After Hours

Summary: Mimi returns home to realize her dream of opening an upscale coffeeshop bakery, with only two things in her way: the dive bar on its last legs in the basement, and its owner, who just so happens to be her college ex-boyfriend. Well, they won't last long. One way or another, she'll get that space, too, and expand her culinary empire even further. Mimi guarantees it.

Remember the rooftop parties
Remember the friends
Remember the way I love you now
And the way I loved you then

("Now and Then" by Lily Kershaw)

now

"Well, well, look what shows its face."

Yanking his cap even lower across his forehead, Taichi knees her through the back of the folding chair on his way past. His dramatic collapse into the open seat in their makeshift courtside row amuses her, and, unfazed by his petulant reaction to her josh, she turns her chin into the palm of her hand to appraise his slouch.

"I was half expecting you to flake out on us, what with how busy you've been with your elaborate 'fool the health inspector' scheme. I trust that went about as well as planned?"

He ignores the bait. "I take my godfather responsibilities seriously."

"Mm-hm," though even Sora can admit its truthfulness. "You're only here because I told you Mimi wasn't going to be."

He flinches, a gut reaction she amusedly files away for a point of discussion when they're not surrounded by loudly agitated and easily distracted seven-year-olds, and instead allows his frustration to be redirected to the usual source of his exasperation. "What she's even been doing coming to these things, anyway?"

"Mimi's been coming around in the evenings after work, and Miku's taken a real liking to her," Sora says, matter of fact, and somewhat pleased with the development herself. It helped that Mimi was so social and extroverted; having her around seemed to attract her daughter's curiosity and open her up a little, becoming a source of fascination if nothing else. "Turns out only Mimi can match the energy of a seven-year-old without wearing down in the slightest."

"Meeting of the minds, is it?"

Sora rolls her eyes, returning her attention to the practice. "She's good for her," she says simply, intentionally ambiguous.

Takeru blows his whistle, leading the girls and their adults in a round of applause to signal the end of warm-ups, and Taichi seizes on Sora's distraction with watching for Miku line up to receive her practice ball. He leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. "I still can't believe she ended up liking basketball the most."

"Utterly betraying," Sora agrees with a smile. "Apparently Takeru's taking it as a personal win after all the years of football games we forced on him."

Taichi smiles at last, watching the kids form a circle to start their drill plays. Takeru, whistle still dangling from his lips, talks cheerly with them as he demonstrates each move, ever congenial and patient. He thinks he'd have to be, to voluntarily run these practices every weekend morning without fail, even with the wedding planning occupying so much of his time these days, if Daisuke's daily complaints masked as updates were any indication. Though, Taichi realizes suddenly, that might be why Takeru still kept these mornings available—Daisuke's challenging enough to keep up with without adding in a life-changing event to be excited over, too. This week at work had been excruciating for several reasons, yesterday's inspection in particular, but each day that inched closer to the big day made those quieter hours in the bar a true test of patience, with the litany of nuptial crises now expanded to catering decisions, venue wrangling, and parental infringement, the latter being the topic he'd had to hear about most this week.

Cringing, he shakes the memory from his head. "Sor?"

She murmurs in response, watching her daughter.

He distracts himself by refixing the cap's position over his head. "What's the longest you and your mom have been off?"

She looks at him at last, eyebrow raised. "Well, that depends on who it's about."

He scoffed at the implication. "Mother Takenouchi loves me."

"Only because you broke up my marriage."

Taichi feigns relief, wiping his forehead dramatically. "Well, am I glad we aren't the kind to let a little divorce sour our sense of humor."

"The truest of friendships," she agrees.

"One for the fucking ages." With a smile, he drops his arm into the gap between their chairs, knocking the side of a loosely formed fist against her hand. She opens her fingers, accepting his, and glances away again.

"I suppose it was those first eight months of art school. Turns out Mom had always been less upset about the divorce than my dropping out to get married," Sora muses, honest in a way she still couldn't admit to be her mother. "Then came the divorce, and she was happy we finally had things in common."

"That's not true," he says, frowning.

Sora doesn't answer, and he knows better than to press. Instead, he squeezes her hand back and casually starts swinging his arm, out of a familiar casualness than anything else. "It doesn't matter," she decides after a moment. "It's all past. Mom and I have a whole other set of fresh issues now," but the sarcasm doesn't quite land. This time, it's her turn to squeeze back. "You know, if you wanted to see him, I would come with you."

"Yeah," he says. Then, biting the inside of his bottom lip, he tells her, "I tried."

Sora turns at once in her chair, taking his hand into her lap with the sudden move. His grunt is soft, leaning forward when she pulls at him. "When?"

"Yesterday, before the inspector came. I was just," he hesitates, mumbling into his chest, "I guess I was thinking, you know, coming up on Mom's anniversary."

"And what happened?" she asks, anxious.

He smiles, shrugging. "He wasn't home."

Sora nods. "Well, if you wanted to try another time—,"

"It was nothing, Sora, forget I brought it up."

"Taichi, this is a big deal."

"It's—," he stops when Takeru's whistle sounds loudly again, straightening with a sigh, "—it threw me off the entire day, made the entire inspection a mess, and now we're just—it was a stupid idea."

"What's a stupid idea?"

He sits up so quickly the chair nearly overturns underneath him, their hands releasing, and she has to throw her arms out to grasp the metal arm, steadying it. The clatter alerts the pair of other parents standing nearest them on the gym's sidelines, and Sora waves apologetically at their quizzical faces, while Mimi's own barely changes.

Sora recovers first, smoothing the inevitable scene over. "You came!"

"You lied!" Taichi hisses at her, recovering his posture and pulling his cap harder down around his ears.

Sora pointedly ignores him, rising to embrace Mimi tightly. The latter reserves a small but genuine smile for her in response. "Ken said he could hold the café for a little while, and Cat wanted to give a shift a try. I've never seen him blush so much, he's nearly permanently red now."

"It must be so nice having her visit," says Sora, smiling.

Mimi shakes her head, exasperated, "Just like Cat to drop in unannounced. Turns out her company is touring soon, and she's been scouting venues."

"Well, that will be great for the town. Mom must be beside herself."

"Dad, too," Mimi agrees. "It would be really great."

"I mean, to a degree, tourism feels like our one major area of potential."

"Absolutely. I would have thought that—,"

"Oh, can we please just skip ahead to the punishment and bypass this purgatory of small talk?" interrupts Taichi, frustrated by their camaraderie.

Mimi's mouth presses into a tight line, and Sora tilts her head back at him, just as happy to get to her devious point at last. "Fine. So, as I've told you, Miku's taken a real liking to Mimi, and if I'm going to have you both around my daughter more often now, then I'm going to have you both figure out how to get along when you are around her together. If I wanted to expose her to marital strife, I'd bring her to my parents' more often."

"That is not—," protests Taichi at the same time that Mimi chokes out, "M-marital?"

"Uh-uh-uh," tuts Sora, speaking over the pair of them, hands raised. "You have until the end of this practice game, and the end of this practice game only, to draw up the ceasefire. Is that understood?"

Taichi says nothing, tilting his cap down again, and Mimi scoffs loudly, removing the sunglasses she'd propped on top of her head to pocket them safely in her narrow purse, a move entirely designed to avoid looking in his direction.

Instead, Sora looks between them, swallowing a growing maternal instinct to twist their ears, and nods sharply. "Good," she declares, and waves to Takeru across the court, gesturing that she wanted to come say hello during the kids' dribble laps.

The children make nearly two rounds by the time Taichi gives in, sneaking a curious glance up at Mimi where she still stood some distance from him. "How long's Cat in town, then?"

"You could ask her yourself."

"I'm pretty sure her husband wouldn't like that."

"Not that that would stop you, I guess."

He pulls his tongue between his teeth, jaw clenched and chest tight. Before he can think of anything to say, she does.

"Miyako says you've been coming up to the café to try to 'talk' to me again?"

"How many times am I meant to say sorry?"

"What exactly would you be saying sorry for, Tai?" she snaps back. "Do you even know?"

"I'm sorry you need someone to be the bad guy and I'm somehow always it," he fires back, temper long since lost. "But I've got news for you, Mimi: I'm not the one who broke your heart, so you can stop blaming me for him just because we're still friends and I still own his father's business. 'Cause I can you tell you right now, buying me out isn't going to do what you think it will. You have to," and he stops himself, slowing down, breathing carefully, "have to figure out how to move on, on your own."

Somewhere in all that she'd turned to look at him, and now faces him directly, arms still crossed tight across her chest. Her face is impeccably tight, her hazel eyes fixed so hard on him he breaks under them, looking back at the game. Sora's still chatting to Takeru, who's gesturing some diagramed plays with his arms, and the kids are now partnered up in passing drills. His gaze trails to Miku's little red twin braids pinned to behind either ear as she pushes the basketball awkwardly to another little blonde girl. The girls giggle when the ball slips, rolling into Takeru's shin, and he makes a show of pretending deep wounding. Sora waves at Miku, who waves back in good spirits, as the kids swarm around their coach.

He's distracted by the scene, considering the warm glow around his goddaughter's persona with a pleasant surprise, wondering how long it'd been since he'd seen that cheerful gait, when suddenly he feels the baseball cap lift off his head. His neck turns sharply just as Mimi's fingers slide the pressed curls back from his temple, bringing their volume back with a touch so light he's unsure how it somehow still carries everything he thought he'd forgotten.

She draws her hand back just as his gaze catches hers. "You look terrible in hats," she says thickly, as though that were both obvious and enough.

"Mimi!"

With a start, she drops the cap into his lap, and he catches it on reflex, roughing up his hair with his free hand. Despite Takeru blowing his whistle to try to recapture her attentions, a small redheaded miniature of Sora launches herself into Mimi's arms. "You came! Did you see me? I almost got a basket, I'm really bad, but coach says I almost got it this time!"

"That doesn't sound bad to me," says Mimi, hoisting the child more securely around her waist, her arms encircled around and under the girl's back, the little hands clasped to Mimi's neck.

Sora's reached them by now. "Miku, baby, your friends are waiting!"

She squeezes Mimi's neck tighter, "My friend is here, Mom—,"

"We have all afternoon, just like I promised," Mimi says, "but first you have to finish practice, right? That was the deal?"

Miku purses her lips, then rocks backwards, kicking her legs up, and Mimi barely manages to keep the balance, laughing for the first time since she'd arrived. "Okay!"

"Good girl," giggles Mimi, letting her down and waving when Miku rushes back. Sora stays on the sidelines again, but doesn't retake her seat, glancing at Taichi still carefully tugging his bangs out. He catches her staring and quickly stops. Her look is nearly imperceptible and still so knowing, and he feels exposed and embarrassed, unable to name why.

"Café after practice?" Sora asks Mimi, granting him a gracious minute to recover a still flustered posture.

"That's what I was thinking. Is Takeru going to join us?"

She shakes her head. "Apparently he's got a taste test to get to with Daisuke later."

Her eyes snap open, and Sora realizes her mistake too late. "Takaishi!" yells Mimi across the court. "You're not using the café to cater your wedding?"

"Oh, fuck," mutters Takeru, the whistle dropping from his lips as all the first graders burst into squeals at the mention of their coach's wedding. The clambering is immediate, rushing towards him in unbridled glee, and he's nearly toppled over under a mountain of small-limbed arms and legs, all hopes for a reasonable, pleasant end to this week's first-graders community basketball practice completely dashed. It takes Sora's deft maneuvers to extract him from the entangled mess, cuffing him by the back of the collar to his zippered tracksuit jacket, and all the other adults to wrangle the kids' manic energy into a redirect long enough for a suddenly materializing Taichi to whisper near his left ear, "Run for it," and Takeru to dive out to the gym locker room, the last sound he hears being Mimi demanding to know where he'd gone.

The urgency of the rapidly devolving situation ensures he has no time to properly change, which is how he ends up back home still in the sweaty tracksuit and the whistle cord still twisted about his shoulder, blonde bangs still clumping about his forehead. He finds his fiancé in their small living room, this time wearing pants, an omen if there ever were one. Daisuke's sitting cross-legged on the ratty couch whilst cocooned in a fluffy peach throw and balancing an enormous mixing bowl of butterless popcorn over bent knees and staring at the wall opposite, which, coincidentally, Takeru had finished patchworking before heading to practice. Takeru shuts the door behind him, purposely forceful to be loud, but Daisuke barely blinks, earning an eyebrow raise from the blond.

"You're literally watching paint dry, you know that, right?" he asks, removing his shoes. "Why are you still awake, anyway?"

Daisuke doesn't move, his exhaustion rendering him slower than normal on the uptake. It's the fifth day this week that he'd come home from closing the bar by himself, a record even for them. Takeru'd learned a long time ago not to parent his partners, but this new pattern of Daisuke's late nights—or, mornings, as it were—was proving quite difficult to relay that impulse, especially when he'd see Taichi out without nearly the same visible stress lines, like at weekend practices. Still, he hid his frown at the puffy red dark circles under his boyfriend's eyes and continued to feign nonchalance when Daisuke admitted, "Health inspector visited. Apparently, we came close to violating three different health codes."

Takeru smirks, "Well, with the chemical cleaners right next to the mixers and that emergency exit door that keeps jamming, why stop at two?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "No, no, three more. Tai's gotta talk to Yamato now, 'cause fixing everything means a total re-evaluation. First, it turns out that there might be lead in the—wait a minute," and Daisuke interrupts himself to stare at Takeru with renewed suspicion, finally noticing the blond's coaching outfit. "Why're you all sweaty?"

"Practice kinda got out of hand," says Takeru, smiling, settling into the couch next to him.

Daisuke leans away, eyes narrowed. "Out of hand how?"

He reaches for a handful of popcorn, but Daisuke's too quick. "Well, for starters, Mimi now knows that we're not using the café for the wedding," Takeru admits, a placating attempt at distraction.

The popcorn bowl clatters, the kernels flying everywhere, and Takeru swears loudly, leaping back.

"And how did you let that slip out?" Daisuke cries.

"I didn't! You know how much she terrifies me, too! I don't know how she found out, unless her freaky super-hearing caught Sora's and mine conversation all the way across a gym full of overactive seven-year-olds."

Daisuke throws back his head. "Why would you tell Sora?"

"Why shouldn't I tell Sora?"

"Because Sora tells Taichi everything, and Tai's been gunning for a reason to stick it to her! Do you not listen to anything I told you this week? I know he's been fixated on something because he keeps going upstairs asking where Mimi is, and the other day I swear he nearly wrote her a text message." When Takeru's face contorts, Daisuke mistakes the pressure not to laugh with confused disbelief. "Scout's honor. And I didn't even know he still had her number!"

"Well, we're in pretty good danger of her losing ours after this bombshell."

He's shaking his head, helplessly mournful. "I can't believe you told her. I'm never gonna get my secret coffee supply now."

Takeru rolls his eyes. "All the better. You're the only one who likes her coffee anyway—,"

"It's like you're trying to alienate all my friends," bursts Daisuke, agitated with sleep deprived delirium.

"What are you talking about?"

Unable to speak clearly anymore, Daisuke's already gathered up the blankets and made a clambering, dramatic exercise of leaving the room with as much noise as he could. "Dais, come on—," Takeru calls after him, exasperated, only for their bedroom door to slide shut firmly in answer. A minute later, he hears the bedroom television click on, volume pumped to the highest setting. Shutting his eyes, he hangs his neck so the back of his head rests flat on top of the sofa cushion. Great.

His phone rings, buzzing in his pants pocket. He retrieves it slowly, taking the opportunity to kick back across the length of the futon with his head propped up on the arm. His audible relief at the name that flashes on screen doesn't go unnoticed, but neither is it mentioned.

Instead, Yamato says, "Thought you'd be at practice still."

"Child stampede, barely escaped with my life," says Takeru wryly, caring not to fill in any other details, and Yamato amusedly accepts the summary without question. "What are you up to? And why're you up? It's got to be past three there."

"Day, night? Who can tell anymore."

"Still that bad, huh?"

"I don't know how everyone else does it."

"Willis has done it more than once."

"Remind me to ask him what possessed him."

"The same thing that bewitched you," laughs Takeru, "and me."

"We can video call next time."

"Video's great, but it's not the real thing."

"Takeru, you're always welcome. You both are."

He lets his breath go low, exhaling through his teeth. "That's the point, isn't it?"

Yamato considers the heaviness in his younger brother's voice. "I take it the conversation didn't go well."

"I haven't had it yet," he admits, begrudging.

"You're sort of playing it pretty loose, aren't you?"

"You can't hear how he talks about this town, Yamato. It's home. He made it his home. I can't ask him to make another one."

"Starting a new life together is pretty convincing grounds to make a new home."

"Logic hasn't exactly been my strongest move here."

"Exactly." Yamato pauses, and Takeru hears some indistinct shuffling on the other end of the line. "You're making it a logical move when it's an emotional one."

"And it's not emotional for me? I'm missing my niece grow up!" The bedroom television shifts suddenly from a reality program to a commercial break, and the advert's change in volume startles Takeru. He cranes his neck, holding still, but there are no more disturbances. So he turns over onto his side, switching the phone to his other ear. He gives himself a minute, his palm pressed over his right eye as it squeezes shut. "I can't fucking live in this town anymore, Yamato. I'm trying to make it work, but I'm burning out here. I want him to understand that." He lowers his hand, staring ahead now at the drying patchwork. "But even I don't understand it. I have everything here. Dad had everything here."

"Takeru," begins Yamato slowly, "Dad didn't not leave you the bar for you to still be guilty about moving on. He did it for the exact opposite to happen."

"Doesn't mean I'm not going to be," he mutters. "My fiancé even works there instead of me."

"For how long, who's to say?"

He snorts, trying to suppress the chuckle. "Apparently, they had another disastrous health inspection."

"I know, Tai texted me. Looks like they scraped by again. If it's still standing next year, it'll be a miracle."

"You don't seem bothered by that reality."

"Like I said," he answers, smoothly casual in a way that tells Takeru to not believe the ease with which he continues, "He didn't want us guilty about moving on."

"So why'd you stay on as partner?"

"Just in name."

"Name enough to have to bail it out now, unless you both decide not to." He leaves the end of the sentence hanging in a deliberate tease, but Yamato's either too sleep-deprived himself to catch something that subtle, or he's too clever to offer any early thoughts on a decision he hasn't finally made.

Instead, Yamato says, "The point is, this endless loop of what-ifs and if-onlys isn't as closed a circuit as you think."

"'No regrets' isn't really like you."

"Don't worry, I still get in a good brooding now and then."

"Oh, and what regrets does the family man of the year have to be brooding about anymore?"

"Mm-hm," and Yamato laughs, soft. "Listen, I was calling to say I'm heading in a week early. Tai and I need to talk and just sort through all the reports. I'm thinking we should figure all this out then, you, me, Daisuke, and what happens after the wedding. As family."

He likes the way that word sounds, more than a little relieved at the idea of relying on his big brother to save the day. "Yeah. Okay."

They both hang up a few minutes later, but Takeru remains on his side on the futon, holding the phone in his hand as his arm hangs over the side. Then he pulls himself up, climbing down to walk across their small living space to the bedroom. He slides the door open to a brightly sunlit room and the television playing another inane reality program with Daisuke splayed over the bed covers, laid up on his stomach to block out the sun instead of simply pulling the curtains shut. Takeru makes a face; he must actually be mad if he'd forgone something as serious as his preferred sleep routines.

"Daisuke," he starts to say, when suddenly the man flies up off the bed, upright and fully awake.

"I didn't mean to take everything out on you," he interrupts, mournful, "it was just work stuff."

He leans his temple against the door post. "I know, the inspection. I get that that was stressful, I'm sorry if—,"

"—no, even before that," persists Daisuke, and he groans flinging himself back against the headboard with a dull thud. "With everything Taichi's been juggling with his dad and trying to move out of Jou's and helping Sora, I'm basically running the place by myself. And I know I can pass it off really well," he observes, evidently fully objective in his self-assessment (Takeru's lips press back a smile, forever admiring of Daisuke's capacity to live in a completely different reality), "but I have no idea what I'm doing." Here his earnestness unmasks something much rawer, "I have no idea how to not let family down."

There's that word again. He enters the room at last, and finds a spot near the foot of the bed, hands in his lap. "Technically, it's just in name only."

"Taichi is family."

"Dad thought so," agrees Takeru.

Daisuke closes his eyes, head still resting on the backboard. "I'm just trying to take care of the place for him."

Takeru's unsure, then, who he means, realizing how easy it is to let the slippage stay unanswered. "Yeah. I know."

After a moment, and with his eyes still closed, Daisuke lifts his left arm open wide. Grinning, Takeru tumbles forward, ducking his head into the crook of his shoulder. "All this talk about the future of the business this week did get me thinking, though."

"Moving on?" He's casual, testing the waters.

"Yeah. Like, what would happen if you couldn't. Like, how some people can't. Sometimes, with the way he seems to take these hits to running the place, I don't know what Tai's holding on to. Or at least, I used to think I didn't know, but I guess I do. Sometimes."

"Huh." Takeru closes his eyes, pressing his face into Daisuke's neck, as though keeping him closer than skin could keep everything he wanted to stop feeling that much farther away. "Guess everyone's got at least one door to a what-if or an if-only open, I guess."

"I used to always think that was about her, but something shifted this last week. I don't know what."

"It was more the other way 'round, I heard."

"Eh, I'm pretty sure I still have the voicema—,"

"Wait, who are you talking about?"

Takeru opens one eye. "Who are you talking about?"

They stare at each other in suspicious confusion, necks craned awkwardly to do so. Takeru groans, breaking his gaze to sink deeper into the bed. "Do you think everyone's friends from college are this mixed up, or just ours?"

"Let's be sure to get the big popcorn maker for the wedding."

"Oh, for damn sure."

Author's Note: I actually have a story outline for this, so deep appreciation to everyone's support and patience. It's the most complexly ambitious story I've made so far, but it's so fun writing these characters again. I hope not to disappoint.