Chapter Text
Being known is being loved…
From his open notebook, the inked words of thirty minutes ago seem to blink up at him innocently. With one hand propping up his chin and the other drumming even beats against the worn, wooden table, Luka stares it back down, as if doing so would make words magically appear on the blank, lined page. Well--stare might be too soft a word. The musician-songwriter is outright glaring at the document, his teal blue eyes a furious storm in contrast to the serene calm his body posture exudes.
‘Being known is being loved… and then what?’ He bites his lip. ‘Come on, Luka… you had this.’
The line had come to him as he was biking home from his campus. It’s final exams week of his first year, and the sudden flash of inspiration was like a glimmer of light in the dark stressful hole that was this hellish week. One second--biking exhaustedly, the weight of the world on his shoulders crushing whatever creative spirit he had. The next--’being known is being loved’ blaring in his mind along with some vague hint of a melody, and Luka was ducking into the nearest coffee shop to write it all down before it went away.
Now, he’s in one of the coziest atmospheres he’s ever experienced. There’s a worn, but still comfortable cushion on the seat beneath him, a warm, golden light illuminates his semi-private alcove, and the air is laden with the delicious aromas of fresh bread and smoky coffee. Everything is perfect.
However, inexplicably, Luka’s creativity is absolutely shot.
The musician blames it on the fact that he’s never written a true, proper love song. Sure, there were attempts in high school, little sappy stanzas scrawled on the backs of illicitly-passed notes. Those were for the short-lived crushes, the brief bouts of infatuation, the sparks of admiration that petered out in awkward ghostings over text. For the most part, Luka’s focused on other aspects of his life, things he can relate to.
He doesn’t know why he’s starting now--it’s not as if he’s met anyone in his college courses. All Luka knows though, is that the words he’s written are real, and they just had to be a love song.
‘Okay, no big deal, people have always written about things they haven’t personally experienced.’
But his pen keeps tapping and his fingers keep drumming and the words don’t materialize. Sighing, the musician gives up and fishes for his wallet. Maybe a snack will get those creative juices flowing again.
Despite the modest amount of clientele, there’s only a single person working today at the Tom & Sabine Patisserie and Café. Small and wearing a coffee-colored apron, Luka almost misses her amongst the browns and pastels of the back.
“Excuse me, can I get one of your chocolate croissants? Heated up, please,” he asks politely, his mind still lingering on his unfinished lyrics and incomplete melody.
Her response is a bit more... animated than he’d expected.
She whips around in surprise. “Who--uwa!” She turns around so fast that the boxes for replacement cups she’s been precariously balancing come crashing towards him. Reacting quickly, Luka bends over the counter enough to help steady them, his cool fingers brushing against the girl’s warm hands.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you approach…”
“No, you’re okay, I…”
Their eyes meet, startled, wide-eyed ocean blue against surprised, taken-aback teal.
This close, Luka can see the very faint freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose. She blinks, and he notices that her lashes are quite long. And she’s blushing, the wisps of hair escaping her pigtails doing very little to cover the color on her cheeks. The longer he stares, the more pronounced that red color becomes.
‘...oh,’ Luka thinks.
Her heart song is gorgeous. The musician has only just met her, but it’s never taken him too long to establish a basic melody that suited every individual. Sure, the tune could change once he got to know the person better, but for the most part, he had them down pat. And this girl? Something about her melody just knocks him off balance.
‘Maybe it’s because she’s cute,’ a little voice in his head supplies helpfully. He mentally smacks himself. ‘Bad Luka.’
She’s also speaking. “U-um… sir… thank you for the help, but…”
“Oh--right, uh--” Luka hurriedly steps back as she shoots him a thankful, but bemused smile.
“All right, you said you wanted a chocolate croissant heated up,” she states cheerfully, typing away at the register.
Luka nods, the calm smile on his face hiding his internal screaming. She has dimples. Dimples!
“And--let me guess, an espresso too?” the dark-haired girl asks.
Luka nods again. Then stops, backtracking and shaking his head rapidly. “Actually, no--sorry, just, one moment,” he tells her, hoping to whatever god was out there that he didn’t sound too awkward.
He probably did. He totally did. Oh god.
Luka wasn’t planning on ordering a drink, but he’s in too deep now to say no. He peers behind her at the quaint chalkboard menu hanging on the wall, nose wrinkling at the wide array of available black poisons--sorry, coffees. Finally, Luka spots his salvation in tiny, cramped font at the bottom.
“One hot chocolate, please. Extra whipped cream,” he orders quietly.
She arches an eyebrow at him, still with that intrigued sort of amusement--because who comes into a coffee shop and orders a hot chocolate that’s clearly only there for children? Luka’s heard that a million times in people’s ‘heart songs’ if not their words. In response, the teenager stares her down with all the genial politeness he can muster.
The “I’m Not Okay” by My Chemical Romance playing in his head intensifies.
“Gotcha,” the dark-haired girl says, the expected judgment surprisingly absent from her tone. “Sorry, I just thought you looked a little tired. We get a lot of university students like you and espressos and double espressos are all they seem to order.”
Luka pauses, then chuckles genuinely, even if it’s tinged with no small amount of relief. “I did just get out of the worst political science exam with more on the way,” he admits, shrugging. “Guess I wasn’t in the mood for espresso today.”
Or ever. But she didn’t need to know that. She probably chugs the overly-caffeinated stuff daily, working here.
“You and me both on that,” she giggles. His breath quickens. “This is for…?”
The dark-haired girl holds up a paper cup and a sharpie, and god, now that Luka has witnessed her smile, her heart song is practically blaring in the background. It even has a similar melody to the one that’s camped out in his head and refused to come out for the past half hour. If he just tweaks a few notes here and there, speeds up the tempo, perhaps…
‘Being known is being loved. You and me both… hm…’
“Luka,” he replies softly, distantly realizing the new melody he’s concocted goes perfectly with the rapid beating of his heart.
Later, he’s sitting back at his table, enjoying the residual warmth of his empty drink and picking at the remaining crumbs of the flaky croissant. The song lyrics are still unfinished, but there are more words written on the page than there were before. They’re hopeful and sweet, the words present in emotion if not quantity. At the very least, the space on the page he’s reserved for the chords has been all marked up with a melody he can now hear quite clearly, soft and gentle, with just a hint of push.
And just a few minutes ago, he was struggling to even put down more than five words of the love song.
‘Huh. Strange.’
Luka turns the coffee cup over in his hand thoughtfully.