Gift fic for aridseas
To: aridseas
From: miss_jelly
SEASON'S GREETINGS!
Title: Signed, Sealed, Delivered
Pairing/Group: Yokoyama You (Kanjani8)/ Aiba Masaki (Arashi)
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU
Notes: I had fun writing this, I do hope it is enjoyable, aridseas :) I've never written this pairing before, so thanks for the opportunity to play with it, may it be to your liking. Also, I know very little about how the Japanese postal service works, so any mistakes in that area are probably many, don't take my word for any of it, haha... Thanks to B for the beta.
Summary: Yokoyama You is a messenger on a mission (or really just a postal service employee that needs to deliver a package, which turns out to be more like an adventure that he'd rather not repeat).
Delivery boy was what his friends called him- the ones he never treated to drinks after work because they were sort of assholes and drank a lot, anyway, so he wouldn't really want to cover their tabs even if they were nicer- his position had some sort of official sounding title, like how bartenders at hip new clubs were called mixologists and janitors were sanitation engineers, but he didn't know it. He avoided both, preferring to be called a messenger- because it sounded cooler and maybe even a little mysterious. He's good at his job and thinks he deserves a proper title, which no one objects to- even his asshole friends secretly think it's kind of cool.
Yokoyama You, Messenger, goes to work proudly each day, loading up the van and delivering- messengering?- packages to the needy, signing over boxes of all shapes and sizes until the wee hours of the evening. He's one of the only ones back, finishing early, when there's a commotion about the new girl misplacing an express delivery package that needed to go out the previous day, only to be found still waiting to be loaded underneath a pile of rubbish.
With no other drivers free, Yokoyama's boss hands the package over to him along with a sympathetic look that immediately sets him on edge. Once he looks at the address printed neatly onto the packaging sheet he know why.
It's not because the place is so far out in the boonies that it isn't on any map that he can find- his supervisor had handed him a printed Google Map for him to use- or that it's the rainy season and whatever dirt roads he'll need to take will probably be turned to mud.
He absolutely didn't want to be the one to deliver to the middle of nowhere because he'd had to do the same last year- same address, same mid-sized package to the same crazy old man that would shoot at the delivery van until the driver got out on the ground with his hands up. He vividly remembered the man coming up to him with the shotgun until a younger guy in overalls had stopped him and pointed him back in the direction of the house while saying something about dinner and “Pappy, don't scare the mailman”. He'd been so grateful he had nearly cried- it was a testament to his force of will that he hadn't- and signed the package over, driving too fast down the dirt trail and not caring one bit about it.
He'd been granted a few days off work after word got around about his close encounter with death, but this time around he knew what he was getting into and didn't think the company would be so generous. Still, he had a duty to fulfill- and he was getting paid for it.
Once he got out on the road he turned on the radio in an attempt to distract himself, which didn't work so well when 'Hey Man Nice Shot' by Filter came on and he frowned as he drove on through trees and dirt roads and reminded himself that his fortune cookie from lunch had said he'd be in good health for a long time to come and that didn't coincide with him getting shot, so it probably wouldn't happen.
Fortune cookie in mind, he drove out of the city with little incident, rain only starting to fall and trickle down his windshield once he hit the long and winding dirt road, following it to the familiar little house with the goat pen in the back. He took the rain as a bad sign, fortune cookie be damned, and kept an eye on the front door as he tucked the package safely and snugly under his arm and took his first tentative step out from the safety of the company van. He left the door open as he took another step, in case he'd need to dive to safety like they did in the movies- he'd learned a lot from Bruce Willis- and finally smirked to himself when nothing came barreling at him with a shotgun.
So far so good, he turned to shut the car door, jumping back when he was met with a smiling face waving at him from the other side of the window, obviously not noticing the near heart attack he'd caused. They straightened at the same time, the other man's smile not fading and Yokoyama quickly pasting on his own grin.
“Hi, is that for me?” The other man practically had bubbles coming from his ears with how utterly cheerful he seemed. Looking back at the label, Yokoyama entered professional mode, “Is there an Aiba Masaki here?”
He recognized the guy, now, as the young man that had distracted the shotgun toting geezer on his last visit, vaguely wondering if he had been recognized, as well. In all honesty, he hoped not, his first impression couldn't have been very good, seeing as he'd been face-down in the mud on that particular occasion.
“Aiba Masaki, that's me,” he jerked a thumb towards himself.
The rest of the transaction went smoothly, though Yokoyama wondered if he should ask about the old man, since he'd actually thought that had been Aiba Masaki until a few moments ago. Instead he took back his pen, apologized for the tardiness and bid Aiba Masaki a good day. He smiled with a look at his watch, pleased with himself and with fate for making it out ahead of schedule and generally unscathed, if a little wet. He was luckier than he gave himself credit for, than his boss had given him credit for, he thought, just before an ominous crack sounded above him and there was a sinking feeling that lady luck had abandoned his side.
The last thing he remembered was looking up and having a rain drop fall into his eye, like an extra little slap in the face from mother nature or whoever was messing with him. Looking around, now, he assumed he was in Aiba's house- that or the old man had shown up and killed him and heaven was actually some old antique shop that smelled like dust and animals. His shabby heaven theory was set aside when Aiba jogged into the room with what looked like a bag of frozen corn.
“For your head,” He said, holding out the bag and Yokoyama took it and waited for him to explain why he was in some one's bed, holding a bag of corn to his aching head, only noticing the dull pain after Aiba had mentioned it. “You hit your head, or well, the tree did. A branch fell, a pretty big one, I guess the storm the other day loosened it up. It's not looking that good out there, right now, actually,” he shrugged a shoulder and looked across the room out the window where it was plain to see that that the weather had indeed turned for the worst.
The sky was dark and wind-whipped trees could be seen illuminated by flashes of lightning every few minutes. Yokoyama grimaced and dragged his wrist up to his face to check the time as Aiba started talking about how he'd dropped Yokoyama off on the bed and had to run outside to wrangle the goats into the barn, whining and making Aiba give him a strange look when he noticed the crack clock face.
“Oh, that's too bad. Was it expensive?” Aiba wore a sympathetic face, making him feel justified in his whining.
“No, but now it's useless,” he continued and let his arm flop back onto the bed with a sigh, remembering his cell phone locked away in the van and wondering if his boss thought he was dead, yet.
Across the room, Aiba pulled out an old pocket watch- old like everything else in the room- and relayed the time for him, taking a seat on a rather lumpy looking chair in the corner. As he'd thought, it was late, later than he'd expected. Aiba seemed to notice his reaction and supplied helpfully, “You were out for a while, I told you it was a big branch”.
Yokoyama just nodded, closing his eyes and trying to accept that he'd probably have to spend the night in a stranger's house- where there may or not be a deranged old man with a gun, he remembered belatedly, eyes snapping open at the thought.
Aiba was still fiddling with the watch in the corner, turning it over and over in his hands, seeming to be lost in his own little world. He seemed harmless, if a little too cheerful for what he was used to- his asshole friends could be cheerful, but it was usually at some one else's expense- he supposed there wasn't to fear from him. If anything, he felt a little more comfortable having him around even if he was kind of loud, and not entirely because he was basically stranded in the boonies on a goat farm. Just as he opened his mouth to ask about the old man, Aiba stood up, clapping the watch shut.
“It's late, but I haven't eaten yet, and you've been passed out, so you should eat, too,” there was a lilt on the end of his sentence like he'd meant it as a question and Yokoyama nodded, a little dumbly, in case that was the case. Aiba nodded and strode quickly out of the room, leaving Yokoyama still in bed and wondering if he was supposed to follow or not. He decided to follow anyway when the telltale sound of pots clanging together reached his ears, balancing the slowly melting bag of corn on top of his head and walking carefully through what he could only assume was the living room, following the metallic clanging to the brightly light kitchen where Aiba was filling a pot with water from the tap, legs surrounded by dogs.
Aiba looked over when he came in, then back down to the dogs at his feet. “Don't mind them, I just fed them, but they're greedy,” Aiba laughed and Yokoyama replied with one of his own, sitting down at the dining table when Aiba refused his help, “You hit your head, I'm not giving you a knife, you'll cut your fingers off,” and just watching, nodded when Aiba held up something to throw in the pot or in the skillet, handing him the bag of corn when he poked his head into the ice box to find a vegetable to have on the side.
The dogs followed him to the table as he served up dinner, which didn't look too bad, really, and two beers- after a little hesitation and then “Well, you got hit by a tree, you probably need this”. He laments not being more adamant about helping with dinner with the first bite, reaching for the beer to wash the taste away and mumbling something about an upset stomach- it wasn't a total lie, he was sure he'd get an upset stomach if he ate any more- when Aiba gave him a questioning look from across the table. They both shrugged, Aiba getting up to retrieve some bread and bring it back, dropping it onto Yokoyama's plate, “Bread's good for an upset stomach, right?” He noded to himself and Yokoyama follows suit because he's not actually sure, but bread sounds pretty good on an empty stomach, anyway.
There was a sort of comfortable silence as they ate, living alone Yokoyama would usually eat in front of the television, and now with only Aiba's stuffing his face in front of him to look at- which was kind of gross- he let his eyes wander, alternating between his beer and bread and slowly starting to feel his headache fade and be replaced with a more familiar and welcome light headed feeling the longer he stares off at the blue and white print wallpaper. The bread does its job, though, keeping him grounded enough and full- not really fulfilled, but he wasn't expecting much from bread in the first place.
Nothing in the house really looks like it belongs to a twenty-something man, he comes to realize, wonders if the guy just has really strange taste, which might not be much of a stretch. “Do you live here alone?” He asks, noticing a smear of sauce on Aiba's chin and wiping his own subconsciously.
“This is my granddad's place, I take care of it for him,” Aiba replies, watching Yokoyama's hand and wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
“Is he here?”
“No, he's gone,” Aiba doesn't appear to notice Yokoyama's relief, already focused back on his plate, nearly empty, and Yokoyama has heard all he needed, doesn't ask anymore questions until Aiba cleans their plates and comes back with two more beers and a smile, “Might as well get comfy and have some fun, right?”
Surprisingly, they do, Yokoyama loosening up and talking when Aiba prods him for being too quiet, “Speak up, you're making me talk to myself,” he jokingly scolds him and Yokoyama retorts, “It's hard to get a word in, stop talking for a second and I will!”
He talks about his friends and how annoying they can be- “You must really like them if you talk about them so much”- and his work and how much he enjoys it- “Cool, so you're like a messenger!” Four empty bottles each later they had migrated to the couch, each taking up half of it and swapping dirty jokes that don't really fit in with the stuffy old décor, making them somehow even more hilarious to the both of them.
Already clutching his gut with laughter, Yokoyama nearly chokes on his tongue when the lights suddenly go out, breaking into a coughing fit that finally ends with him sneezing and a collective “Ewww” from both of them.
“Electricity's out,” Aiba supplies and pats around in the dark in front of him. “I think there are candles around here,” Yokoyama reaches out to help feel around the coffee table, whooping when he found one, but then Aiba says, “But I don't have anything to light it with,” and Yokoyama tosses it back on the table, thumping loudly when it rolls onto the floor, sending them both into a fit of giggles that lasts too long and is cut off by an ear-splitting crack of thunder that makes Yokoyama jump so hard that he ends up on the other side of the couch, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Aiba, neither minding the closeness in favor of having something to grab onto.
“That was loud,” Aiba marvels and Yokoyama nods uselessly in the dark. Both stay put for the rest of the night, shoulders hunching with each resounding blast of thunder and telling only funny stories to combat the storm.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but wakes for a second time in Aiba's granddad's house, this time to see clear skies outside the windows and a heavy pile of Aiba himself splayed out over his legs. His headache is back and his stomach is growling, but he counts it as a good morning and wiggles his feet around until Aiba finally stirs and sits up, yawning and looking around with squinty, tired eyes. He groans when he goes to check his watch and Aiba laughs.
Breakfast is some sort of omelet for Aiba and bread with orange juice for Yokoyama, because he's still worried about that upset stomach, and the messenger spends most of it trying to wake up his legs and wincing when they start to get tingly as the blood rushes back into them. He helps clean up and washes up in the bathroom before Aiba kicks him out so he can pee.
Aiba walks him out to his van, looking up the entire way, and stops Yokoyama before he can say goodbye and start the van. “Since my tree broke yours, you can have this one,” he pushes his fist into Yokoyama's chest until he lifts his hands and Aiba drops an old pocket watch into them. Before he can come up with a reason to refuse the gift, Aiba starts again, “It was my granddad's, he doesn't need it,” Yokoyama looks confused for a moment until he gets it and nods, looking down at the watch. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalls an old children's story and wonders if Aiba's granddad would come back to haunt him for taking his watch.
“I treated this time, so it's your turn next time,” Aiba adds, pointing a finger at him and giving him a look that wasn't entirely serious. Yokoyama nods again and tucks the watch away into his pocket before waving and shutting the car door, thinking that if his granddad did come back to haunt him, it might be best to keep Aiba around for safety's sake.
He drives away, back to the city that in mind and deciding it wasn't so bad of a delivery, after all- nothing a messenger couldn't handle.
From: miss_jelly
SEASON'S GREETINGS!
Title: Signed, Sealed, Delivered
Pairing/Group: Yokoyama You (Kanjani8)/ Aiba Masaki (Arashi)
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU
Notes: I had fun writing this, I do hope it is enjoyable, aridseas :) I've never written this pairing before, so thanks for the opportunity to play with it, may it be to your liking. Also, I know very little about how the Japanese postal service works, so any mistakes in that area are probably many, don't take my word for any of it, haha... Thanks to B for the beta.
Summary: Yokoyama You is a messenger on a mission (or really just a postal service employee that needs to deliver a package, which turns out to be more like an adventure that he'd rather not repeat).
Delivery boy was what his friends called him- the ones he never treated to drinks after work because they were sort of assholes and drank a lot, anyway, so he wouldn't really want to cover their tabs even if they were nicer- his position had some sort of official sounding title, like how bartenders at hip new clubs were called mixologists and janitors were sanitation engineers, but he didn't know it. He avoided both, preferring to be called a messenger- because it sounded cooler and maybe even a little mysterious. He's good at his job and thinks he deserves a proper title, which no one objects to- even his asshole friends secretly think it's kind of cool.
Yokoyama You, Messenger, goes to work proudly each day, loading up the van and delivering- messengering?- packages to the needy, signing over boxes of all shapes and sizes until the wee hours of the evening. He's one of the only ones back, finishing early, when there's a commotion about the new girl misplacing an express delivery package that needed to go out the previous day, only to be found still waiting to be loaded underneath a pile of rubbish.
With no other drivers free, Yokoyama's boss hands the package over to him along with a sympathetic look that immediately sets him on edge. Once he looks at the address printed neatly onto the packaging sheet he know why.
It's not because the place is so far out in the boonies that it isn't on any map that he can find- his supervisor had handed him a printed Google Map for him to use- or that it's the rainy season and whatever dirt roads he'll need to take will probably be turned to mud.
He absolutely didn't want to be the one to deliver to the middle of nowhere because he'd had to do the same last year- same address, same mid-sized package to the same crazy old man that would shoot at the delivery van until the driver got out on the ground with his hands up. He vividly remembered the man coming up to him with the shotgun until a younger guy in overalls had stopped him and pointed him back in the direction of the house while saying something about dinner and “Pappy, don't scare the mailman”. He'd been so grateful he had nearly cried- it was a testament to his force of will that he hadn't- and signed the package over, driving too fast down the dirt trail and not caring one bit about it.
He'd been granted a few days off work after word got around about his close encounter with death, but this time around he knew what he was getting into and didn't think the company would be so generous. Still, he had a duty to fulfill- and he was getting paid for it.
Once he got out on the road he turned on the radio in an attempt to distract himself, which didn't work so well when 'Hey Man Nice Shot' by Filter came on and he frowned as he drove on through trees and dirt roads and reminded himself that his fortune cookie from lunch had said he'd be in good health for a long time to come and that didn't coincide with him getting shot, so it probably wouldn't happen.
Fortune cookie in mind, he drove out of the city with little incident, rain only starting to fall and trickle down his windshield once he hit the long and winding dirt road, following it to the familiar little house with the goat pen in the back. He took the rain as a bad sign, fortune cookie be damned, and kept an eye on the front door as he tucked the package safely and snugly under his arm and took his first tentative step out from the safety of the company van. He left the door open as he took another step, in case he'd need to dive to safety like they did in the movies- he'd learned a lot from Bruce Willis- and finally smirked to himself when nothing came barreling at him with a shotgun.
So far so good, he turned to shut the car door, jumping back when he was met with a smiling face waving at him from the other side of the window, obviously not noticing the near heart attack he'd caused. They straightened at the same time, the other man's smile not fading and Yokoyama quickly pasting on his own grin.
“Hi, is that for me?” The other man practically had bubbles coming from his ears with how utterly cheerful he seemed. Looking back at the label, Yokoyama entered professional mode, “Is there an Aiba Masaki here?”
He recognized the guy, now, as the young man that had distracted the shotgun toting geezer on his last visit, vaguely wondering if he had been recognized, as well. In all honesty, he hoped not, his first impression couldn't have been very good, seeing as he'd been face-down in the mud on that particular occasion.
“Aiba Masaki, that's me,” he jerked a thumb towards himself.
The rest of the transaction went smoothly, though Yokoyama wondered if he should ask about the old man, since he'd actually thought that had been Aiba Masaki until a few moments ago. Instead he took back his pen, apologized for the tardiness and bid Aiba Masaki a good day. He smiled with a look at his watch, pleased with himself and with fate for making it out ahead of schedule and generally unscathed, if a little wet. He was luckier than he gave himself credit for, than his boss had given him credit for, he thought, just before an ominous crack sounded above him and there was a sinking feeling that lady luck had abandoned his side.
The last thing he remembered was looking up and having a rain drop fall into his eye, like an extra little slap in the face from mother nature or whoever was messing with him. Looking around, now, he assumed he was in Aiba's house- that or the old man had shown up and killed him and heaven was actually some old antique shop that smelled like dust and animals. His shabby heaven theory was set aside when Aiba jogged into the room with what looked like a bag of frozen corn.
“For your head,” He said, holding out the bag and Yokoyama took it and waited for him to explain why he was in some one's bed, holding a bag of corn to his aching head, only noticing the dull pain after Aiba had mentioned it. “You hit your head, or well, the tree did. A branch fell, a pretty big one, I guess the storm the other day loosened it up. It's not looking that good out there, right now, actually,” he shrugged a shoulder and looked across the room out the window where it was plain to see that that the weather had indeed turned for the worst.
The sky was dark and wind-whipped trees could be seen illuminated by flashes of lightning every few minutes. Yokoyama grimaced and dragged his wrist up to his face to check the time as Aiba started talking about how he'd dropped Yokoyama off on the bed and had to run outside to wrangle the goats into the barn, whining and making Aiba give him a strange look when he noticed the crack clock face.
“Oh, that's too bad. Was it expensive?” Aiba wore a sympathetic face, making him feel justified in his whining.
“No, but now it's useless,” he continued and let his arm flop back onto the bed with a sigh, remembering his cell phone locked away in the van and wondering if his boss thought he was dead, yet.
Across the room, Aiba pulled out an old pocket watch- old like everything else in the room- and relayed the time for him, taking a seat on a rather lumpy looking chair in the corner. As he'd thought, it was late, later than he'd expected. Aiba seemed to notice his reaction and supplied helpfully, “You were out for a while, I told you it was a big branch”.
Yokoyama just nodded, closing his eyes and trying to accept that he'd probably have to spend the night in a stranger's house- where there may or not be a deranged old man with a gun, he remembered belatedly, eyes snapping open at the thought.
Aiba was still fiddling with the watch in the corner, turning it over and over in his hands, seeming to be lost in his own little world. He seemed harmless, if a little too cheerful for what he was used to- his asshole friends could be cheerful, but it was usually at some one else's expense- he supposed there wasn't to fear from him. If anything, he felt a little more comfortable having him around even if he was kind of loud, and not entirely because he was basically stranded in the boonies on a goat farm. Just as he opened his mouth to ask about the old man, Aiba stood up, clapping the watch shut.
“It's late, but I haven't eaten yet, and you've been passed out, so you should eat, too,” there was a lilt on the end of his sentence like he'd meant it as a question and Yokoyama nodded, a little dumbly, in case that was the case. Aiba nodded and strode quickly out of the room, leaving Yokoyama still in bed and wondering if he was supposed to follow or not. He decided to follow anyway when the telltale sound of pots clanging together reached his ears, balancing the slowly melting bag of corn on top of his head and walking carefully through what he could only assume was the living room, following the metallic clanging to the brightly light kitchen where Aiba was filling a pot with water from the tap, legs surrounded by dogs.
Aiba looked over when he came in, then back down to the dogs at his feet. “Don't mind them, I just fed them, but they're greedy,” Aiba laughed and Yokoyama replied with one of his own, sitting down at the dining table when Aiba refused his help, “You hit your head, I'm not giving you a knife, you'll cut your fingers off,” and just watching, nodded when Aiba held up something to throw in the pot or in the skillet, handing him the bag of corn when he poked his head into the ice box to find a vegetable to have on the side.
The dogs followed him to the table as he served up dinner, which didn't look too bad, really, and two beers- after a little hesitation and then “Well, you got hit by a tree, you probably need this”. He laments not being more adamant about helping with dinner with the first bite, reaching for the beer to wash the taste away and mumbling something about an upset stomach- it wasn't a total lie, he was sure he'd get an upset stomach if he ate any more- when Aiba gave him a questioning look from across the table. They both shrugged, Aiba getting up to retrieve some bread and bring it back, dropping it onto Yokoyama's plate, “Bread's good for an upset stomach, right?” He noded to himself and Yokoyama follows suit because he's not actually sure, but bread sounds pretty good on an empty stomach, anyway.
There was a sort of comfortable silence as they ate, living alone Yokoyama would usually eat in front of the television, and now with only Aiba's stuffing his face in front of him to look at- which was kind of gross- he let his eyes wander, alternating between his beer and bread and slowly starting to feel his headache fade and be replaced with a more familiar and welcome light headed feeling the longer he stares off at the blue and white print wallpaper. The bread does its job, though, keeping him grounded enough and full- not really fulfilled, but he wasn't expecting much from bread in the first place.
Nothing in the house really looks like it belongs to a twenty-something man, he comes to realize, wonders if the guy just has really strange taste, which might not be much of a stretch. “Do you live here alone?” He asks, noticing a smear of sauce on Aiba's chin and wiping his own subconsciously.
“This is my granddad's place, I take care of it for him,” Aiba replies, watching Yokoyama's hand and wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
“Is he here?”
“No, he's gone,” Aiba doesn't appear to notice Yokoyama's relief, already focused back on his plate, nearly empty, and Yokoyama has heard all he needed, doesn't ask anymore questions until Aiba cleans their plates and comes back with two more beers and a smile, “Might as well get comfy and have some fun, right?”
Surprisingly, they do, Yokoyama loosening up and talking when Aiba prods him for being too quiet, “Speak up, you're making me talk to myself,” he jokingly scolds him and Yokoyama retorts, “It's hard to get a word in, stop talking for a second and I will!”
He talks about his friends and how annoying they can be- “You must really like them if you talk about them so much”- and his work and how much he enjoys it- “Cool, so you're like a messenger!” Four empty bottles each later they had migrated to the couch, each taking up half of it and swapping dirty jokes that don't really fit in with the stuffy old décor, making them somehow even more hilarious to the both of them.
Already clutching his gut with laughter, Yokoyama nearly chokes on his tongue when the lights suddenly go out, breaking into a coughing fit that finally ends with him sneezing and a collective “Ewww” from both of them.
“Electricity's out,” Aiba supplies and pats around in the dark in front of him. “I think there are candles around here,” Yokoyama reaches out to help feel around the coffee table, whooping when he found one, but then Aiba says, “But I don't have anything to light it with,” and Yokoyama tosses it back on the table, thumping loudly when it rolls onto the floor, sending them both into a fit of giggles that lasts too long and is cut off by an ear-splitting crack of thunder that makes Yokoyama jump so hard that he ends up on the other side of the couch, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Aiba, neither minding the closeness in favor of having something to grab onto.
“That was loud,” Aiba marvels and Yokoyama nods uselessly in the dark. Both stay put for the rest of the night, shoulders hunching with each resounding blast of thunder and telling only funny stories to combat the storm.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but wakes for a second time in Aiba's granddad's house, this time to see clear skies outside the windows and a heavy pile of Aiba himself splayed out over his legs. His headache is back and his stomach is growling, but he counts it as a good morning and wiggles his feet around until Aiba finally stirs and sits up, yawning and looking around with squinty, tired eyes. He groans when he goes to check his watch and Aiba laughs.
Breakfast is some sort of omelet for Aiba and bread with orange juice for Yokoyama, because he's still worried about that upset stomach, and the messenger spends most of it trying to wake up his legs and wincing when they start to get tingly as the blood rushes back into them. He helps clean up and washes up in the bathroom before Aiba kicks him out so he can pee.
Aiba walks him out to his van, looking up the entire way, and stops Yokoyama before he can say goodbye and start the van. “Since my tree broke yours, you can have this one,” he pushes his fist into Yokoyama's chest until he lifts his hands and Aiba drops an old pocket watch into them. Before he can come up with a reason to refuse the gift, Aiba starts again, “It was my granddad's, he doesn't need it,” Yokoyama looks confused for a moment until he gets it and nods, looking down at the watch. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalls an old children's story and wonders if Aiba's granddad would come back to haunt him for taking his watch.
“I treated this time, so it's your turn next time,” Aiba adds, pointing a finger at him and giving him a look that wasn't entirely serious. Yokoyama nods again and tucks the watch away into his pocket before waving and shutting the car door, thinking that if his granddad did come back to haunt him, it might be best to keep Aiba around for safety's sake.
He drives away, back to the city that in mind and deciding it wasn't so bad of a delivery, after all- nothing a messenger couldn't handle.