gives her one more reason to keep staring as he starts taking his shirt off and stuffing it inside the already jammed washing machine. She shifts her weight uncomfortably, a bit taken aback by the impromptu eye blast of lean muscles and perfect pecs, and resolves to fix her gaze in the task at hand, because this is all very eye-candy and everything, but where in the freaking hell is her pepper spray!?
(Not that she thinks this handsome, shirtless boy with the most impressive soccer legs ever would suddenly attack her, but he's definitely triggered her fight or flight response with a single fling of his shirt.)
After he miraculously manages to set the machines into motion without the latter exploding into blazer mayhem, their gazes meet for a split of a second. His eyes are a striking shade of cobalt, bright under thick eyelashes. An unmistakable hue of pink taints his cheeks in embarrassment, and she catches herself thinking he's so her type it's not even fair. He offers an apologetic smile, bowing his head in a cordial greeting. Mortified, Shiho nods back. She averts her eyes and resumes on filling washer number eight with as much dignity as her pink cheeks would let her.
His eyes linger on her for another second, and she might be imagining things— but she swears she sees the smile on his face turn into a devious smirk before he walks past her, towards the resting area.
Calamity greets her when she opens the door to washer number nine. She looks at her one (1) piece of red lacy underwear entangled in a sea of pink blouses, wishing for death.
A poorly-concealed chuckle catches her attention, followed by the muffled sound of someone attempting to mask the sound by clearing their throat. She throws a murderous glare at the offender's direction, only to find soccer boy looking as innocent as ever, the corner of his lips curled with amusement as he sheepishly finishes loading his clean laundry into one of the carts.
He strolls away with her mangled pride stuffed somewhere amongst his many dress shirts.
With a sigh of resignation, Shiho heads over to the convenience store next door.
"Can I have change in 100 yen coins?" Shiho asks the cashier, handing her a one thousand yen bill for the single sachet of bleach she picked from the detergent aisle.
"Oh, heavens!" The lady says in an over-dramatic manner, "I'm afraid we're out of coins now… you see, this very handsome soccer player came in with a 10,000 bill earlier and took all our change."
Shiho's brows raise at the unnecessary remark, just before squinting her eyes in suspicion, "Did this man... happen to be wearing a Tokio Spirits uniform, by any chance?"
"Yes, indeed!" The cashier exclaims, clapping her hands together in excitement. Her face lightens up with glee. "Do you know him?"
Shiho makes an indistinctive grunting sound, and the cashier, realizing her mistake, starts blurting out apologies for her intrusiveness. The strawberry blonde smiles back reassuringly, handing out her last hundred yen bill.
The eighteenth time the vending machine spits her money back out, is when she loses her shit.
"Oh, come on!" Her foot kicks against the infernal device, hands clawing its sides in a forlorn attempt to shake it. "It's a perfectly fine banknote, you defective piece of gar—"
"Ahem."
Well, shit.
The sound feels a little too familiar for comfort, and she curses inwardly because goddamnit, she recognizes that sound even when she's only heard it once.
Urgh. Serendipity.
Sure enough, when she turns around she finds Perfect Pecs standing behind her, shirtless as ever with that damn apologetic smile hung up on his face, and Jesus, where in the goddamned hell did she put her Taser?
"Sorry, are you going to…erm, use this?" He asks redundantly, to her aggravation.
No, lol. She's just having a one-on-one therapy session with the vending machine… or what else could she possibly be doing here, yelling at this hateful machine in the middle of the street?
"You can try to." She says sardonically, stepping aside with a theatrical shrug. She folds her arms across her chest, her expression stern as ever.
To her utter dismay and embarrassment, the aforementioned hellish machine of doomsday gracefully accepts his bill, and the sound of a Pocari Sweat dropping down echoes inside her empty soul.
He turns around, that damned bashfully sweet smile plastered on his face, and asks, "Is there something I can get for you?"
Perhaps just her pride back.
"I'm fine, thanks." Her answer comes by reflex.
The boy hesitates, and —oh, she's already preparing herself to defend her honor. He seems to change his mind as he notices her stiff shoulders and, most importantly, the defiant look in her eyes. He nods in acknowledgement, ready to leave her to her self-inflicted misery.
"Wait, actually—" Urgh. Serendipity. What a bitch. She pettily waves her 1000 yen note in the air, the attempt of a smile on her lips, "Do you happen to have change in 100 yen coins?"
She thinks this boy has no business being this annoyingly pretty, as she watches him rummaging in his pockets full of coins —one hundred of them, to be exact… what is he, a collector!?— and blush the cutest shade of pink she's ever seen.
The ice-breaker leads to an awkward conversation about outdated technology and how he doesn't like odd numbers, and soon they are back in the laundromat with more coins than anyone should ever need. She learns that soccer boy is a backup player in the Tokyo Spirits team. She also learns that he takes the sport way too seriously.
"Big Osaka? You have to be kidding me! Come on, you don't cheer for your home team? Unless..." He throws her an evaluating look, and she can't help but notice how his gaze once again lingers on her face for longer than necessary. She doesn't back away, and he finally says, "No, it can't be... you don't have an accent."
"I'm a local, genius. Born and raised."
She rolls her coins down the dryer's slot, setting the machine into motion.
"So…?"
Shiho laughs, and he looks at her with such keen it makes her kinda fuzzy.
"So what? Am I not allowed to cheer for other teams? Geez, you're such a fanatic."
"Soccer has been played by entire communities since the Middle Ages." He retorts, smiling all the same. "Communal movement and revelry was a profound source of social bonding which goes way, way back in human history*. It's only human nature that we still root for our home team —a form of emotional investment, if you must."
She arches her brows in amusement.
"Oh, my. I didn't know you were a historian, too."
"I'm not. I'm a detective."
"A detective?" It's her turn to throw him an evaluating look, head tilted and all. She wrinkles her nose in disbelief. "You don't look like one. It must be the shirt."
"Ha. You're funny." He deadpans, making a fingergun gesture towards her. He smiles timidly. "I'm a terrible procrastinator, as you can see. Laundry day was supposed to be last Wednesday." He proceeds to flush a scandalous shade of scarlet, and she wonders how someone this confident can also be this shy. It's kind of endearing, really. He reaches out to pick a green hoodie from the humongous pile of dark blazers and suit pants inside his drying machine, hurling it in the air a few times to dissipate the heat before slipping inside it. Popping his head through the collar, his ridiculous cowlick sticks out in a most comical fashion.
"Isn't it my lucky day, then?" Shiho hums distractedly. She starts folding the clothes that survived the pink apocalypse, while the rest of her whites twirl merrily inside the dryer. "Where else would I have found a walking coin dispenser if it wasn't for you?"
Although admittedly, if he hadn't taken all the change in the convenience store, then she wouldn't have gone to the vending machine and—
Mhmm... Serendipity.
"Whoa. You're not cute at all." He pouts. Yes, he pouts. Lips jutted out and cheeks puffed, looking cuter than he has any business being. "But I am detective... Kudo Shinichi, actually. Rings a bell?"
Oh.
OH.
Famous detective Kudo Shinichi, savior of the metropolitan police force. The man who single-handedly uncovered a crime syndicate last year, the man whose pictures been all over the news since she was in high school… how could she have not recognize him!?
It must be the shirt. It definitely was the shirt.
(Or lack thereof)
She looks away, brows knitted as she feigns innocence. Her curled index presses against her bottom lip.
"Mmm… Never heard of it."
"Oh." The boy says lamely, clear disappointment on his face. He brushes it off quickly, smiling despite himself. "Well, that's me. And you are...?"
Oh, right. They've been talking for almost an hour now, yet somehow introductions were the last thing on their minds. And to be fair, it's kind of scary how easily they seem to get along even when they just met in a most awkward situation. She mentally scolds herself. Where are her manners?
"Miyano Shiho, scientist." Shiho introduces herself, sticking her hand out for a handshake.
"Nice t— wait, what?" He takes her hand and suddenly chokes, his hand awkwardly clutching hers in a forgotten handshake. "Miyano Shiho? THE Miyano Shiho from Todai? Are you serious? Are you the one who wrote that article about APTX that featured in Nikkei Science last month?"
"You read that article?" She asks skeptically.
He scoffs in disbelief.
"It's one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs in the last century, of course I've read it!"
That takes her off guard, and truth be told she's touched and humbled and very, very, very smitten by this eccentric detective who reads science magazines, loves soccer way too much, collects hundred yen coins and walks around shirtless in public spaces despite owning an indecorous amount of tailored suits.
"We're far for finishing our research, but you're very kind."
The dryer beeps as it ends its last cycle, and her heart sinks with the acknowledgement that they should part ways soon. They keep chatting about apoptosis and other things she can't be bothered to remember, and she finds it increasingly difficult to keep her mind in track as her laundry bag gets gradually filled with neatly folded clothes.
There's something… missing, though. And that's the catalyst of why she ended up talking to this beautiful stranger in the first place, the reason why she was in need of an extra set of coins—
Where the hell is her underwear?
"You lost something?"
"No."
"You don't say."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, you seem a bit… frantic. That's all."
She huffs. He gives her a meaningful look.
"I'm a detective, you know."
He's also the last person on this earth she'd give knowledge of her current predicament, but she can't phrase it like that.
"I lost my bus card." She lies, looking at everywhere but his face. "Must have dropped it somewhere on my way from the bus station."
"Oh," There he goes again, staring at her for longer than what's socially acceptable. Seriously, is there something on her face!? "Do you… erm, n-need a ride?"
He looks mortified and earnest, a mixture of emotions she never thought was possible to exist. It makes her want to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation.
Ah, serendipity…
"A free ride? That wouldn't feel right." She chuckles, picking her bag of perfectly folded clothes and clutching the strap against her chest, "Would you accept a bunch of 100 yen coins as payment? I have plenty left."
He blushes. Again.
She could get used to it.
"Shut up, smartass." He grumbles, taking her bag from her and swinging it over his shoulder. "Before I change my mind."
"Now, who's not being cute at all?"
He drives her home (she drives him mad), and leaves his name card on her laundry bag (she leaves her heart on his shotgun seat).
.
A/N:
1.*Shinichi's soccer commentary is partly quoted from an online article.
2. Did you seriously miss the number combination of the washing machines?
3. Happy Holidays and thanks for your support all along!