Rating + warnings: None for this chapter
Author's note: I can't tell you how excited I am over this, nor how much of a joy this is to write. The first chapter is for the Laven Week prompt, but don't worry - this is gonna be a long 'un. I'll update soon!
Every day starts and ends the same.
Alarm call sounds at 7am, bells tolling to signify the start of a new morning. Slumped feet and tired groans to the bathroom, freezing cold shower and clean teeth, breakfast if there's time.
And out the door, into the waking world.
Wave hello to the postman, shuffle to the car and start it. The engine roars to life, fingers dance over the dashboard to find a radio station. Feet tap as the street flies by, out-of-tune singing as the suburbs fade and the town comes into view. Park outside Lee's Diner, and into the fray of a busy working day.
The usual crowd. Chief of Police Howard Link takes a coffee black with a doughnut, or three if he can be persuaded; Froi Tiedoll sips tea while creating his new masterpiece in his leather-bound drawing book, pencil swaying this way-and-that; Daisya chats up the waitress Lenalee Lee, ordering a cola float with extra ice-cream; Yuu Kanda fights with anyone who orders, nearly assaults a few people; Komui Lee the manager fawns over his sister and "accidentally" spills coffee on anyone who eyes her up; Marie serves perfect dishes despite being completely blind, always smiling; the morning and lunchtime rushes die down by 5, until by 6:30 the working day has ended.
Shuffle to the car, yawning with weary feet, the journey home a blur. Wave to the neighbor, enter the house, avoid broken bottles and the temperamental drunk half-asleep on the couch. Eat whatever's in the fridge, read until eyes droop and sight grows fuzzy, clamber into bed and sleep.
And repeat.
This was the life of Allen Walker, as it had been and will always be, it seemed. Days, months, and years had passed in this fashion, and he never expected it to change.
At least until 5:55pm on a quiet Monday, June 10th, 1961.
It was closing time, the diner empty of customers and workers alike. Allen always ran the closing shift, since Cross insisted he work late. So there he stood alone, mid-afternoon sunshine filtering through open windows, cleaning counter-tops in sunlit silence. The jukebox sang its tune, perpetual 50s jazz and motown records. Motes of dust drifted along sunbeams, and it seemed almost dream-like in that quiet shadowed room.
The sound of a bell interrupted the reverie of room and man.
A customer at this hour could only mean one of two things: a tired stress businessman working late, eager for strong coffee and a moments rest; or a traveler just arrived from lands unknown. As Allen turned, hands resting against the counter-top, the young man stood in the doorway was most certainly the latter.
Footsteps on polished tiles echoed, hands tucked inside trouser pockets. Eyes forest green looked this way-and-that, gaze dancing from the empty tables to the jukebox in the corner, photographs and signed posters littering the walls, before settling on the young man stood behind the counter. Lips pulled into a smile.
"Were you closin'?"
There were such a mismatch of accents Allen couldn't place it; the subtle twang of a Texas drawl, a slight nasal tone from Boston's busy streets, a bit of mid-Atlantic, a dash of the South-west coast, and he swore he heard a bit of Minnesota there too. With a tilt of the head and slight upturning of lips the man seemed to sense the curious gaze fixed upon him. Realising a question had been left unanswered, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.
"N-not just yet, sir. What can I get you?"
"Coffee, black no sugar'd be perfect."
Back turned, the clink of mugs and sound of pouring coffee broke the silence descending upon them.
"Dover."
"Pardon?"
Allen turned, mug in hand, blinking in confusion. The man seemed to find this amusing, head in his hands with lips pulled into a grin. It was his first proper look at the man; messy hair, copper in some lights and sunset orange in others, freckles dotted across nose and cheeks, green eyes. His looks were nothing extraordinary, but his clothes were another matter. Bright orange scarf, in hot summer weather no-less, accompanied with a dark green shirt and whiter-than-white trousers over polished shoes. But there was something else, something Allen couldn't put his finger on.
"I said Dover," he repeated. "Behind that typical American newsreader accent you've got quite the Kentish accent goin' there."
If he'd been slightly more surprised he would have dropped the mug in his hands.
"You've got quite the ear on you," Allen replied, handing the steaming mug of coffee to the man before him."I'd ask if we'd met before, but I think I would remember."
"Why's that?"
"You've got that sort of air about you."
For a while the stranger sipped from his coffee, gaze contemplative and curious. As silence descended, not quite comfortable but not discomforting either, the sun continued to set behind nearby rooftops. Tiles grew ethereal in a soft fiery light, shadows lengthening across parked cars and empty roads. The soft sounds of Dinah Washington crooning What Diff'rence A Day Makes filled and seeped into brick and mortar, a dreamy Summer evening with fading sunshine and motes of dust for company.
All was clean and clear, ready for a new day like always. The young soul behind the counter was one and the same, the mess cleared away at the end of each day, starting anew on the 'morrow. In the sunlit silence of that Summer evening silver eyes grew weary and dim, a long hard day taking its toll.
Footsteps reminded him that he was not alone in that tiny diner hall, and as he stirred into wakefulness he noticed the redheaded traveler stood before the jukebox, coin in hand, fingers tapping on worn buttons to shift the motor inside.
With a quiet hum of approval music began to play, an upbeat jazz number with trumpets blaring and the melodic tenor of Dean Martin. Grinning, the man returned to the counter-top, fingers tapping in time to the beat. Allen couldn't help but smile, eyes closing as the opening of Ain't That A Kick In The Head began to play. Not being all too fond of jazz this song was one of the few exceptions, having sung it a few times on bleary morning drives to work.
The man sat before him began to sing, which startled Allen out of his brief reverie. His eyes were closed, voice soft, feet and fingers tapping against counter-top and floor. When his eyes opened, catching Allen's gaze, he sang even louder, extending a hand to invite the other to join. His voice was low and husky, full of an emotion that stirred your heart and placed a smile upon your lips. He was good, and Allen feared he'd ruin it by adding his voice to the ensemble.
But this man, with his infectious smiles and amused eyes of forest green, had instilled a feeling deep inside that felt like a bird used to being caged, finally stretching its wings, letting the wind take it where it will. Soon the pair were singing, and that quiet sunlit diner was full of a brilliance that was almost beautiful in its intensity. Silver met green, and with smiles that hurt the cheeks the song reached its end with a final blare of trumpets.
Allen briefly wondered if he should be embarrassed, entertained, or bashful, but the bright laughter of the man before him, eyes closed with hands wrapped around a cooling mug of coffee, left only a feeling of being alive, so alive it almost hurt. And he liked it.
"Say, I never got your name," he asked, catching back his breath with cheeks flushed.
"Lavi."
It was an odd name, but it had a curious ring to it as you said it.
"Well Lavi, I have to say you really have quite a voice there."
The laughter that followed didn't make him feel embarrassed, as it usually would have done.
"I'm glad you think so, otherwise I'd be out of a job. And what shall I call you?"
"Allen, Allen Walker."
"Well Allen, you also have quite the voice."
"Aw shucks, not really." His cheeks were burning and he couldn't tell if it was from bashfulness or pride.
For a moment they stayed like that, sat in amiable silence in the wake of a feeling that couldn't be named. It was getting close to 6:30, close to having to flip the sign at the door and return to normality; the usual routine. But Allen found he didn't want to, for something about this man had him enthralled, and he couldn't quite let it go now it had found purchase in his heart.
But it seemed Lavi had somewhere to be, for after drinking the dregs of his coffee he stood, heading towards the door. The life that had momentarily taken hold was fading, and Allen's smile fell to one of barely concealed disappointment. But the man turned, smiling with a softness that you felt as well as saw with the eyes, and said three words that lifted Allen's spirits more than he could put into words.
"Be seeing you, Allen."
And in that sunlit diner, door shutting as Lavi walked away, Allen Walker felt a smile grace his lips.
"Be seeing you, Lavi."