Not Actually The Author's Note— Hello, this is ilarual (more commonly known as Laura), posting on Ash's behalf. This is part of one of her contributions to this year's Reverse Resonance Bang (or Reverb). She's had a minor personal emergency, nothing serious, but something that's keeping her away from the computer for an indeterminate period of time. She hasn't had time to finish up the last couple scenes of her fic (again due to said personal emergency) so I can't post the whole thing for her, but she didn't want to leave her artist partner hanging.
Once she's back online she'll edit and post the full version of this fic, but here's something of a preview of her Reverb work. Her partner, who goes on Tumblr by ashsocolourful, who seems to have invented this unorthodox and entirely adorable ship (for which she has coined the portmanteau Dik) has art that can be found on her Tumblr at this URL: ashsocolourful DOT tumblr DOT com /post/123434873159/reverb-2k15-completed-art-title-symmetry
When Father had suggested that he should get out more, perhaps socialize with other meisters and their weapons, get a feel for humanity, Kid is absolutely positive that this is not what Dear Daddy Death had meant. Granted, he can admit he feels frighteningly human here, with lips against his neck and blood flushing from his forehead to his elbows. Everything is warm, but the clean kind of warmth that could never be found in the grime that follows the sun, and though before this he never really found himself craving this particular brand of human interaction, he can certainly see himself getting used to it now.
He doesn't like the way it seems to be that he's all take and no give, doesn't like the imbalance of the dynamic, so he does his best to gather his concentration and try to understand what it is that's so nice about this and how he could reciprocate.
And as he presses his lips to Kilik's throat, drags his pristine pearly whites over it experimentally as the boy groans, he has to contain a chuckle at just how this all started eight weeks ago...
"You need to get out. You're pale as death."
"Ha ha, hilarious Elizabeth. I appreciate the concern, but I'd prefer to do as I please. Which does not involve going to a dusty, germ infested coffee shop. Thank you, but no."
Liz quirks an immaculate brow (his doing) at him, her ringed fist clenched at her hip as her toes tap rapidly against the polished white tiles, the pace impressively perfect and vaguely intimidating, much like most other things about Liz. Kid stands his ground though, suppressing a mild retch at the thought of sticky vinyl booths and scummy tables coated in immortal coffee rings. He thinks their filth might even outlive him…
"You refused to enroll in your dad's hoity toity school, Kid. And I totally get it, really, cause school is bullshit-"
"Language, Liz-"
"Whatever, school is worthless and no one knows that better than me, but you seriously need to get out of this damn… house- mansion thing? Can it even be called a house anymore? Anyway, point is, either you agree with me, or I get Patti, and she'll make you agree with me. Take your pick Kiddo, but either way, you're visiting us at work today."
Well.
For lack of a better term…
Shit.
So he goes.
And he was right in his assumptions, at least about the sticky vinyl. He knows it can be blamed on the heinous Death City heat, but he can almost see the bacteria creeping along the self proclaimed "fabric". He doesn't bother to wipe it down before he takes his seat in the back center booth, knowing that Liz and probably all of her curious co workers are already watching. He silently thanks his father for agreeing to dedicate a portion of the manor to the purpose of being an at home dry cleaners facility, and sits up as straight as possible, sure to keep his cuffs off the table.
Patti approaches, the scent of gunmetal, cappuccino, and bubblegum tape wafting off her with every step, and Kid does his level best not to cringe at the mildly frightening grin stretched across her deceptively sweet face. She plops down in the seat across from him, ignoring the dust motes that are displaced by her weight, and he does his best not to wrinkle his nose.
He must put on a strong face. He won't let her intimidate him into doing anything he doesn't want to do.
His eyelid twitches involuntarily as she picks at her messy, chipped, hot pink nail polish, grinning impishly at his tick, the slightest indication of weakness never escaping her notice.
Shit. They're devils, the both of them. All of Brooklyn was right.
"You gotta go up to the counter to order, Kiddo."
She smacks her lips loudly, pulls her gum over her tongue with her teeth, and exhales so hard that the bubble inflates and pops with a reverberating crack. He closes his eyes, trying desperately to center himself, to find his zen.
Just breathe, wipe away the saliva on the table later, it's fine. Nothing detrimental.
"If you don't get your lazy reaper ass up there and order a drink, no one's ever gonna take you seriously when you're a Death God."
His fingers twitch for the handkerchief in his pocket. He tucks all ten beneath his thighs, suppressing a cringe at how the seat sticks to his palms.
"I already am a Death God."
She snorts, her quirked brow expressing all too clearly how dubious she finds his claim.
"Deeds not words, buddy boy, deeds not words. 'Sides, the barista's hot. Go order hot chocolate and see if he gets the hint," she says with a cheeky grin, complete with a wink and frighteningly real finger gun wielding that results in two heavy impacts of pressure against his chest.
He chokes, sputters while clutching at the invisible elephant on his chest, "Patricia! Inappropriate workplace conduct-"
"Ask for extra nutmeg."
"Ugh, you're vulgar. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"Says Wonderboy the bastard horcrux. Seriously, instead of the talk, did Daddy Death just hand you the Harry Potter series and leave the rest of the detective work to you?"
He pushes the finer details of soul splitting out of his mind, straightens his tie, and grumbles indignantly, "I really hate you sometimes."
"Love you too Kiddo. Anywho, my mom was a junked up hooker, I doubt she woulda tried to ride in on her moral high horse just cause I'm the only person who'll tell you when it's time to pull your head outta your ass and make friends other than me and sissy."
The tone she takes when saying this rubs a raw nerve.
"What makes you say that? We've been quite successful in the past few years, have we not?"
"You know that's not what I mean, dumdum," she says, flicking his forehead before turning on her heel and skipping back to the counter, tossing over her shoulder, "Go get something sweet or I'll tell Papa Perish your pissy attitude spoiled all the milk in the shop."
A little smile twitches at the corners of Kid's lips, and he's a little glad she can't see it.
"You're insufferable."
"And you're udderly un-brie-leavable. Now go socialize before I sic Harv's notorious cheek-pincher of a grandma on ya, I've got twerps to serve!"
He rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face would be impossible to deny. He's grateful to have Patti and Liz in his life. They may make him uncomfortable, but they also help him grow, help him see what it is to be human, the beautiful, the painful, and the ugly alike.
With a heavy sigh, he stands and approaches the counter, seeking out the menu for something decaffeinated and chilly. A vibration in his pocket tells him Patti is most likely sending him all the worst puns and sex jokes she can think of, and though he finds it a bit absurd, he still locks messages like these on his phone.
He removes it from his pocket, sliding the message open, and it reads-
Order the mint chocolate milkshake
Back in the kitchen he hears poorly concealed cackling, and he sends back a specially created emoji.
Two middle fingers clad in silver skull rings.
The cackling is muffled now, and he replaces his phone in his pocket, feeling slightly better about the whole situation. When he finally looks up, he sees that Maka is here, along with a small group of others around the same age. He's known her all her life, grew up around her and her father the majority of the time, and though she's asked him many times if he'd like to come along with her and these friends she holds so dear, for some reason he's never been able to accept.
It's always seemed so out of reach, so intimidating. Now he feels absurd, because if he had accepted back then, at least he wouldn't be feeling so out of place now, his hands hovering near his pockets and his eyes fixed on anything but the barista he's about to order from. He thinks to call Maka over, but the words catch in his throat when he sees her surreptitiously slip her hand into the hand of her white haired weapon. A wavelength of peace radiates from them, and he's thankful for their bond, especially now that he's within range of it. His shoulders relax from a tenseness he was unaware of, and he closes his eyes for a moment to revel in it. The chatter of the shop seems so much quieter.
"Next! Hey dude?"
Kid snaps out of his reverie, realizing with a scorching blush that he'd been standing there smiling like an idiot with his eyes closed, the line behind him short, but impatient nonetheless.
The guy who calls him up is the one Patti had been teasing him about, and now seeing up close the incredible bone structure and beautifully straight teeth, the dark, even complexion and neatly groomed hair, he can understand why she had thought to comment.
Wearing the nametag that reads Kilik, the absurdly well constructed barista guy has a pen tucked behind each ear, and Kid is about to inquire when Kilik asks him and the gentleman behind him both what their orders will be. The man behind Kid orders something complex, something heated, cooled, skimmed and so on, but Kilik still stares at Kid expectantly, a pen now in each hand that hovers over its own paper pad.
"Hey man, you know what you'd like yet? Open to new things or do you have an old standby?"
Kid blurts it before he can stop himself, "Chocolate mint milkshake?" forcing himself to keep eye contact and not openly gush about the fact that this dude is writing both orders at the same time.
"Good choice, that's one of my favourites."
Father, help him.
"You're ambidextrous."
The boy chuckles.
"You're observant."
"Ahhh- I'm just going to-"
"Here, it'll take just a few minutes," Kilik hands him an order number card, and Kid takes it with a silent nod, turning for a quick retreat to his back booth.
When he sits back down, desperately trying to compose himself because it's ridiculous to be so impressed by something as simple as ambidexterity, (pull yourself together, it's not that rare) just as he's calmed himself a bit he looks at his card.
Customer card number eight.
He narrows his eyes in the general vicinity of the front ordering station, seeking out a giggling Patti or Liz, but he only finds Kilik, a secretive smile curling his lips as he jots down orders on his notepads. Kid fidgets in his seat, stealing glances at any opportunity while pretending to be using his phone for free wifi purposes and not for 'I'm a fish on dry land and I'm trying to hide that fact' purposes. He's positive it's ineffective, his breathing needlessly offbeat and his limbs bouncing involuntarily under the table, but he's obstinate in his attempts, only putting the phone down when Kilik catches him off guard somehow, setting down an insulated to-go cup in front of Kid and smiling kindly.
"Just in case the room starts to shrink. Always better to have an option, right?"
Kid is about to respond, but Kilik is already halfway back to his station, tossing a wave over his shoulder, his fingertips shining with graphite dust when the light catches them. Something smells strangely chemical along with the sweet, and it isn't until he spins his cup so that his straw is angled properly that he realizes that in permanent marker there's a name, a phone number, and a small smiley face inked.
He glances back to the register, and Kilik is already looking at him, grinning widely, slightly smug but mostly playful. He raises a hand in a half wave, and Kid can't help but to reciprocate, his jaw still slightly ajar in surprise.
Perhaps noisey, sticky coffee shops aren't quite as dreadful as he had thought.