Hey, guys! I was looking through the Last Game category recently and realised that there were no Kei x Momoka fanfics and I decided that I just had to write one!
I tried something a little different with my writing and tried to go for a more mundane, slice-of-life approach, so I'm not too sure how it's turned out.
Characters might be a little bit OC, but I don't think they deviate that much.
Anywho, I'm not sure if people really check out Last Game fanfics often, so if you happen upon this, please leave a review!
Rated T for cursing.
lips like desire, hearts like home
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.
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because street lights, racing cars and chests rising and falling in tandem is their way of saying, "I love you." — Kei x Momoka
Chapter 1: liquor and curry
Kei hums a disinterested affirmative into his phone as he sautés the vegetables his father sent over the day before.
He spares a glance at the boxes stockpiled in the corner and sighs (damn that old man). Although Kei does appreciate all the food his family sends over (because despite his fervid attempts to adopt the city lifestyle and abandon his bumpkin ways, even he isn't exempt from homesickness), his dad by nature tends to be slighty overzealous and Kei, as a result, is often left with a severe influx of produce that he simply has no space for.
Still, he doesn't want the food to go to waste, so he decides that he'll need to give some to Mikoto later, before they start going bad (and hell if he's gonna try and finish everything before that point).
And, while he's at it, he might as well abuse the opportunity to tease Yanagi (even if it's about something as slight as sharing vegetables with his girlfriend— but knowing Yanagi, he'll just blow it out proportion anyways, and Kei freely admits that a jealous Yanagi is his guilty pleasure).
He can already feel the satisfaction.
(And maybe, part of his satisfaction in seeing Yanagi in distress attributes to him dating the girl that Kei is kind of, sort of, still not over.)
"Liar!" Momoka whines, syllables slurring together. "You're not listening at all!"
"You're drunk," Kei accuses, turning off the heat and reaching into the cupboard for a plate, refraining a curse as his phone almost falls from where he has it balanced between his ear and shoulder.
"So what if I am?" She hiccups from the other end of the phone.
"Go bother someone else."
"No." Momoka is pouting, probably. Kei can just see it; he is so accustomed to being at the receiving end of her woes that the image inserts itself naturally into his head (if only he could remember the things that actually mattered).
She sighs through the other end before following it up with —dare he speculate— an almost rebellious huff— but Kei promptly stomps away the embers of suspicion and laughs because surely, she wouldn't—
His attention snaps to the abrupt and aggressive pounding of his door, the creaks and cries of brittle wood, the tinkling and trembling of his glassware— and Kei stops laughing.
He grimaces. She can't possibly—?
"Heyyy, I'm in front of your home. Open the door."
—Of course she is. Kei heaves out a groan and slaps his palm to his forehead.
Normally, Kei would merely spare a glance at the door, shrug, and ignore her.
And the idea is tempting, attractive, and almost plausible— but alas, a drunken Momoka is anything but normal. That girl always intoxicates herself to the point that she can't regulate her strength, and if left to her own devices, she would undoubtedly harass his poor door to oblivion.
And thus, Kei is compelled to grant her entry into his collapsing, crumbling, cluttered abode.
"I'm letting you in, I'm letting you in," Kei hisses, trudging over to the entrance after setting the food on the table. "Stop knocking before I change my mind."
He hangs up and, with another sigh, opens the door.
Her cheeks are tinted pink from the winter air, and because the goddamn moron is so busy relishing in her juvenile victory (how he wants to slam the door in her face just to watch her stupid grin dissipate), Kei has to pull Momoka in by the arm so that the night chills don't invade his home and sabotage the warmth that he has tried so painfully hard to conserve (because if Momoka isn't going to the death of him, then his heating expenses will be).
Her haughty smile doesn't leave her face, and she still has a can of beer in her hand. She downs the remainder of it, chucks it towards the closest corner (much to Kei's dismay— "There is literally a bin right there!")—
—and scours his cupboards for more liquor.
"Oh, hell no." Grimacing, Kei sprints to where Momoka is and slams all the cupboards shut, but by the time he's done, she's already moved ahead, wreaking havoc on every further compartment in his kitchen. But of course, it's Momoka, and so she doesn't stop there; she stumbles over to his bedroom and begins to terrorise his storage units there, despite all of Kei's vehement protests.
Ten minutes pass before he finally manages to catch her, lightly panting and huffing as he nudges her towards his couch— but the damage is already done. There are clothes splayed all over the floor where Momoka had scoured through his drawers for secret stashes of alcohol, random ornaments cluttered over the table, and books displaced from where had so dedicatedly organised them into his bookshelf (his heart aches at the sight).
Oh, when she's sober, he is going to kill her. Brutally. He's already mentally conjured up a list of methods.
"Sit over here and wait," he says, nearly collapsing from the sheer relief that he's managed to somehow detain her (trying to catch Momoka is an insanely arduous task, he attempts to justify when he feels an oncoming wave of shame). He looks over at the food, before turning back to her. "You should probably eat— I'll serve you something."
"Huh?" Her face scrunches up and she jolts up, stabbing his chest with her finger. "Don't wanna. Why do I have to listen to you?"
He scoffs, swatting her hand away. "Oh, I don't know— maybe because you just barged into my home, and, you know, messed it up?"
Momoka gasps at the accusation. "You—" She hiccups, and trips over her ankles, falling with a heavy thump onto the floor. "Oof!" She hiccups again. "Youinvitedmeeee."
"I did not," he snaps, hoisting her back up, his nose wrinkled in disdain. "Oh god, you are wasted."
"On a guy like you? When it's Christmas? I veryyy strongthly agree," she retorts, slumping onto the couch, ankle boots kicked aside in a clutter alongside her coat and scarf on his rug. Kei begins to make a snide remark on "strongthly", but pauses when Momoka exclaims, "Fuck, I'm going to be sick."
His head snaps towards her. "You wouldn't dare. I will physically make you clean this place up for the next three weeks if you even gag."
She snorts incredulously, the skin on her forehead ruched as her eyebrows thread together. "You—" Momoka attempts to stab his stomach with a finger, but with her perception askew, she ends up scratching the edge of his waist (he screeches out a list of curses, but Momoka effectively ignores it). "—You are such a good friend," she drawls.
"I thought we already previously established our lack of friendship?"
"Shaddup. Don't be a smartass."
"Then don't arrive at my doorstep fucking drunk."
"You should be honoured that you get to spend Christmas with a girl as pretty as me."
He snorts. "Oh, please; even I'm not that desperate.
"Oy." She looks over to the kitchen, and her eyes sparkle. "Curry," Momoka says, folding her arms and leaning further against the couch.
"I thought you didn't want—"
"Curry!"
"I'm getting it," he spits back.
Though, by the time he comes back, she's already passed out, softly snoring and arms sprawled. Kei groans.
"Fuck this," he mutters, slamming the plate down with a loud clink on the table, eying her for a potential reaction. Nothing. "I'm gonna eat this myself, you know."
Still nothing. He sighs, stalking over to his cupboard to reach for a blanket before returning to Momoka and pulling it over her. She snuggles into it almost instantly, mumbling incoherently about curry and beer and how "the bumpkin has no taste"— the latter of which prompts Kei to tug the blanket away from her (unsuccessfully and he curses her grip).
But although Kei is ultimately pissed, in the end he doesn't eat the share he laid out for her—like he had threatened— instead packing it away and storing it in the fridge for her to eat when she wakes up (undoubtedly at four in the morning, when she'll suddenly start craving for something savoury— Kei knows by experience after having suffered many, many instances of her crashing over at his).
Momoka blinks slowly, stumbling off the couch and blindly grappling at the table for her phone (ah, damn it, her head hurts like hell).
She turns it on and is instantly startled by the lock screen, jolting up and cursing. Where the fuck is her cute cat pic? Upon closer inspection, she realises it has been replaced by a close-up picture of a neon pink sticky note:
Curry in the fridge. Heat it up. Wake me up and I will kill you.
Momka releases an incredulous, "Hah!" before trudging her way to the fridge, passing remarks on what a "fucking bastard" Kei is.
She sets the timer on the microwave for two minutes and haphazardly flings the curry in after removing the plastic wrap, taps her foot to its low grumbles as she watches the curry slowly spin inside, checking on the timer every five seconds. She holds her breath as the timer reaches its last ten seconds.
As annoying as Kei is, Momoka is still a little grateful, and so when the timer reaches its last few seconds, Momoka prematurely takes out her curry and resets the microwave to normal. She heaves out a sigh of relief.
Just one second had been left— any longer and the timer would have gone off and woken Kei up. Momoka sighs again, setting her curry down on the table and blindly searching for a fork.
Much to Momoka's chagrin, he has an abundance of chopsticks (she can almost imagine his parents insisting on maintaining cultural integrity and Kei acquiescing) meticulously organised into the kitchen drawer, and after a minute of carelessly shoving everything to the side, she breaks into a grin when she finally finds the rare utensil stashed at the very back.
And then she looks back at the mess she made, shrugs, and hastily pushes the drawer shut (Kei will kill her in the morning, she can tell).
Momoka scrunches her face after a few bites and curses.
(Why the hell is he a better cook than her?)
It's Sunday morning and Kei jolts awake to the abrupt, intrusive sound of a... siren, maybe? It sounds like a siren. He assumes it will pass (perhaps it's an ambulance or something) and so he sinks back into his pillow. Ten seconds pass and the noise persists. Kei grimly attributes it to the next most probable source— his phone— and blindly fumbles for the device beneath his pillow to turn the damn alarm off.
Except, it doesn't seem to be beneath his pillow.
Kei shoots up, ears ringing from the incessant blaring, and groggily looks around him— there: his phone, on his desk on the far end of his room (why?— How?) and he tumbles out of bed, tripping over his duvet as he sprints to the phone, his limbs despairingly uncoordinated and heavy, before his fingers slip over the buttons in a messy attempt at trying to silence it as quickly as possible.
He sighs in relief when he succeeds, tousling his hair and trudging his way back to bed, relishing in the warmth of his duvet until he suddenly comes to three realisations and his eyes snap open: first, it's Sunday and he shouldn't have an alarm set; second, the time set for the alarm is absolutely absurd— seventeen past seven— and the sun has barely risen; and third, his lock screen background is different.
Kei scrutinises the background, mind fuzzy and vision still trippy, and he comes to an obvious conclusion: Momoka.
His lockscreen is now a neon pink sticky note, with the words "the food was shit" scribbled in her near-illegible penmanship (large, loopy letters joined by sloppy lines that Kei could recognise anywhere at this point) and a smily face that seemingly mocked him.
Kei groans, but then he laughs, partially scornful, partially disbelieving and partially amused.
He can't go back to sleep now, not anymore.
(And honestly, he's not as mad at her as he should be.)
Momoka's phone vibrates against her hip. She whips it out of her pocket and props her elbow on her crossed leg, humming in curiosity as she scrolls through her notifications.
Tasteless Bumpkin flashes across her screen a second time. She slides open the message.
Today, 07:32
Bitch
She snorts and the train rolls forward, grumbling along the rails. Momoka taps away at the screen, a grin playing on her lips.
07:34 Karma always is :p
Welpy woo, that's the end of this chapter. I'm not sure if anyone reads Last Game fics anymore, but if you do stumble upon this, please review!
I'll be updating the next chapter sooner or later.
Once again, please review!
~Adieu!
X's and O's,
Liberty