TACO Run
Chapter 30
Cyrus studied his reflection in the bathing-room mirror and winced. He'd done his best, but without a proper shaving-kit he feared he was beginning to look unacceptably unkempt.
Oh Sealticge, Lady of Grace, I know I am likely the last person you would show favor, but do please allow me some modicum of dignity. If he managed to find his friends, he was certain that Olberic or Alfyn would have a shaving kit on them he could borrow. In the meantime… well. At least he was spared the horror of a moustache. His skill with the penknife was sufficient to that task. And his cheeks were relatively clean-shaven, though imperfect. Beneath his chin, however…
Perhaps it is frivolous of me, to be so concerned over my appearance when there are far more serious problems to be addressed. And yet, there was no vanity in caring for one's appearance. How could a person be expected to have confidence in their choices, if they had no confidence in how they chose to present themselves?
How indeed. If Cyrus had any skill at all with the small, subtle uses of elemental magics, he might have risked attempting to burn the offending hairs away. As it was, he was neither skilled nor foolish enough to make the attempt.
'Unkempt' would have to suffice.
With a sigh, Cyrus turned away from the mirror. He had made some progress on deciphering Viatrix's journal the previous afternoon, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. The ancient scholar, while obviously brilliant, was not especially organized in her writing, and her journal tended more towards stream of consciousness than anything cohesive or easily understood. And, too, the Academy's library was a far enough distance from the Net Kaffe that even leaving well before suppertime meant he did not arrive at his temporary residence until nearly midnight. Were it not for the excellent street-lighting—which he had added to his list of Things To Research Eventually—he would have surely gotten lost, and likely been accosted by some more dangerous types. He could defend himself with magic, if need be, but that would be a poor choice in a congested city such as this… and unfortunately, he lacked a staff with which to discourage any such attackers.
Hm… perhaps I should remedy that. It wasn't an immediate concern, but it was something to consider. Any staff he purchased here would of course be a creation of this world, and thus lack the usual enhancements for focusing elemental power, but it would still be better than nothing.
For that matter, even a broom handle would be better than nothing.
As he returned to his cubicle, Cyrus let out another sigh. Having decided against utilizing the train system to return to the Academy again—he was loathe to use it again for any reason—he needed to find a new place in which to work on his research. Perhaps there was a library of some kind not associated with Makoto's Academy?
A quick check of the Net said that no, there weren't any libraries within several blocks' radius of the Kaffe. There were bookstores, of course, and in surprisingly delightful number, but bookstores were in essence shops, and thus not meant for one to linger in whilst studying.
Hm… perhaps a tavern of some kind. While the rowdy atmosphere in taverns was not conducive to deep study, he was certainly capable of focusing through it, and it would neatly solve the problem of where he would procure his food for the day.
As his stomach reminded him, man did not live by information alone.
Checking the Net again revealed several taverns in the area—though it took multiple adjustments of his search parameters, as apparently the word for tavern in Scholar's Tongue did not quite translate into the local parlance properly. There were also a few other places that the Google suggested—in particular, a shop which apparently specialized in fanciful baked goods and confections. Such things couldn't possibly be as filling or satisfying as a good solid meal… but the pictures included in the shop's description were so charming and exquisitely made that Cyrus found himself wanting to visit the place regardless. If only to see if the confectioner was as skilled as their advertisements claimed.
Approximately half an hour later, Cyrus stood in front of the confectioner's shop, admiring the cakes and trifles on display—and the marvelous glass windows which made up the shop's front, from just above knee-height to nearly the edge of the ceiling. The clarity and evenness of the glass truly was amazing, though Cyrus would admit that there was a certain appeal to the wavier glass panes he was used to seeing in high-end shop windows. They lent a certain surreality to the goods displayed within, piquing one's curiosity to enter the shop and get a better look. These displays, however, did not play upon human curiosity so much as they did the human delight in the aesthetic, proudly displaying the exquisite artistic and confectionary skills of the proprietors.
The front door opened, with the familiar tinkle of a little bell, and a man perhaps a few years Cyrus' junior stepped out, nodding to him in greeting.
Cyrus pulled the phone from his belt pouch. "It is a pleasure to meet you," he said into it politely in Scholar's Tongue, with a flourishing bow that really lacked something, without the swish of scholar's robes or a cloak. "Might you be the proprietor of this establishment?"
A faint blink, though his expression remained unaffected otherwise as he leaned over to read the text. His reply, when it came, was short and to the point.
'No. I'm the head confectioner here.' He turned a sign hanging from the door's handle, likely an indication that it was now open for business. Pushing the door back open again, he nodded towards the interior in a nonverbal indication for Cyrus to enter if he so wished.
"Why, thank you," Cyrus smiled gratefully at him and stepped through the doorway.
Mm~ Cyrus breathed in the scent of baked goods, stomach vocalizing its own appreciation in a manner which would have been embarrassing, were he not certain it was the common reaction to such aromas. The interior of the shop was spacious, with floors paved in cream-colored tiles and walls made of pale, smooth-paned wood. A handful of oblong wooden tables with lightly-cushioned seating were arranged in tasteful symmetry across the floor, allowing plenty of space for easy access to the counter, exits, and a short hallway that—from the logographic signage—led to the privies.
"Ah—irashaimase!" The shop-keeper's greeting came from a petite young woman currently wiping down one of the tables with a soft cloth. She paused in her labors to smile at him, with a sweet professionalism that Cyrus suspected might indicate a higher status than that of a mere waitress or attendant.
"Thank you, miss," he said politely into his phone, "might you be the owner of this establishment, I wonder?"
When she read that, she looked up at him with an even brighter smile. 'That's right!' came her reply, 'Gouda Rinko—I'm the 'Rinko' in our store's name.'
Ah. "I'm afraid I cannot read your land's lettering—or pictographs, I suppose?—so the reference escaped me." A self-effacing flutter of a hand. "But if I may, I did have a question. Might it be permissible for me to utilize one of your establishment's tables for an extended period, I wonder? I have research to be done, and my current accommodations lack the space to do so comfortably. I would be pleased and relieved to be allowed such welcoming—and deliciously-scented—environs to be utilized for the purpose instead."
She blinked several times, reading that, before looking up again with an expression of—he was relatively certain—flattered delight. 'Of course!' came her reply. 'But are you sure you'll be able to concentrate on your research, with customers coming and going?'
Cyrus had to laugh at that. "My dear, I assure you," he said, eyes dancing, "my focus is unparalleled."
That seemed to satisfy her, because Rinko escorted him to a side-table with excellent lighting and a surface wide enough to accommodate his needs. Cyrus seated himself, and whilst setting up his study materials, took another look around the bakery.
The shop's counter was situated along the back wall, and was quite short—approximately as wide as the table he'd been granted use of. The remainder of the counter, rather than being a flat space, was taken up by a display of baked goods. It, like the windows, was made of exceptionally clear and flawless glass—though how that could be so, Cyrus could not imagine, as the panels of glass were curved, rather than flat, meaning the molten glass could not have been cast over a wide, flat surface to cool into shape, as window-panes could be. And it was far too large for it to have been blown. Though perhaps there was some method of bending flat panes of glass whilst they were still hot enough to be molded? He couldn't imagine the tools that would be required to do that without leaving marks or divots in the glass…
"Okyaku-san?"
Shaking himself from his thoughts, Cyrus looked up at the lovely young proprietress. "My apologies," he began automatically, and only belatedly remembered that he would need the phone to communicate. Hastily lifting it again, he repeated himself. "My apologies, miss. Might I ask you to repeat yourself, I wonder?"
"Mm!" she smiled, tucking her light brown hair behind one ear.
Cyrus looked at the phone for translation as she repeated what she'd said earlier. 'I was wondering if you wanted a sample of our goods? You've been staring at them for a little while…'
"Ah, of course!" Cyrus gave a rueful chuckle. "To clarify, I was actually scrutinizing the glass of your display case, as it is exceptionally flawless. However, if I might be allowed to sample your wares, I would be most certainly pleased by the prospect."
"Mm!" She seemed delighted by the idea. 'We work really hard to make sure everything is sparkling clean!'
Well, that seemed an odd comment. Perhaps she'd thought him to be praising her display's cleanliness, rather than its construction? If such flawless glass is commonplace here, then I suppose that makes sense.
'And do you have a preference for types of baked goods, sir?' she continued. 'Most of ours are sweet, but we do have savory ones too.'
Cyrus considered, stroking his chin. "It is, perhaps, a bit early in the day for sweets," he observed. Honestly, it was earlier than he generally preferred to rise, but he'd felt it imperative not to waste time. "Though if you have jam-filled rolls, I find that they are appropriate for any meal, especially if the jam is made from more tart berries."
That brought a thoughtful, pretty frown to her face, as she read his words and considered the prospect. 'I don't have any of those right now,' she admitted. 'Oh, but if you'd like, I was trying a new recipe this morning!' The word she used next didn't seem to translate at all, unfortunately. 'I think they're tasty, and I made enough while practicing that even Takeo couldn't finish them all, so I have some left.' A demure little laugh, hidden behind a delicate hand. 'Mister Ichinose says they're too rough-looking to sell, so I won't have to charge you for them. It'll be a nice taste-test!'
At that, Cyrus granted her his own smile. "My dear, I would be delighted to test this new recipe of yours," he assured her. "And you needn't fear for their presentation—as far as cooking is concerned, I believe that the taste component is a bit more important than the visual. At least for first attempts. Future practice can hone the visual component to your head confectioner's no-doubt exacting standards."
That got an actual giggle out of her, which was charming on a level that even Ophilia's beauty couldn't match. "Mm!" she said again—he supposed it was a non-verbal sound of agreement, though it didn't translate into Scholar's Tongue—and pressed her hands together in a delighted gesture. 'I'll go fetch some, then,' she said, 'and some barley tea, too, if you'd like.'
"That would be lovely, thank you."
A few minutes later, Cyrus was presented with a ceramic mug of barley tea, and a plate of what Rinko termed 'seada'. Apparently a provincial shepherd's dish from a foreign land, they were flattened circles of fried dough, filled with an aromatic sheep's-milk cheese that managed a delicious balance between sweet and savory. The pastries themselves were presented on a white ceramic plate and drizzled with a pale golden honey, and Cyrus couldn't for the life of him think of why the head confectioner believed them unsuited for sale to the public.
When he told Rinko that, however, she flushed with delight and demurred.
'Thank you so much!' Cyrus read. 'But I understand mister Ichinose's concerns. Our bakery prides itself on pretty, delicate cakes and elaborate pastries—the seada are rather plain-looking, so they don't really fit the rest.' She looked down, fingers twisting together before her nervously. 'Um, but if you really think they taste good, I think we can probably promote them as a seasonal item. Sunakawa says that sometimes people can be intimidated by things that look too fancy, so they might go over well in that sense…'
"Yamato-san!" Another young lady poked her head out of a back area which might be an office of some kind. Whatever else she said however, was unfortunately not loud enough for the phone to catch and translate into Scholar's Tongue for him.
Rinko turned to her with a frown, cheeks puffing out slightly in annoyance. 'It's Gouda now, miss Chie!' she protested. 'Please remember that.'
Ah, so the young lady was wed. Cyrus mentally recalculated her age to be early twenties, rather than the eighteen that her lovely countenance and petite size had originally convinced him of.
Ah. And if it was 'Gouda' which is new, rather than 'Rinko', then it appears that surnames are given first, rather than last in this land, Cyrus mused, as miss Chie apologized profusely for her slip. How odd.
'Um, I'm sorry about that,' Rinko said, turning back to Cyrus. 'Miss Chie is right that I should get back to work, though. Mister Ichinose is needed in the kitchen, so since it's Sunakawa's day off, and miss Chie only handles accounting, I have to watch the counter.'
"Think nothing of it, my dear," Cyrus assured her. "I should be returning to my studies as well. I thank you for the delicious breakfast, and you have my congratulations on your nuptials." If her employee was still accidentally calling her by her unmarried name, then the marriage had to have been relatively recent.
'Thank you!' she said, with a smile of such radiant joy that he almost imagined she sparkled with it, hands pressed to her flushed cheeks. 'Let me know if you need anything else!' So saying, she bowed and floated off to return to her duties, buoyed by the euphoria of love fulfilled.
Cyrus chuckled to himself, and sipped his barley tea, turning back to work on Viatrix's journal in earnest.
'…the element of lightning at my disposal gives me some recourse to determine the metrics by which it might be measured. There is more than mere power to lightning, after all—complexities of that power which determine whether it merely pains, or destroys that which it encounters. Perhaps electricity is like water, in that the same volume can flow with varying pressures based upon the path laid out for it…'
Cyrus' pen stopped for a moment, wondering at the words laid out before him. The knowledge of electricity's three main components—its pressure, magnitude, and the degree to which it could pass through various substances—was well-known in the modern day, but the knowledge of when that understanding came into being had been lost to the vagaries of war and plague and famine. If the lady Viatrix was indeed the one who had discovered such properties, or at least one of those who had pioneered that discovery, why… that in itself was indicative of the genius it would take to craft such a complex and—dare he say—insanely advanced ritual as she apparently had.
Cyrus knew he was a genius. It was not arrogance to acknowledge that truth. His intelligence, focus, and prodigious memory had given him numerous advantages throughout his life, and it would be foolhardy in the extreme to deny that out of false humility.
He was a genius, but he was not a pioneer. He broke no new ground, nor blazed any new trails in his research—at least, not in the sense of improving the very methodology and fundamental understanding of the workings of the universe, past and present. In that sense, he had nothing but the highest respect for Viatrix of the Seventh Hill, who so clearly surpassed him and everyone he knew in that regard.
That said, he hoped that her ability to articulate herself in formal presentations or papers had exceeded that of her personal journals, because in between the bouts of brilliant innovation and understanding were reams of rambling non-sequiturs and irrelevant drivel, complaints, and licentious gossip about her peers, superiors, and neighbors. On occasion, her sentences would run on nearly the length of a page, full of digressions and clarifications on a matter previously mentioned, regardless of its relevance to the current topic. It made interpreting her work far more difficult than it needed to be.
Still, he believed he was making progress. Even if her dialect was slightly different from the formal one scholars used in the modern day, it was similar enough that, with a few small exceptions, he was confident in his translation of what she'd written.
A shadow fell over Cyrus and his table, causing him to frown and slowly look up, eyes lingering on the page until the very last moment. "Olberic, if you don't mind, the ink is quite faded, so I do need the light to see by—wagh!" The person whose face was so uncomfortably close to his was assuredly not his dear friend Olberic, though he was quite possibly just as large. "I beg your pardon, sir!" he exclaimed, hand pressed to his racing heart.
"Ah, gomen!" the mountain of a man rumbled, seeming genuinely apologetic despite his thoroughly intimidating appearance. He backed off a half-step, waving a hand the size of a dinner-plate in a conciliatory gesture. Whatever he said next, Cyrus didn't quite catch, but remembering his phone allowed him to check it for a visual translation.
'Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you.'
"It's quite alright," Cyrus assured him in Scholar's Tongue, once his heart had returned to its usual pace. "I merely mistook you for a dear friend of mine, and was startled by the mistake."
A puzzled frown turned thick lips downward, and the man—young man, Cyrus belatedly realized—bent to read the symbols depicted on the phone. "OH!" he belted out, once he'd read them. 'You reminded me of a friend of mine, too! Suna's been my friend since we were kids.' A pleased smile, planting his hands on his hips.
"Really?" Cyrus said, fascinated by the coincidence. "In what way do I remind you of this dear friend of yours?" He'd never been told he resembled another before—it was strangely delightful to contemplate.
'Uh, well…' The large young man scratched at his chin with one thick finger, head tilted back a bit in thought. 'It's not like you really look the same. Suna's got brown hair and eyes. And he doesn't have a ponytail. But…' A considering tilt of his head, dark eyes turning thoughtfully aside. 'I think it's because you're both good-looking? Oh, and Suna likes reading books a lot, too. And you're both—'
Cyrus blinked at the last word. That… couldn't possibly be an accurate translation, could it? "I beg your pardon, but what do you mean by 'frigid'? If you are referring to my sub-collar temperature, I assure you it remains tepid…" Wait, the confusing word had been colored differently in the text. Prodding it as the young man hovered nearby, Cyrus saw a vertical list of possible alternate translations pop up, and was shocked and delighted by this revelation. "I see! So idiomatic terms which might have multiple interpretations can be individually translated by this method!" He wondered which term was the most accurate. Most of the terms seemed to relate to a lowered temperature, but a few seemed different. Stylish, attractive, admirable, or laudable… oh, I see! If this culture valued the ability to maintain a calm demeanor—in which state one's internal temperature would remain marginally lower than that of an excitable individual—then equating frigidity with admirability would make some degree of sense. Though he doubted that the term truly meant ice cold, as 'frigid' would imply… perhaps 'cool' would be the closest approximation?
"Ano, Okyaku-san…"
Shaking himself from his reverie, Cyrus looked back up at the young man waiting for a proper reply. "My apologies," he said quickly into the phone, "I was temporarily stymied by one of the local idiomatic terms. I thank you for the compliments, and I assure you that you have many fine qualities of your own, which do indeed remind me of my dear friend Olberic." Most obviously, his significant size and sheer presence. For while Cyrus had seen a few other individuals of remarkable physical proportions whilst in this land, they had all been proportioned in a way that was distinctly inhuman in some manner. This young man, on the other hand, seemed merely to be the peak of natural human physicality, and in such a way that his sheer presence felt faintly oppressive.
It seemed that he had not yet mastered the skills Olberic had, to avoid looming or pressuring those around him with his sheer size.
Bending down to read that, the young man blinked in seeming confusion. 'Oh, thanks.'
Cyrus smiled at him. "I wonder, would you mind satisfying my curiosity?"
Another blink, and then the young man pulled out the other chair at the table and joined him. 'I guess.'
"Thank you. I was wondering if you approached me simply because of a superficial resemblance to your friend, or if there was some other reason?"
"OH!" He jerked to his feet again, chair scraping abruptly backwards. 'Right! I wanted to thank you!' A broad, euphoric smile. 'Rinko said you liked her new thing she made, and that made her really happy. The smiling Rinko is the best!'
Cyrus' brows rose as he read that. Oh. Oh, I see! "You must be the lovely lady's husband, then! My congratulation on your nuptials."
'That's right!' The combination of incredible pride and pleasure and euphoric joy practically caused him to glow. 'Gouda Takeo! Nice to meet you!'
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well," Cyrus chuckled, and shook his outstretched hand. "Your wife is a very lucky woman." Truly blissful and loving couples were always a wonderful sight, and Cyrus had always found such relationships fascinating, as well as charming. He had often wondered if the connection between such individuals was forged in the same manner as friendship, or if there was some other way in which romantic feelings blossomed.
Thinking of that made Cyrus think of his own dear friends again, and the heartfelt pang that was their absence. Normally, he thought little of such absences—after all, they each had their own lives to live, and physical separation did not lessen or negate the bonds of friendship they shared. But this situation was different from the usual, and Cyrus, for all his confidence, could not help but feel a twinge or two of worry for his friends and their possible circumstances.
Therion, he felt certain was fine. Perhaps not happy, but surviving handily. Alfyn's geniality and ability to make friends everywhere he went likely meant that he was alright as well. With luck, Olberic had found a way to fend for himself in this foreign land too.
But no matter how Cyrus assured himself of these things, a part of him would not let go of the realization of how incredibly fortunate he had been, to encounter Hawks so early on, and benefit from his willingness to listen, and to assist a stranger in need. Had his friends been equally as fortunate? Or were they muddling their way through by their wits and skills? Were they thriving, or suffering the pangs of hunger? Had they been sheltered from the previous rain?
Were they even present in this land?
Cyrus… disliked the thought that they might not be. That he, having been the one to read the incantation, might have been transported alone. True, he had seen that colorless flame light upon the other men, but he had not seen them vanish. And he had seen no evidence at all that they were here since his arrival. On the one hand, that was encouraging, as he hated the thought that his dear friends might be suffering due to his own hubris. On the other hand…
On the other hand, for all that he had met many kind individuals since his arrival here, and kept his mind busy with the task of deciphering Viatrix's journal, the moments he allowed his focus to lapse were becoming more and more frequently fraught with unbearable loneliness.
I want to go home. Home to Atlasdam. To his quiet, candle-lit study. To his students. To his fellow scholars. To the studies left incomplete.
He wanted to go home. But he couldn't do that until he deciphered Viatrix's journal, recreating the ritual she had created those millennia ago. Even were he to succeed in that endeavor, he could not go home until he found his friends—or found irrefutable evidence that they had not been transported along with him to this land.
The clink of ceramic on wood drew Cyrus out of the morose thoughts, and he drew in a short breath, mustering his focus for the present situation.
Oh. Somehow, while he'd allowed himself to brood, Rinko's husband had vanished without him realizing it. Instead, the young man who'd first opened the shop's door for him stood by his table, setting a small, square plate upon it.
A small, square plate topped by a stunningly exquisite confection of some kind.
"Antorume," the young man said, with a faint smile. The visual translation function of Cyrus' phone apparently didn't recognize that word. 'I don't know what's bothering you, but I make confections to see people smile,' he continued. 'Try this, and tell me what you think.'
Cyrus blinked at him again. "Why, if you insist, I shan't say no." It was an exquisite confection after all. A perfectly circular dome, glistening mirror-bright, of some type of lovely purplish substance that almost seemed faintly marbled, with a single blueberry set atop it, and a feather-shaped shard of some pale substance for accent. The fork he'd been provided—exquisite silver, and of a very delicate craftsmanship—cut open the confection easily, and Cyrus was delighted to see that the interior was even lovelier than the exterior. "Why, it's layered!" The marbled-purple exterior was only a thin layer, while beneath it was a much thicker layer of some… some chilled, fluffy-looking substance that he also couldn't identify. And within that was a further small half-dome of what seemed to be solidified jam, all atop a pale, light-textured cake base.
Questioning the confectioner revealed that the sweet, chilled, fluffy-looking purple layer was called mūsu, and was made from whipped cream and egg whites mixed with crushed blueberries and sugar. The jam was also blueberry, and the cake was made from ground almond flour as well as wheat.
It was unquestionably delicious, and by the time Cyrus had finished it—and finished extolling its virtues—both the confectioner and several of the shop's customers applauded.
Belatedly, Cyrus realized that this might very well have been an intended side-effect of his being presented the little cake, as he saw no few of the shop's patrons ask if they might purchase one of their own, having seen how greatly he enjoyed it. He also realized that his mood had been greatly lifted, and that he felt refreshed to continue his studies. And so, thanking the confectioner once again for his consideration, he allowed the plate to be cleared and returned to his work.
By the time Cyrus left the confectioner's shop, it was late evening, and he had been plied with numerous varieties of baked goods, including a delicious sausage-and-cheese turnover for his supper. After that first delightful blueberry cake confection, he had insisted on paying for any future goods they might choose to provide him, which did have the unfortunate side-effect of drastically reducing his remaining funds.
Ah, well. He could return to the coin-seller's shop on the morrow if need be—he did still have quite a bit of his Orsterran coinage available for trade, after all. He procured permission to return as often as necessary for his studies, and bade the shop-keepers a good evening.
He was perhaps two blocks from the shop when a furious thunder of footsteps approached with such speed that instinct had him reaching for a staff he did not have, and barely managing to whirl in time to face the incoming threat—who turned out to not be a threat at all, but Takeo, who skidded to a stop almost within Cyrus' personal space, making him feel very small indeed.
Hot breath like that of a bull steamed over Cyrus' face—which he feared was likely making an expression of comical shock, if the startled waugh! he'd emitted were any indication—and then the immense man backed off with a swift apology.
A few moments of fumbling communication later, and Cyrus was presented with the young man's phone, whose screen held a picture of some rough, but familiar-looking sketches which Cyrus was certain he'd never seen before—
Oh. Oh, the gods were good, for the sketch was of himself, in the style he recognized from seeing Alfyn catalogue plants whilst on their travels, that particular blend of precision and roughness which managed to show both the strength of his fingers and their capacity for incredibly delicate work. And there were sketches of Olberic and Therion as well—Cyrus nearly wept at the realization—meaning that Alfyn was the one who'd drawn them, and that he, and their other dear friends, were within this land. And further, that Alfyn at least was well, and seeking the rest of them out, and that he had somehow managed to communicate with someone from this land that he was searching for them, and that person was helping to spread the word, and the sketches, to help.
Cyrus found himself laughing, wiping tears of relief from his eyes, at the realization that even in a rough sketch, Alfyn had perfectly captured Therion's bland, disgruntled stare, Olberic's strong and gentle demeanor, and the way that Cyrus' own hair refused to be fully tamed by a brush or hair-tie.
Communicating with Takeo via the visual translation on Cyrus' phone proved a bit difficult, but he was assured that when he returned on the morrow, they would do what they could to help him find the person who had 'posted' the picture. Several profuse thanks later, Cyrus continued on his way back to the Net Kaffe, where he did his best to still the excitement and hope running through his veins.
It still took a very long time before he managed to fall asleep. And when he did, he dreamed of home.
A/N: The shop is called PatisuRinko, a combination of 'Patisuri' (patisserie) and 'Rinko'. It is written in a combination of hiragana and katakana. It—and its employees—are also based off of characters from Oremonogatari, the cutest, sweetest love story ever produced by Japan OMG I'm SERIOUS go read/watch it.