Chapter Text
Tsukishima generally likes being a bartender. Even if copious amounts of his job involves being nice to other people, he still doesn’t really mind. The bar is pretty slow on most days, except Fridays and Saturdays when the local college kids intermingle with the more grown up regulars, but he hardly ever has to close on those nights because he’s been working here forever, so for now he gets by with working the slow morning and afternoon shifts, wiping up the counter until it’s spotless and walking back and forth, apron swishing, going from table to table to make sure that everyone is being served and is happy. Most people aren’t happy, especially if they’re finding release at a bar in the middle of the work day on their second glass of Cognac, nursed so slowly that the ice cubes melt into a little puddle underneath their glasses.
Like this new regular is right now, skinny college kid with a face full of freckles and a flyaway hair that looks almost deflated, falling down from its happy perk at the top of the kid’s hard and getting into his eyes along with the rest of his shaggy bangs, which he takes to sweeping out of his eyes occasionally. Tsukishima wouldn’t say that he is mesmerized, necessarily, but he’s all out of LP for Love Live, so he can’t be distracted by his new favorite phone obsession, and he’s already bussed down all of the tables so he takes to wiping the glasses he’s just washed and watching this new fixture from the corner of his eye. They almost look like a movie scene, the struggling hero down on his luck, about to be given some life-altering advice by the wise, yet handsome bartender figure. Tsukishima doesn’t have anything nice or particularly helpful to say, of course, so he settles for sneering and pouring the lonely boy a pity drink.
“I know most people think of this as a girly drink, but right now you look like you need more of a Long Island Ice Tea than a boring old man kind of drink, so here you go,” he states monotonously, as if he hasn’t been fixated on even the slightest movements that this boy has been making for the last half hour, distracted by the way that he fiddles with his long, elegant fingers or picks at his black nail polish or the random spatters of paint that zigzag across his arms.
The boy looks at him with a blank expression, and Tsukishima sighs, as he hates to explain himself.
“Look can you not just sit there and look like a complete downer? It’s scaring the other customers away.”
It’s really only the two of them right now, and a few older male stragglers nursing their beers in the back corner. The pretty, dark haired boy blinks with an incredulous expression.
“You’re joking, right? This place is practically dead.” Nevertheless, he takes a hesitant sip from the fruity pink drink that Tsukishima had set in front of him on a pretty coaster. He closes his eyes, blissed out, and Tsukishima smirks to himself. And some people still doubt him.
“Yeah, well, even if it is dead, it’s my dead bar, and I’d prefer it to be free of as many depressed drunks as possible. So what do you need, kid? Did you burn down one of your paper mache projects, or something? Couldn’t get the exact shade of mustard yellow for one of your canvasses? Why are you in here on a Tuesday night?”
The kid slumps down again, his shoulders slouch and he tries to bury his head in his arms. Tsukishima is having absolutely none of that.
“It’s nothing...It’s just that I broke up with my girlfriend, and now I have no one to model for one of my paintings, which wouldn’t be a big deal except, whoops, no I have no one to paint for my final project assignment. Which is definitely not due in 2 weeks. Nope, everything is just fine.”
Tsukishima likes it when they start to fume, and this one looks like he has a bit of spite to him, because he looks like he’s more tortured about losing a potential art subject than he is for losing a girlfriend. Tsukishima raises an eyebrow. This kid was certainly something.
“Were you planning on paying this young lady? Or did you have an, ehem, alternate payment plan laid out?” Tsukishima injects slyly, hoping that the innuendo goes over this funny guy’s head.
It doesn’t, and instead he turns bright red and covers his heated cheeks with the sleeve of his baggy sweater.
“No! Of course not...Well I mean, yeah, I was planning to pay her, but then she was all ‘You never have time for me, all you care about is painting,’ which is such a lie I mean compared to me, all she does is study and go to club meetings, like her whole pre-med thing isn’t as important to her…”
The puppy realizes that he’s rambling, and stops abruptly, looking away and blushing even more darkly than before. Tsukishima, even on the pain of death, would not admit that he found it somewhat cute.
“Well, your answer is pretty simple then,” he goes on, not looking up from the glass he’s been polishing.
The young man looks up at him, confused as expected.
“All you have to do is pay me to be your model.”
“Um...well...see, it’s like…” He pulls a the hem of his sweater and avoids Tsukishima’s mischievous glint. This one is going to be so easy, scamming him of his money is like taking candy from a baby.
“What? Huh? What are you stuttering about now? You need a model and I need your money. Relax, everything will be fine. Seriously, I’m great at sitting in one place and looking noble.”
The kid freezes for a moment, but then shrugs, and pulls out his sketchbook. He rips out a corner of a page and scribbles something down, and upon closer inspection, Tsukishima can see that it looks like a name and a phone number.
“My name’s Yamaguchi,” the kid reaches over, and his warm hand suddenly encloses Tsukishima’s frigid one, transferring his body heat in a way that makes Kei shiver unnaturally.
“Yamaguchi Tadashi. If I wasn’t so desperate, I wouldn’t turn to this, but now that Yachi’s gone I really need someone to model for me because sketches for the final project are due in a couple days. Can I text you sometime? I promise I won’t take more than a moment of your time.”
Tsukishima can’t believe how easily he’s going to make this money. Maybe he’ll actually make enough to kick out his weed smoking, useless cat of a neighbor and he’ll never have to see him or his owl of a best friend either. With that kind of rate, a man can really start to dream, though, he thinks to himself.
“Yeah. Text me whenever. I work mornings at the bar and night shifts at the university Starbucks, so you’ll always know where to find me. Saturdays work best for me, but wake me up before nine and I’ll kill you.”
Yamaguchi raises his hands in a peace offering. “Okay, I get it, I won’t bother you after I’ve stayed up all night, okay? Is there anything else you want, ice prince? Should I keep calling you that, or are you finally going to tell me your name?” That powerful glint is back, and Tsukishima is almost taken about my this quiet and somewhat shy boy calling him out on his shit. He scowls, instead, but begrudgingly lets out, “It’s Kei. Tsukishima Kei? Not Hotaru, okay, don’t fucking call me that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. But seriously, thank you so much. This really means alot to me.” And there it is, that killer smile and the upturned pleasant eyes, a little brown mixed in with faint green, and Tsukishima swallows because he knows he’s not really just doing it for the money. His stomach turns but he can manage a barely there smile and a totally nonchalant wave as the most interesting customer that he’s had in a while walks out the door. Tsukishima swipes up the little scrap of paper with the art guy’s (as he’s now going to start calling him) name and phone number and adds it to his beat up old iphone 4, putting in a flower at the end of his contact name as a whim.
Tadashi, huh? Tsukishima thinks to himself as he hangs up his apron after wiping down his last table. Things are finally going to start get interesting around here.