Chapter Text
Keito glared at the opposite window of the tea shop, the exact midpoint between glaring at Eichi for suggesting this outing, or glaring at Wataru for agreeing that it sounded like an Amazing way to spend an afternoon.
Outside, the people on the streets were going about their lives in a carefree way that he envied, unburdened of insistent childhood friends or their exasperating pet weirdos. Inside, the air-conditioned shop provided a reprieve from the sweltering late summer but did little to soothe his inevitable impending headache.
Keito couldn’t tell who was third-wheeling. Maybe it was him, every time Eichi and Wataru exchanged prolonged stares across the table like there couldn’t possibly be anything more amusing and wonderful and absolutely romantic than waiting an improbably long time for some tea to arrive despite the emptiness of the shop. Maybe it was Wataru, glancing between Keito and Eichi with inexplicable delight every time they defaulted to trading literary insults and (less admirably) stomping on each other’s feet under the table. Maybe it was Eichi, who, every time Wataru attempted to sneak another utensil down the back of Keito’s uniform shirt with his disgusting prehensile hair, giggled behind his hand in a way where Keito could clearly hear an echo of his thoughts: “The two of you are so dear to me; I simply wish for my left and right hands to get along.”
“I simply wish for my left and right hands to get along,” was exactly what Eichi had said the week earlier, breezing into the student council room with his shirt collar still as crisp as it had been when he’d stepped out of his car in the morning, a testament to how the August heat stood no chance against his flights of fancy. (Miles apart from Wataru’s earlier entrance, in which he’d managed to suspend himself upside-down on the opposite side of the window, waving both hands with streamers and confetti falling from his pockets, until Keito was forced to let him in.) It was rare for Eichi to find Keito and Wataru together; certainly, they had their differences—more differences than similarities. In some moods, he’d say they seemed like exact mirror images, designed perfectly to stand on opposite sides of him. (In other moods, he’d find some wry amusement in how casually he could tie other people’s lives to his own.)
Regardless, if Keito could just loosen up a little, Eichi was convinced Wataru’s endless charms wouldn’t be wasted on him. And if not, well, at least Keito’s distress at being forced to spend time in proximity to Wataru once in a while would keep him entertained for life.
Along with all the stray confetti, Wataru had brought some outlandish and aggravating suggestion that Keito was in the middle of refusing.
“Have some more consideration for people’s time. As far as I’m concerned, the student council,” Keito had pointedly looked at Eichi, “has been far too forgiving of your club’s foolishness already; besides that, you should consider your juniors, who have likely already filled their summer with productive activities that leave no room for your ridiculous whims. Spare them your nonsense. Look after them more kindly, too.”
Wataru had made a show out of considering that last comment. “I may not fully agree with Eichi’s assessment of your lack of charm, but then again—perhaps being able to give kind praise to your underclassmen in the usual manner is a privilege of the ordinary.”
Before Keito could retort, Eichi had cut in, his eyes bright with childlike mischief. “I don’t know what you two are chatting about, but just from how lively you sound, I’m sure it’s an opportunity I wouldn’t want to pass up. Why don’t we all sit down over some tea and discuss it together?”
So they had ended up at a tea shop days later in an attempt to convince Keito to write an original script for the Theater Club, and if Wataru’s eyes had widened at the prices listed on the menu, Eichi had just as quickly declared that it was his treat.
“I couldn’t quite decide between Hokuto-kun as Alice or Tomoya-kun as Alice; the other castings are much less consequential, as I can fill every other role onstage.” Wataru, ever the performer, was thus far succeeding in quashing his urge to start tying the linen napkins together into an endless chain of uncomfortably high quality table settings out of the sheer sense of feeling out of place in Eichi’s tier of casually-frequented establishments. It wasn’t like they often spent time together outside of school or unit activities, and Wataru wouldn’t object to continuing to do so—but next time he would have to take advantage of Eichi’s enthusiasm for exploring the junk food of the proletariat and suggest going to Burger King.
“You keep going on as if I’ve agreed to this,” Keito said, rubbing his temples in the delightful way that meant he was this close to giving in, as he generally did when Eichi was involved, and as he did much more often than he’d admit when Wataru joined the equation. In the good half-hour that they’d sat waiting for their tea in less-tense-than-it-could-have-been and less-caffeinated-than-it-should-have-been company, they’d done a nearly complete job of wearing him down.
Wataru grinned ear-to-ear, preparing his next exclamation to seal the deal—he’d discovered that the acoustics in the empty shop were excellent—but was interrupted by the wait staff finally arriving, a lone teapot balanced on his tray. Wataru had avoided having to decide on his own order by declaring his intention to sample whatever it was that Eichi found suitable for their shared afternoon, but he was sure that Keito had asked for something different, as well as sweets to go along with it.
“The master of the shop highly recommends this blend for his most treasured guests,” the waiter said, pouring each of them a peculiarly bright red tea, one second smelling of roses and the next of saccharine frosting. “He sincerely appreciates your patience. He will see you soon with exactly what your hearts have requested.”
A strange way to tell them their orders were still being prepared, though Wataru could probably incorporate that kind of meaningless ambiguity into his future appearances. Eichi thanked the waiter and sent him on his way, but not before reminding him, smile in place, of how a shop should treat its most treasured guests.
“Shall we soothe our throats before we continue?” Eichi asked, not letting the unmet expectation of being waited on hand and foot in his favorite bougie tea shop ruin the occasion.
“I would rather we not continue,” Keito replied, but lifted his teacup to his mouth regardless.
“What a desolate place the world would be if we simply denied the winds of creativity pulling us in all different directions!” Wataru took the chance to get his last word in before taking a sip himself.
Maybe it was simply his commoner’s palate, but it certainly tasted like tea.
That was his final definitive thought before the fancy napkins in front of him started to blur, an odd vertigo tilting the tea shop as he frantically looked to Keito and Eichi, both slumping over in their seats, then to the back of the shop in the direction where the waiter had vanished earlier.
The “staff only” door was wide open, and the world jolted into vivid clarity for a single second in which Wataru made out a tophat-wearing figure. The outfit struck him first—the long teal coat and white ruffles—before he took in the blond hair falling across his face, and his eyes, blue like the sky and bright with mischief. The figure looked back at him, grinning and raising one gloved hand in a languid wave.
Wataru’s cup crashed to the floor, his head hitting the table.