Chapter Text
The first time he came here, he was meeting classmates to work on a project. It was a shady little café, tucked in a tiny alley between the side door of the little Thai place he sometimes got lunch at and a consignment clothing shop. The door was all glass, painted black to make it opaque, with the name “Beans” spelled out in crooked block lettering. There were no windows, no signs on the walkway to denote the entrance. It was just brick walls broken by an inset glass door. He must have walked by it ten times before he managed to find his peers’ chosen meeting place.
The second time he came here, it was at the insistence of Sawamura. His rival grudgingly turned friend had a massive man crush on an upperclassmen and apparently a friend of said upperclassmen worked here a couple days a week. He didn’t pay much attention, just tucked himself into the only corner booth in the shadowy rear of the room and stared at the door pondering what he was going to eat for dinner. His thoughts were interrupted when Sawamura flopped into the seat across from him with a heavy sigh and two mugs of coffee. It was the best cup of coffee he’d ever had in his life, even with Sawamura’s sullen attitude hanging over them.
The third time he came here, he was tired and stressed and in desperate need of some caffeine. He stumbled up to the bar, eyes glued firmly on the countertop, and grit out an order. He was answered with a bright laugh and, after a short wait, a pair of hands sliding a mug across the counter to him. He dragged his eyes up, giving himself a silent reminder to be civil no matter how he felt, to be met with a lopsided smirk and a pair of mischievous eyes. His heart stuttered in his chest, in perfect harmony with the stutter of words from his throat when he pressed a thanks through his lips.
The fourth time he came here, he told himself it was for the coffee, even though nobody, himself included, ever believed his lies. But there was no charming guy with a handsome face and playful features behind the counter. It was a cute girl with brown hair almost red and a shy smile. He ordered his coffee and skulked through the dimly lit room to his favorite corner. He dug around in his bag until he found a packet to read for class, and strained his eyes in the dim light. The coffee didn’t taste the same as before, so he left without finishing it.
He tells himself it’s stupid to let a crush on a guy he’s seen all of once and never said a single intelligent word to dictate where he gets his caffeine fix. For the next few weeks, he makes a point to only stop for coffee at the regular conglomerate joint (you know the one, with the awful color scheme and aspirations of world domination), and definitely does not think at all about smug lips and glinting eyes and a sharp laugh. He doesn’t think about walking through that little alley and ducking into that dim little shop and trying to not sound like an idiot to the cute boy leaning on the countertop. He doesn’t think about any of that, not at all. And it’s definitely not the reason he agrees to go to a party on Friday night with Sawamura, even though he’s sworn up and down since his first day of university that he truly, madly, deeply hates parties.
He’s stumbling back from a night spent curled on the floor between Haruichi and Sawamura (something he wishes desperately to forget as soon as humanly possible), hungover and tired and wearing the same clothes he’d worn all day yesterday. He assumes he looks like death warmed over, judging by the horrified look a little old lady had given him before hobbling across the street and continuing on down the opposite sidewalk. He’s not thinking about the route home, too busy trying to will away a pounding headache and the occasional churn in his stomach, so he’s honestly surprised when he finds himself standing in front of a familiar glass door in a tiny alley. Admittedly, this alley is the fastest way back home, but now that he’s here, the temptation to actually stop in is overpowering. Besides, if he doesn’t have some coffee soon, he’s probably going to start suffering from caffeine withdrawal. Or so he tells himself.
He steps through the door, eternally grateful that the room is dark and warm and perfect for someone with a pounding head and rebellious stomach. His eyes are drawn to the figure behind the counter, one arm leaning against the bar top and the other supporting a chin. His heart kicks up a notch because there he is, the boy who’s been haunting his dreams for weeks. Dream boy is smirking lazily at a guy sitting on the other side of the counter, ranting emphatically in a shrill voice. Standing in the doorway, probably looking about as gross as he feels, he almost chickens out. He’s taken half a step back when the barista’s eyes flick toward him, smirk lifting into a smile as he straightens up. He curses mentally, giving up on running away and stepping up to the counter instead.
He knows he must look awful, but the barely contained amusement in the eyes staring back at him makes him want to sink into the floor. It doesn’t help matters that the guy on the barstool is staring at him, openly delighted by his discomfort. He swallows hard and mumbles an order, trying and failing not to look as stupid as he feels. Barstool guy actually barks out a laugh, which is both damaging to his self esteem and vexing to his headache. But the guy behind the counter smiles and turns to make his coffee, so he just closes his eyes and waits for this suffering to end. He’s counting his heartbeat and wondering vaguely how fast it has to go before he’ll be reenacting the chestburster scene from Alien, when he’s interrupted by a short bark of laughter.
“Have fun last night?” the barista asks genially, pushing a cup of coffee, hot and black and bitter, toward him. Barstool guy snickers.
He stumbles over his words, simultaneously trying to answer and be horribly confused about being spoken to by this guy of all people, and then immediately hates himself for sounding stupider than Sawamura. Both of them start laughing and he sighs resignedly, wrapping his hands around the mug and pulling it close to his chest. Cute guy stops laughing first, waving his hand in the air as if brushing the merriment away, and smiles engagingly at him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says easily. “I know how it is.”
The other guy snorts loudly.
“Have you ever even been hungover, Miyuki?”
They dissolve into friendly bantering, but his brain has latched onto the name in that sentence and won’t stop replaying it. Miyuki… Miyuki… His name is Miyuki! The little thrill of triumph makes him feel foolish, but he pushes it aside to bask in the glory of knowing this name. He’s daydreaming about some other universe where Miyuki is gloriously enamored with him and he’s not the hungover idiot who can’t get a complete sentence out when he’s poked hard in the shoulder.
He jumps, tipping coffee over the rim of his mug, hot liquid sloshing onto the toe of his shoe, and turns an irritated squint at the obnoxious third party. Said third party snickers, but points toward the counter, where Miyuki is watching him with raised eyebrows.
“What?” he asks slowly, looking between the two of them unsurely. Miyuki shares an amused look with the other guy, before turning back.
“You’re Sawamura’s friend, right? I haven’t seen you here for a while.”
His thoughts come grinding to a halt. Oh god, Miyuki is vaguely aware of who he associates with and how often he comes here. His heart skips and his stomach flips and he has to try really hard not to blush or vomit over this development. Miyuki leans one hip against the counter, looking bemused.
“You’re supposed to answer, stupid,” No Name says, exasperated.
“Oh, uh,” he starts, mentally scrambling to say at least one normal sentence in this exchange, “I’m Furuya.”
Nailed it. Miyuki presses his lips together, trying to hold back a smile.
“Miyuki,” he says, holding out a hand. They shake briefly and then Miyuki gestures casually to the other guy. “This is Kuramochi,” he explains, leaning forward and adding in a stage whisper, “He’s pretty annoying, so you can ignore him.”
Kuramochi squawks, hands slapping down onto the countertop as he vaults over it, looking to sate his bloodlust on Miyuki. Furuya steps back, cradling his mug close to his chest, and retreats to a table outside of the splash zone. He curls over his coffee, watching the tussle out of the corner of his eye, and breathing in the sharp scent. He’s struck with the ridiculous urge to giggle, irrationally happy that he decided to stop here today.