A/N: Oh, hey, so this is kind of a short chapter. That's okay, though, because they'll get longer. Promise.

So this idea kind of hit me while listening to a song, and that's where I got the title for the story; it's the English translation of it. So yeah.

Also, the title of the chapter is the title of yet another song, one that I think fits the guest star of this chapter pretty well.

Read and review, please? I love critiques, and I'd also like to hear if the present tense is working. If not, I can switch it to the ever popular past tense. So yeah, feedback would be lovely~! It'll be you helping me help make the story better!

I think that's it?

Until next time!

Disclaimer: I own nothing used here save my computer.

Chapter 1: Le Trublion

Stories are like balls of yarn; each person stands in a circle, each possessing his or her own ball. Then, as the teacher counts down, everyone tosses their yarn to others in the circle. The strings mountain and valley around one another, some even looping. The teacher counts down. "Ten, nine, eight!" he says, and he watches amusedly as a student misses a ball and is forced to retrieve it. Inadvertently, he tangles his own yarn in the missed ball; he also nearly trips over it. "Seven, six, five!" A student utters some cuss words loudly, his yarn becoming hopelessly tangled with that of a girl's across the circle. "Four, three, two!" The students rush to possess their balls of yarn before the teacher tells them to stop, as the rules so clearly state. "One!" There are students with their shoulders slumped, they had failed to retrieve theirs before time ran out. Others, however, are following the trail of their yarn, scrutinizing each tangle, each not, and every intersection.

Stories cross one another constantly whether it's with the person with that guitar case you bump into on your way to work, or that barista with those brilliant sapphire eyes you ordered your vanilla latte from five minutes prior. Sometimes stories become tangled together, impossible to separate, like those of your family members' or significant other's. And sometimes people lose their stories, much like the students frantically trying to grasp theirs before the end of the activity; those are those who have lost sight of their dreams and aspirations, or those who simply don't know what they wish for.

This? This is the story of the young man who was too hesitant of letting his ball of yarn go, of letting it free mingle with the other stories. He didn't want to lose his story, to be disappointed, but in trying to keep it close, he ended up forgetting to live it. He was fascinated with other people's stories, and wished for his own, but his fear left him incapacitated.

Instead of going out to live and enrich his story, letting his merrily tangle with others, he settled for watching others roll by. And if you ask him, he would say that he was content albeit wistful; yet he would also say that he was waiting for his story to be yanked from his overprotective fingers and thrust into the many others, eventually interweaving itself in a nice little niche. He would say that he wanted his story to truly begin.

XXXXX

The order is a white hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. As Castiel would describe it, it's the drink of inevitable diabetes and subsequent death. Yet he bustles behind the counter, pouring the appropriate sugar-laced ingredients in the cup to satisfy yet another customer. The said man is watching his back impatiently, hazel eyes antsy. It isn't an "I need to be somewhere now" sort of antsy. It is, rather, a "give me that wonderful, sugar-filled drink now so I can slurp it all up, scald my poor throat and more than likely demand another". So Castiel hurries to finish the hot chocolate faster, and when he finally does turn around with the finished beverage, the customer takes it gratefully and sips; he doesn't move.

"This is good," he comments loudly, taking another small amount of the surely painfully hot white hot chocolate. He adjusts himself to a more comfortable and leisurely stance, his legs crossing and his hips leaning up against the counter. His eyes rest once again on the barista, who judges his age to be early thirties. Castiel is silently thankful that it is the quiet period of the day and that there is no line.

"Thank you," Castiel replies, slightly awkwardly. He's never been sure how to respond to statements just as those; it isn't his recipe, and it's fairly simple. So he decides on that simple, neutral response and then stands there. The other man sips again happily at the furiously steaming drink.

"This seems like a cozy job," the customer observes after a moment of relatively awkward silence, his head nodding as he notes various elements of the coffee house: few tables in the far corner, several comfortable chairs are scattered throughout the small store, and the walls are painted earthy greens and browns. Plants hang from the ceiling, and the wall facing the street has been long replaced by windows. All in all, it is a welcoming atmosphere, and Castiel would be foolish not to admit that it almost always calms his ever-frazzled nerved.

"It is," the barista replies dumbly, then quickly continues to add, "It isn't very exciting, but it's rather nice." He hopes desperately that suffices as an answer; it isn't very elaborate, but it's truthful. A couple huddled around one of the tables gives a rather loud pair of laughs, and then resumes hushed whispers to one another. The one on the right, a woman likely in her mid-twenties, is leaning over the table. He isn't able to see her face, but he assumes she has a happy expression with twinkling eyes. You know, like the one that the love struck girl has in those cliché romantic comedies. Her partner, a male appearing not much older than she, has short cropped hair and Castiel's guessing brown eyes; he seems like a brown eyed sort of man. Whatever the case, the two seem to be having quite a good conversation.

The customer nods in understanding, and then he smiled widely. "I'm a street artist," he says almost boastingly, drawing Castiel's attention back. "Controversial, too, and that's the way to do it!"

Castiel cocks his head. "Controversial?" he inquires, now obviously intrigued. Controversial could mean an array of things. Is he picking a questionable subject? Is he an advocate? Is his approach new and unusual, perhaps even illegal?

Turns out it is the former two. "I've discovered that the best way to get your message across is through the shock," his customer says with a nonchalant shrug. "Look for anything signed Gabriel. That's artist me!"'

"Gabriel," Castiel repeats, committing the name to memory. Then he realizes that he doesn't know where to start looking. So he asks. "Where can I find your artwork?"

"Around," Gabriel replies cryptically, not wishing to reveal anything more. Castiel detects that much, but he still wishes to know. He doesn't press, though. "You know, you would make a great listener. You're very quiet, but you hear every word I'm saying." The statement is an aloud thought, and it sounds so in every aspect.

Still, Castiel flushes slightly at the compliment. He nearly throws his hands to his face to cool his cheeks and hide his embarrassment, which doesn't help because they retained the heat from the hot chocolate.

"Kid, kid!" Gabriel says in panic, righting himself from his slouch and nearly flinging himself over the counter. His hazel eyes peer inquisitively and worriedly at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry! I'm fine! I'm sorry!" Castiel replies quickly, dropping his hands to his side. His flush still remains, albeit with more rouge dusted along his cheeks. "I just – thank you."

Gabriel stares at him for a moment, dragging himself back over the counter. "Okay," he says, although he doesn't sound convinced. Castiel lets it slide, though, as he preoccupies himself with wiping his hands on the supplied rag. They are sticky, after all.

"Hey, kid. Listen close," Gabriel demands after a moment of hesitation. Castiel raises his blues eyes curiously from his hands and cocks his head. The street artist leans over the counter conspiratorily. "Get out there, kid. Whatever you should be doing, wherever you should be, it isn't here."

Castiel parts his lips to respond, but Gabriel promptly cuts him off. "You know, I think I'd like a cherry strudel," he thinks aloud yet again and taps on the glass of the display case. "Could I get one?"

Castiel merely nods, wishing to ask what he meant, but his customer seems to not wish to elaborate. He slides the back door to the case open and pulls one of the mentioned pastries out. It goes promptly into a brown paper bag emblazoned with the store's logo, and he begins folding the top closed. He decides to begin again, to ask the question that's insisting on being asked, but his voice is lost under that of a certain customer's.

"No! Wait!" Gabriel cries dramatically, stretching his arm forward to stop the poor, startled barista. He then enunciates meticulously and slowly an, "Add a blueberry one, too."

Again, Castiel only nods, reaching into the case with his napkin filled hand to search for the man's second desired pastry. When he finally has it in the bag with the cherry one, he turns his attention back hesitantly to the street artist – who happens to be watching his hands and the bag excitedly. So Castiel lets him have it, and Gabriel promptly gives him the appropriate amount of money.

With that, and with questions lingering on Castiel's tongue, the Gabriel leaves with his white hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and his cherry and blueberry strudels merrily in tow.

Castiel sunk back behind the counter. He likes the coffeehouse. The familiar, serene atmosphere fills him with happiness. He has worked there since he graduated high school, and he's really good friends with his boss. That and, well, the coffeehouse has sort of become his life. His story, it's predominately within those walls, and Castiel intends to keep it that way.

The couple let out another boisterous set of laughs, this time lasting longer than the previous. Castiel absentmindedly glances over at the duo, then back at the door. He is truly snapped out of his reverie only when another customer has to shout in his ear for another refill.

XXXXX

Castiel later learns why Gabriel didn't say where he could find an example of his artwork; the third of the questions also describes the art perfectly. A questionably legal (he doubts he had permission to paint it, and the image itself isn't for the squeamish) mural is on his walk to work, and it was after curiosity hit him and further scrutinizing that Castiel learned that it's painted by none other than a "Gabriel". He quickly gathers that Gabriel is an advocate, and anti-war seems to be a subject he paints rather strongly for.