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It’s only the first week of December, and Chuuya is already one fucking peppermint mocha away from total fucking anarchy. Seriously, what is the big deal with peppermint mochas? They don’t even taste good.
Christmas is fucking overrated.
He thinks that the worst part of working at Starbucks during the holiday season has got to be the regulars. Yes, worse than the middle aged women who order their half-sweet-non-fat-no-whip eggnog lattes with the air of a child getting away with doing something naughty. Worse than the teen girls who order through giggles and dare each other in audible whispers to ask him for his number and take selfies with their drinks and their names on the cups. Worse even than the stupid macho men, who order their peppermint mochas seriously, furtively, and peel off the label as soon as it’s handed to them as if they can maintain the last vestiges of their fragile masculinity so long as nobody can tell they’re not actually drinking black coffee (news flash, guy - you’re not fooling anybody).
No, the regulars are the worst. The ones who come in every day and order the same overpriced drink all year, until the holiday season hits and they change their orders (he envies the kind of jobs they must have to support this six-dollar-coffee habit. That really must add up quickly). The ones who ask Chuuya about his day as an excuse to talk about theirs - their daughter who got accepted to University of Tokyo; their six year old who is just so adorable and their twelve year old going through a rebellious phase; their husband who is sleeping on the couch or their wife’s mother who is coming to visit - and mistake Chuuya’s polite smile for genuine interest.
But worst of the worst is fucking Dazai. Dazai, the tall, lanky piece of shit who, for the last three years, only comes during the holiday season - but comes every fucking day of it. He always orders an extra sweet (yes, that’s right - extra fucking sweet ) gingerbread latte, and a gingerbread loaf to go with it. It’s downright offensive. Chuuya swears his eyes get closer to the colour of gingerbread every time he sees them.
He’s just… he’s so… Dazai. Chuuya has never met anyone quite like him before. He’s horrifically arrogant, for one thing. Everything about him just screams “I’m better than you”, right down to the stupid fucking way that he walks (long strides, perfect posture, swaying his hips like he’s just daring Chuuya not to stare at his stupid ass). And then there’s the annoying familiarity with which he talks to Chuuya, like they’re friends or something. Like Chuuya’s nice to him because he wants to be, and not because it’s his fucking job.
Plus there’s the fucking flirting .
Dazai flirts with anyone who’ll look at him. He’s fucking pathological . Nobody can make it through an encounter with Dazai without at least one shitty pickup line. The baristas, the people in line ahead of him, the people in line behind him, the people he walks past as he enters or exits.
And Chuuya.
Always Chuuya.
God, even when he’s not even talking to Chuuya he finds a way to flirt with him. He’ll compliment a girl’s red hair, and then shoot a smirk Chuuya’s way. He’ll say some dirty innuendo to a boy, and look at Chuuya from across the room with those horribly seductive eyes that make him feel hot all over.
Sometimes Chuuya will catch himself flirting back, which is just - it’s - completely fucking unacceptable . He blames it entirely on Dazai’s fucking honey molasses voice - low and smooth in a way that sends shivers down his spine and puts the filthiest images in Chuuya’s mind.
The bastard.
He’s here now, the bell above the door announcing his entrance as he strolls in like he owns the damn place, all long legs and shiny hair and obnoxiously nice outfit. He’s always dressed like he stepped right off the pages of a fashion magazine. Chuuya honestly doesn’t think he’s ever seen him wear the same outfit twice. Today’s pick is a knee length coat, the colour of cinnamon, with a black turtleneck sweater and a grey scarf draped around his neck.
The douche.
“Good morning, Chuuya .”
Chuuya never told him his name. He simply read it off his nametag one day and decided they were close enough for him to use it.
They are not close enough for him to use it.
“Good morning.” He forces a polite smile onto his face, but he can tell it’s definitely more like a grimace. “What can I get for you today?”
One of Chuuya’s few pleasures in life: pretending not to recognize regular customers. Some people are more fun than others - some look confused and surprised, some laugh like they’re onto the joke, and some just look annoyed. It’s always a laugh when he asks for their name, though, as if he hasn’t heard it about a million times over, and they look at him as though he just asked them whether or not the world is round.
Dazai’s reaction is always the same. He sticks out his tongue like an annoyed child, and it’s not even a little bit cute . “Why do you always pretend you don’t know me? I’m hurt, Chuuya, really.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chuuya says blandly. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Sir?” Dazai grins. “That’s new.” He puts his hands on the counter, leaning down to look Chuuya directly in the eyes. Even leaning, he’s still taller. Asshole. “What’s Chuuya’s favourite drink?”
Chuuya pauses, his finger already hovering over the gingerbread latte button on the register. “I - what?”
Dazai’s smile widens. “What’s your favourite drink? What does Chuuya usually get here?”
“Black coffee,” he says.
Dazai makes a face. “Nobody drinks black coffee and enjoys it.”
Chuuya’s eyebrow twitches. “Just because you enjoy a disgustingly sweet mockery of coffee doesn’t mean we all do.”
He points an accusatory finger at Chuuya. “So you do remember me!”
“I-” Don’t swear at a customer, don’t swear at a customer, don’t swear at a customer. “Are you getting your damn gingerbread latte or not?” Fuck.
Dazai laughs. Chuuya didn’t realize before now that he’s never heard it before, but it - it’s kind of nice. Higher in pitch than his usual voice, and louder, and almost fucking musical .
His face flushes as if Dazai can hear his thoughts. No. Nope. No. No way in hell. His laugh is not pretty. It’s - it’s obnoxious! It’s obnoxious, and it’s grating, and he hates it just like he hates everything else about Dazai, right down to his stupid gingerbread eyes.
He punches in the stupid fucking gingerbread latte, extra sweet, and the gingerbread loaf -- literally punches it in, tapping the screen so hard it hurts his fingers. He hesitates, and then, impulsively, adds a single word under the “special instructions” category. He looks back up at Dazai with a flat expression. “Can I get a name for the cup?”
Dazai grins. “How about a phone number instead?”
“I - you -” His face burns. “Shut up, Dazai.”
He laughs again. “So you know my name, too.”
“I - you’re here every fucking day . Of course I know your name.”
“And yet you continue to pretend you don’t.” He gives a dramatic sigh. “You wound me, Chuuya. Really. I don’t know how I’ll ever recover.”
“Tragic,” he deadpans. “It’ll be 890 yen.”
He holds up a finger as if he has a brilliant idea. “I know! Chuuya could go on a date with me. That would surely cure the wounds to my poor old heart.”
Chuuya’s face reddens. “This is harassment.”
“That’s something, coming from the guy who’s constantly insulting me. There must be something in your workplace policies against being rude to customers, right?”
Chuuya grits his teeth. “It’ll be 890 yen.”
“Oh, Chuuya is just too fun to tease.” Dazai passes a handful of bills over the counter. “Keep the change, chibi.”
Chuuya tries not to watch him walk to the end of the bar to get his coffee (perfect posture, swinging hips. Fucking asshole). Tries not to watch him flirt with Higuchi as she hands him his drink (he has his seductive face on; she just looks bored). Tries not to watch him walk to the door, glance at his cup, pause. A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Hey, Chuuya! I left you a note too; did you see?” He takes a sip from his drink, and waves with his free hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chuuya waits until the door swings shut behind him before looking at the bills in his hand - two 500 yen bills, folded in half. He unfolds them and finds a yellow Post-It stuck to the one on top. A phone number is written across it in large, loopy numbering; beneath that, a note:
Call me when you’ve changed your mind about the date. ♡
Chuuya’s fist closes, crumpling the bills and the sticky note.
When , he wrote. Not if - when . Like he’s so arrogant that he hasn’t even considered the possibility that Chuuya will say no - which he most certainly will. Obviously. In fact, he’s going to throw out the phone number right now. There’s no way he would… he’d never even consider …
He peels the sticky note off and shoves the money into the register. He glances at the trashcan, hesitates, and then shoves the crumpled note deep into his pocket.
He’ll throw it out when he gets home.