#me googling for firsthand experiences of 7-11 night shift workers

[seijch]

of slushies and shitty coffees ft. iwaizumi hajime.

🍬 iwaizumi hajime + gender neutral!reader

🍬 1.5k, convenience store worker!reader, vague immortal and reincarnation au

🍬 this was for vee but i think she deactivated 🧍‍♂️ its also the first one i wrote back in october so its ... maybe not my best

"you know what i am, don't you?" + being immortal boils down to 70% loneliness, 20% doing whatever the hell you want, and 10% recurring nuisances that bear an odd resemblance to your first love. 

To say you hated working the night shift would be an understatement.

Sure, most days it passed with relative ease and allowed you to study on the clock, your studies rarely interrupted. A group of friends with the munchies here, a fellow student in need of a pick-me-up there, and an elderly woman that came in like clockwork at the 4am mark to buy cat food for the strays living nearby. You were well-acquainted with the few regulars of your shift and fond of the night manager, Saeko. On paper, there would be little to hate.

But the classes you had a mere three hours after your shift ended were nothing short of a living nightmare to push through; at this point, you’re sure that your blood is almost entirely comprised of the slushies and shitty coffee you spend your shift helping yourself to.

In fact, you’re in the middle of making yourself one of these slushies when the door opens behind you. “Welcome,” you throw over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the customer as you achieve slushie-making self-actualization.

Your mouth goes dry instantly.

You’re sure they don’t just let Greek gods walk into the nearest 7-11, but there’s clearly a first time for everything. He’s handsome, with a jaw sculpted from the highest quality marble money could buy. In an attempt to prevent your jaw from hitting the floor, you take a long sip of the slushie. “Fuck!” you hiss, clutching your head as you wait for the brain freeze to recede.

In the time that it takes you to get back to the register, the attractive stranger is about ready to check out. “Just this for you?” you ask, the only noise being the whir of the air conditioning and the scanner beeping at the energy bars. When you don’t get a response, you glance up at him. He’s looking right at you, but there’s something deeper behind it.

It’s like he knows you, that you’re as familiar to him as the beat of his heart, the air in his lungs. It’s both too heavy and entirely too intimate for an interaction that consists of you ringing up his 2AM transaction of three protein bars. ”That’ll be $4.17.”

He pays in exact change. Not another word is exchanged between you, but the intrigue and infatuation you have for the stranger lingers, even into the classes you have the morning after.

The next time you see him, he’s with someone else. A friend, you assume — the man with the perfect brown hair ribs at him as they walk in. Once he makes eye contact with you, however, he falls silent.

You’re beginning to feel like you’re missing out on something, especially when the stranger’s friend pulls him over, saying something in a hushed whisper. Something begins to prickle at your skin, and it’s not (just) the way the AC vent blasts on you from where you‘re sitting.

Thankfully, Saeko has excellent timing, bringing the mop out and greeting the two with a wide grin. “We doing alright over here, boys?” They nod, Mr. Shampoo Commercial saying something about midnight cravings before they make their way to the slushie machine.

”Listen,” Saeko whispers to you as the mop passes your spot at the register, “if those boys do or even say anything strange, you know what to do.” When you’d first started working the night shift, Saeko had been very clear that your safety was her top priority.

(“You college kids remind me of my baby brother,” she’d told you one night as you dusted the shelves. “I know it’d kill me if any of you got hurt.”)

You ring up two slushies: one cherry and one cola. Mr. Shampoo Commercial’s the one paying, and it’s as you‘re returning his change that he decides to speak. “Don’t you remember us?” His voice is smooth, with a dangerous lilt to it.

”Oikawa,” warns Mr. Protein Bar. “Don’t.”

”Why not, Iwa?” To you, Oikawa asks, “It’s been a while, don’t you think?”

”I’m sorry,” you say, trying to keep your voice even in the face of his questions, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your foot is poised to knock over a busted shelf behind you; it was Saeko’s alarm system, something she claimed could be heard from anywhere in the store.

A look is exchanged between the two men. You don’t bother trying to read it; it’s the sea and the storm, roiling with a language only the two of them are fluent in. “Sorry,” Iwa says, taking his slushie and shoving the cherry one in Oikawa’s hands. “Have a nice night.”

You don‘t see Iwa for a few weeks. The next time you do, he’s alone. It’s another wordless exchange; this time, he’s buying two cans of shitty coffee. “Is your friend waiting outside?” you ask. He looks surprised to hear your voice, probably expecting you to give him the bare minimum after your last encounter.

”Actually,” he rubs the back of his neck, sliding one of the cans your way, “that one’s for you. Sorry about what happened last time.” He pops open the tab of his coffee. “Oikawa doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

You nod, opening your own can. ”What was that all about?” you ask, taking a stab in the dark. You miss, unfortunately: he almost chokes on his coffee, the lines on his face growing more defined as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

”Don’t worry about it.”

It‘s a shitty answer paired with shitty coffee, but you take it.

And if you notice that he almost glimmers with an unreal sheen under the flickering fluorescent light, you dismiss the thought. Nothing else seems very real at three in the morning anyway.

He becomes another regular, swinging by twice a week. Two cans of coffee, paid for with exact change. You don’t have the heart to tell him that as an employee, you could just take from the pot whenever you wanted before you had to brew a new one for the morning rush. At first, he slides the can to you and wishes you a good night on his way out, but he grows more chatty as the weeks go by.

He asks about your day, asks about class, asks about work. Never does he share anything about the life he leads outside of shitty coffee and the four walls of the humble convenience store.

But it comes, little by little, like mismatched pieces forming the mosaic of Iwaizumi Hajime. You see it in the weight of the world trapped in his gaze, the way he rolls broad shoulders as if expecting the bones to crack. Most of all, you realize as you take a sip from your can one night, it’s the way he seems to know you better than you know yourself.

It started simple enough, a nod and a flash of something on his face when you told him what you were majoring in. A knowing chuckle, more to himself, when you mention how the old woman that bought cat food was one of your favorite customers. It comes, little by little, until one piece remains. The only way to get it is to ask.

He beats you to it. “You know what I am, don’t you?” he asks as you’re lifting tonight’s can of coffee to your lips. You spare him a glance before taking a long sip, delaying a response for as long as possible.

“You definitely look too good to be human.”

The corners of his lips twitch. “It’s good to know you never change.” You set the now empty can on the counter.

“Have we met before?” Iwaizumi, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. “Your friend with the perfect hair asked if I remembered you.” He snorts with the identifier you’ve given Oikawa, but you press on. “I don’t. But I think you remember me.”

You wait with bated breath for the final piece to fall into place, but he regards you with a look you can’t read.

You’re about to chalk it up to another swing and a miss, but he pulls out his wallet, a worn leather thing. From it comes a single picture, the color faded yellow, the image predating even black and white photography.

It’s Iwaizumi, looking just the same as he does now. He’s got his arm around the person next to him, pressing a kiss to their forehead. The other person is grinning from ear to ear, and it doesn’t take long to recognize who it is.

It’s you.