I really don't like his name being Barry. So I'm keeping it Damion, and you can get over it if you really have a problem with it.
Pairing: Coldcoffeeshipping (Damion/Barry / Paul)
Boyslash yaoi warning.
It's just this thing he does with his coffee.
Nothing big, just something he's always done.
Paul, on the other hand, seems to find it strange, stupid, and obnoxious. But what does Damion care? Paul doesn't live at his house, so he doesn't have to deal with it. It really only affects him when Damion wakes up at his house and asks for a small lollipop. Then it affects him.
"Why do you want a damn lollipop?" Paul asks.
"For my coffee," Damion replies.
"That's not a reason," is the response.
And then Damion rolls his eyes and storms out of the house, ticked that Paul can't just get over himself. But Paul never stays over at Damion's house, they always seem to end back up at Paul's for some reason or other. Damion aims to change that, one day. But for now, the day remains a future episode.
But now, Damion was sitting in his living room of his own little apartment, watching the Hearthome life pass swiftly before his eyes on the streets four stories below. He didn't have the heart to join them that day, though. He leaned over the balcony and watched them bustle about, his chin resting on his forearms, listening to people shout, laugh, shop, call to their kids, and talk to their pokemon. He avoided looking at the couples on the street – they just made him think about Paul, who was the reason he was in this mess in the first place. This dull, depressing mess.
Back in his kitchen, a machine beeped, and he got up to go answer it. The coffee pot was going off, stating that it was full, thank you, and was ready to be served. In response, Damion dumped the rest of the creamer into the pot, as well as about five spoonfulls of sugar. Once mixed, he took it to the table, poured himself a mug, and stared into its contents hypnotically.
Damion learned early on that, since he was alone in his apartment, he didn't need to worry about other people caring what went in the coffee, so he could fix it up the way he liked. On occasion, when Paul did stop by, he'd get some of the coffee Damion made, and would comment about it being too sweet or too weak. He'd find something to complain about. But Damion would shrug and tell him he didn't live there, so it didn't really matter what he thought, now did it?
Finally, after much deliberation, Damion finally picked an orange sucker out of the bowl in the middle of his table and unwrapped it, then plopped it neatly in his cup and began stirring with it. He sighed contentedly when he took a sip, tasting a burst of citrus when the drink touched his tongue. He was about to take another sip when somewhere outside, thunder sounded, and all the people outside grew restless and rapid, hurrying to get out of the fat drops that were about to fall. Damion quietly got up and shut the sliding door to his deck and sat back in a fat red easy chair comfortably as the drops began hitting the windows.
Paul didn't know what he was missing out on. Sitting in the middle of a rainstorm with orange-flavored coffee inside your own comfy house couldn't get much better than anything Damion could think of. Slowly, his frustration ebbed away and he left sitting in his little chair, in his cozy little apartment, in a neat little rainstorm, with a little cup of coffee made just the way he liked in his hands. He pulled his knees up to his chest and planted his heels on the edge of the chair, and a smile crossed his features for the first time since he had stormed out of Paul's place earlier that morning. He took another sip and wiggled his toes with a sudden burst of playful energy. He giggled.
His front door blew open and Damion, who was facing it, looked up into Paul's face. Or, what remained of it that showed once his sopping hair had plastered itself over what it could. He was wearing some jacket that was equally as wet, and his shoes squelched when he stepped in and shut the door. Damion's good mood vanished and was replaced with something akin to indifference. "May I help you?"
Paul squelched over to the coat rack and put his jacket on it. Damion rose, placed his cup on the coffee table, and set the entire coat rack in the bathtub of the room down the hall and to the right. When he returned, Paul was removing his shoes and placing them by the front door as well. "I'd like to know what you're doing here before I allow you to stay," Damion said. His voice felt eerie to him, not the friendly and bouncy voice he usually spoke in. Paul glared at him. Or, would have, if Damion could see his eyes under the purple hair that looked black from all the moisture trapped in it.
"I came to see you, idiot," he said curtly. "because you left all pissy this morning and you shouldn't be pissy over stupid things that weren't intentional."
Damion's mouth tugged into a small smile. It was an apology. Albeit, hidden under numerous methods to actually avoid using the phrases "I'm sorry," or "I was wrong," but an apology nonetheless. Coming from Paul, it was something not many people heard anyway. He took the other boy's hand and led him to the bathroom, where he dropped his muddy, sponge-like shoes in the tub with the coat rack and hung Paul's shirt on the shower rod. He handed him two towels from the closet and a bathrobe, left the bathroom, and went to sit on the couch with his coffee while Paul changed out of his remaining wet garments and into the robe. Once more, Damion curled his knees to his chest and wiggled his toes, his bad mood now completely lifted. When Paul came out, he patted the cushion next to him. Paul sat down and made Damion bounce a little.
"You look cold, want some coffee?" Damion asked. Paul nodded.
"Yeah. None of that sugar crap, though," he mumbled. Damion nodded, gave him a peck on his cheek, and went to the kitchen to make a new pot, no cream or sugar, as strong as he could make it. Paul continued to sit on the couch, facing away from the kitchen, staring at a blank TV screen and waiting patiently in a sort of strained silence. Damion shook his head at his companion and poured him a cup of the new, hot coffee. Upon passing the table, he paused with a glance at the bowl of suckers in the middle, and did something drastic.
Paul took a swig of coffee as soon as he got it. Then another. He didn't notice Damion not touching his own coffee, but watching with interest as Paul downed more of the beverage. "You did something different. What is it?"
"Do you like it?" he asked eagerly. To his surprise, Paul faced him and nodded.
"Yeah, a lot."
Damion smiled and went into the kitchen. Paul turned to look at him as he headed to the counter and picked something up off of it, then walked back and put it on the coffee table. It was a sucker, white stick stained brown from the coffee, sitting all wet and sticky from use on its wrapper. Damion took a last swig of his own coffee and when he turned and smiled at Paul, the head of the orange sucker was clamped between his teeth when he grinned.
He wasn't sure whether Paul was going to yell or not. He certainly looked as if he were going to. But right before it came, Paul shrugged, dropped the grape sucker into his own coffee, put that down on the coffee table, and leaned in to take the sucker head from Damion's mouth with his own. Damion didn't fight too much, he would admit.
Their fighting in the mornings at Paul's house stops pretty abruptly after this. In fact, it stops altogether. Damion no longer needs to ask for a small lollipop in the mornings when he wakes up, because Paul has his own bowl in the middle of his table, one with assorted flavors like Damion's. Paul also starts going over to Damion's more now, because Damion's house seems a little more fitting for a morning cup of coffee than it did before. There is the occasional person that comes to their houses, and they will ask why such a bowl of suckers exists in the house. Both will answer, and both will receive odd looks for their reason, but what do they care?
It's just this thing they do with their coffee.
A/N: I'm really not looking for any feedback because I'm in this sort of slump where I think everything of mine sucks, so concrit just kind of makes me feel worse about what I just wrote. That's not to say that I'm fishing for compliments, though. I'm just kind of... Neutral? Pretend it makes sense.