Fixtures
Note: Free! Iwatobi Swim Club and Eternal Summer (c) Kyo-Ani.
There's a quaint little coffee shop that insists it's a tea house in Ebisu called Mintea. It's on a backstreet halfway between the station and Sousuke's acupuncturist's office.
Sousuke would have never found the place had it not been for Satoshi, the de facto leader of his class's (very) small mythology and classic literature study group. For some reason, Satoshi insisted at least one meeting be held there once every week on Tuesdays. Why, Sousuke isn't sure, but he's got a suspicion the place's atmosphere—and cheap brews—have something to do with it.
It's calming and cozy, light-years away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Only soft instrumental music plays. And aside from the occasional whistle of kettles and whir of coffee machines, it's leagues quieter than his university's library. For starters, he could actually hear himself think.
Sousuke likes it, particularly because no one he knows outside the study group knows about it—not even Rin. It's his oasis, far away from the mounting pressures of a national swim team that works him to near-death; far from a university looking to shape him into the corporate zombie he doesn't want to be. It's his place where once a week, he can hide away from the world, from obligation, from his troubles, and just breathe.
So it's only natural he's a little resistant to the idea of change.
As luck would have it, he walks by the shop one Wednesday—not the day his group's supposed to meet—and he sneaks a glimpse in through the window as he passes. He doesn't expect to see anything he hasn't already, like the rustic décor, the barista who always dyes her hair all sorts of colors or the other one who shrinks and radiates with shyness.
Everything is as it should be. Everything except for him—the rather tall one, with the broad shoulders and sharp angles and cowlicked brown hair.
Sousuke stops dead in his tracks and stares through the glass. He swears he's seen this guy before. Seven years ago and over six hundred kilometers away, and not in a city of over thirteen million people. Iwatobi. Simpler and quieter Iwatobi.
He's a little bigger now—if he's even who he thinks it is—a giant in such a small, cramped place, yet he moves nimbly between the tables and people like a pro. Sousuke watches as he balances a tray on the flat of one hand and pours some brew into a customer's mug expertly with the other. Then's straightening up and smiling a sun-warm smile that reaches up into his eyes and suddenly, there's no doubt about it: it's him.
Makoto Tachibana.
One of the baristas is crouching by the shop's outdoor chalkboard sign, writing on it in pink bubbly letters to match her hair and, presumably, her personality. "Hello! Welcome to Mintea!" She's so short, Sousuke almost missed her. And he tells himself it's not because of the familiar face inside.
Sousuke bites his tongue in his mouth, looking between her and Tachibana.
She seems to catch on, and smiles and looks inside the shop as well. Thankfully, Tachibana is long gone, whisked off further into the shop. "Does something catch your eye?"
No, definitely not.
Without giving her an answer, Sousuke leaves, posthaste.
Less than a week later, Satoshi informs the group their meetings are now to be held on Wednesdays instead of Tuesdays.
A minor change that changes everything.
Sousuke considers ditching the next meeting or the group entirely at that point. But an upcoming exam kills that thought, and before he can come up with some kind of excuse to avoid it, Wednesday rolls around and he's ducking into his favorite corner of Mintea and hanging his jacket to join his group.
No more than five minutes after sitting down, Tachibana shows up to take the group's order, pen and pad ready. Sousuke stares hard at the open page of his textbook, hoping nothing about what he does or how he looks gives way to who he is, or that at the very least, Tachibana would be too preoccupied with jotting down stuff that he'd miss him entirely.
This is Sousuke's sanctuary, his quiet space, and he can't very well have disruptions like this and—
"Yamazaki-kun?"
And of course Tachibana recognizes him and has the gall to sound stunned. Fuck.
Shoulders tensing, Sousuke peels his eyes away from the story of Hyacinth he's read dozens of times over and looks up. His gaze meets green and for a brief unnerving moment, he's exposed and forced to glance away. For his own sake.
"Noon chai, with light cinnamon," is all he says, his voice rumbly.
A long, quiet moment passes before he hears the scratch of a pen against paper, and an all-too-soft, "I'll get that right out to you."
He ignores the disappointment in Tachibana's voice and focuses on the sounds of his retreating footsteps instead.
It's quiet at the table as soon as he's gone, like he was never there to begin with, until Satoshi looks between him and the towering figure at work behind the counter.
"You know him, Yamazaki?"
Sousuke takes a while to respond, but when he does, it's with a faint, "no, not really."
It's true.
Activity back at the table returns to its usual level, until Tachibana returns later with their drinks, thanks them for being so patient, and hands them their orders with practiced and careful perfection. He hands Sousuke his drink last, his gaze lingering a lot longer than anyone might deem comfortable.
"Please enjoy."
Sousuke waits until Tachibana's off to tend to a salary man in the corner before bringing the cup up to his lips. At best, the noon chai has been just above passable here at Mintea. He samples it, lets the flavor swish around in his mouth.
Not bad.
Word doesn't get back to anyone on the team; no one on campus knows. The world still turns. Nothing's changed.
So it won't be so bad.
With a deep intake of breath, Sousuke pushes the door and enters the café, making a beeline for his favorite spot in the corner. This time, there's no study group awaiting him so they can compare notes on Hero and Leander and their place in art history.
The baristas, Tachibana included, all bow to him in greeting and leave him alone, allowing him the much-needed time and space to remove his jacket, sling his bag over the back of his favorite seat and slump down into it, long limbs stretching, without interruption.
Sousuke breathes out, slow and deep. He can handle this.
He turns toward the counter and waves a barista over.
Tachibana takes his order that day: noon chai, light on the cinnamon, and a biscotti. He doesn't ask him why he's there or anything else, really. Just makes him his drink and brings it over and leaves the order receipt down on the table unassuming between Bulfinch's Mythology and a notebook, and leaves him be for the next two hours.
It's not so bad.
The following week, the same thing happens: Sousuke enters, the bell above the door chimes, the baristas greet him—and he wonders, idly, if they're the only employees this place has—and he proceeds to his corner where he loses himself in either his studies or his thoughts for a very peaceful two hours.
This pattern continues for the next five weeks, uninterrupted.
Since the third week, right around the time Sousuke had glared daggers into the shy barista for drowning his chai with cinnamon, Tachibana became the primary handler of his orders. A win, since his noon chai is by far the best out of the Wednesday crew. Though Sousuke won't ever tell him that.
Because he doesn't speak to him.
This fact barely registers to Sousuke until a month and a half have passed and there's a change in his beloved routine. It's not earth-shattering, but to someone who swims with the current instead of against it, it pretty much is.
It happens right after Sousuke sits down in his special, designated corner. Tachibana approaches him without heed, a piping-hot cup and saucer of noon chai in his hands and a smile on his face, as warm as it is disarming.
Sousuke freezes then remembers he has to say something, except his throat tightens and he thinks he might be choking on a breath, yet all he can do is dumbly reach for his wallet.
"There's no need," Tachibana insists, his head bowing coyly, making his square-framed glasses slide down the bridge of his slender nose. "We've set up a tab for you."
Sousuke's voice finally returns and before he knows what he's doing, he says, "This is assuming I'm actually going to come back."
The look on Tachibana's face is a cross between ashamed and shocked, and just the slightest bit disappointed. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Something in Sousuke's heart jumps. He can't help the way the right side of his mouth quirks upwards, just barely, on its own. "Just kidding."
He's rewarded with the sight of one flustered and blushing Tachibana setting his drink down and sputtering something that sounds like 'thank you very much, please come again'. He hurries back to work. Not a single drop of the pink drink spilled.
Pleased, Sousuke's mouth spreads out into a full-blown smile. Or smirk. Whichever it is, it's his first in weeks. It stays there, or it feels like it stays there, for the better part of three hours—the longest he's remained—until a movement out the corner of his eye distracts him.
Tachibana's by the door, his apron's off, and he's now in a thin brown jacket and waving 'bye' to his co-workers. "See you tomorrow," he calls out to them with a wave.
"Good luck," one calls back.
Sousuke flicks a glance his way, watching Tachibana through the shop glass as he sadly drops his hand and disappears down the street in the direction of the train station, the smile gone from his eyes.
Good luck?
It's none of his business and he shouldn't even think twice about it. But he does wonder just what it is out there that Tachibana's heading to.
Then there's a twitch at his shoulder, and Sousuke turns briskly away from the window and buries his nose into his book, deciding that Tachibana's vulnerabilities are his and his alone.
To Sousuke, he doesn't exist outside of this shop.
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