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“You’re early,” you say, debating whether or not it actually needs to be said out loud. “Really early.”
If his beet-red expression is any indication, Ojiro has already noticed that fact. Very clearly. Even so, you push on—point out the obvious. Because your cheeks are burning and it’s his fault. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet.
“You are too.” He stammers back. Despite the defensive nature of the words, his voice quivers when he says it. Like he’s a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, desperately trying to diffuse the blame away from himself.
Ojiro did have a point though, even if you were hesitant to admit it out loud. You’d both, very clearly, agreed to meet at the cafe at 1 pm. Yet here you were, two hours early.
Both of you.
“I was afraid I’d get lost.” You say.
And it’s true. Trains were always cramped on the weekends, and that meant there was no guarantee that you’d even be able to get one if you left at a more “reasonable” time. Then, you’d still have to figure out where you were and then walk the distance to the actual shop. Your heart pounded like a jackhammer every time you imagined having to explain why you’d been late after all of this time. After all the subtle glances, the timid smiles, the cautious compliments. All the methodical work you’d done coordinating your hellish schedules.
Ojiro doesn’t offer his own excuse, rubbing at the back of his neck and muttering something indecipherable under his breath. He seems utterly fascinated by a missing chunk of paint at the edge of the table for a little while, his gaze cast downward, towards it rather than towards you.
You scoff, and he reluctantly lifts his eyes away from the tabletop. “I—” His cheeks are pink—well they’ve been pink the whole time, but now you finally get the chance to see the way the color creeps up to his nose. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t stare at it for longer than you should’ve.
“I didn’t want to be late.” He finally chokes out. The second Ojiro says it, he’s doubling over, leaning his forearms on the table and burrowing his face in the space between them. “I invited you, so I figured I should be the one to get the table. But this place is popular, so I figured I should get here at least a half-hour early. But then I thought maybe that wouldn’t be early enough, and—”
You cut him off with a burst of laughter—loud and definitely nothing you’d call charming, especially given the delicate nature of the conversation. Still, it’s not like the act is intentional. Really. You’re both just being so…ridiculous. Paranoid, blushing fools.
You’d already known that much, though. Maybe it’s the confirmation—the fact that you’d expected anything different from a pair of worriers like yourself—that you find hysterical.
“I’m glad someone thinks this is funny.” Ojiro curls his arms tighter around his face, the flush stretching to his ears now. “Please just come back in two hours when I feel a little less like a moron.”
Your own embarrassment forgotten, you pull out the other chair at his table and take a seat. Slowly, without thinking, you reach out towards him. Ojiro flinches when your fingers make contact with the base of his neck, but he makes no move to pull away. Even when you begin tracing tiny circles with your nails, intrigued by the goosebumps that form beneath your touch.
“Why would I do that? Like you said, I’m already here too.”
Suddenly, saying it out loud, you’re very much aware of your situation. Here you were, extremely early and extremely nervous and on your first date with a boy you’d liked for an extremely long time. And you were laughing and…well, obliterating that personal-space bubble that’s existed for as long as you’ve known him. It’s terrifying.
When Ojiro remains silent, you go to pull back your arm, apologetic. He catches you by your wrist, inhaling heavily as he finally lifts his head away from the table. His face is still very red, his dark eyes still very much aimed downward, but there’s something determined in the way he bites his lip. Like he’s planning out exactly the right words to say.
“I guess it isn’t weird if we’re both really early.” His eyes meet yours and you feel warm all over.
“It’d be weirder if we weren’t.” You offer, pretending you aren’t hyper-aware of everything—his clammy palm on your wrist, your shallow breathing, the fact that this is finally happening. “God, if only you could’ve been earlier about asking me to do this.”
Ojiro’s eyes widen. Yours do too, but not because you’re shocked that he’s shocked. More because oh god, you’d actually admitted that out loud.
You yank your hand away from his and burrow your face in your palms. Ojiro repeats something frantically—something that sounds like it might be an attempt at being reassuring. But your brain is physically incapable of registering any part of it. You feel flustered and lightheaded and sweaty, and you know that this is hardly something to stress over. But you were a nervous fool on a date with a sweet, cute boy, and you couldn’t help it, dammit.
At least you had two extra hours to get over it.