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Ekubo likes the taste of black coffee.
The drink is awfully bitter, a raw richness that makes him wrinkle his nose and squeeze his eyes shut. Hot enough to leave blisters in his mouth and on his tongue if he doesn’t wait for it to cool. He can’t drink more than one cup or it’ll give him heartburn. It’s just the way Ekubo likes it.
He once made the mistake of taking Reigen’s cup before the blond finished adding creamer and sugar and milk, the way Reigen likes it if Serizawa isn’t present to catch him and scold him over his eating habits. Given the fact they all live together, this particular scene plays out every morning.
In fact, the first time Ekubo drank coffee, the esper was in the middle of one of his lectures on the importance of staying healthy—holding his own mug of coffee, Ekubo noticed—while Reigen said something about calling the tea kettle black. The conman’s cup was right by the coffee maker, carton of milk and the bottle of creamer unopened beside it. Heat swirled upwards from the dark surface in lazy circles, eventually evaporating into thin air. Ekubo glanced at the mug for a brief moment before plucking it with an eager hand and lifting it to his mouth, lips parted slightly, eyes closed in anticipation.
Whatever Serizawa had been about to say was interrupted by Ekubo’s sputtering and spitting, the dark brew landing on practically every surface in the kitchen. He chugged several cups of milk before the taste was nearly gone, Serizawa being kind enough to serve him the milk. Reigen, on the other hand, kept himself busy by doubling over in laughter, occasionally pointing a finger at Ekubo.
He was curious, sue him. The smell was enticing enough. And his senses seemed to strengthen with just a whiff of the thing; clarity washed over the colors in the room, any lethargy in his body drained, the aches and tension in his muscles coming to the surface. Sure, he could smell it in his typical spirit form, but his sense of smell was next to nonexistent. In a human body, the scent hit him with the force of a brick wall.
So he wanted a taste of it for himself. Could you blame a spirit who’s been dead for decades if he happens to come across a beverage with a strangely appetizing aroma while he stands in the warmth of his home, in the presence of his lovers?
He would’ve taken Serizawa to be the caffeine addict, but Reigen had the esper beat. Turned out what Ekubo believed was Reigen’s natural energetic personality came from a daily boost of two cups mixed with so much sugar that Ekubo wondered if it could still be considered coffee.
Meanwhile, Serizawa did well with just one cup. Ekubo’s watched the esper at work, Serizawa pouring himself a cup before adding two spoonfuls of creamer, usually french vanilla, or hazelnut when the supermarket didn’t have his first choice. When Serizawa wakes up in a cheery mood, he sneaks in a sugar packet or two.
After the debacle of his first encounter with black coffee, crude and unforgiving in its overwhelming bitterness, Ekubo decided he’d get a taste of how Reigen and Serizawa usually made their drinks. Reigen’s cup was tooth-rotting, verging on the point of acidic. Almost half of his beverage was made up of sugar. He couldn’t parse the differences in the varying flavors—he thought he tasted hints of an herb he knew from somewhere in the light blend. That was most of what Ekubo could discern when the sweetness of the thing didn’t make his borrowed face twist in disgust.
Serizawa’s choice of coffee was much, much more palatable in comparison; a medium blend that struck a fine balance between the sugariness of the creamer and the earthy flavor of the roast, neither overwhelming for Ekubo’s senses. But he thought there was something missing, something once again lost in favor of a sweet bliss.
He even tried their cups while possessing them. The flavors became satisfying when sharing their senses, yet Ekubo didn’t have much to say for himself beyond that. Their bodies had their own preferences; Ekubo was an intruder, hitching on for a ride he never quite felt as though he was completely invited to join, and he couldn’t very well complain when their senses didn’t cater to his own.
Ekubo tried tasting coffee in his spirit form. The smoky blend was severely subdued, a poor imitation of its full strength compared to when he drank it in his borrowed body.
It’s cruel but it’s the reality of Ekubo’s life, if you could call a spirit mooching off human activities living. When he’s got the free time—and who is he kidding, he’s got all the time in the world—he wonders if the other human sensations he’s come to develop—the need to sleep to re-energize, the ability to feel sorrow, joy, and rage, the warmth that brews somewhere within his droplet form whenever he thought about his lovers—are just as phony as the taste of food without a living body to inhabit.
Ekubo isn’t human. He isn’t alive. He can’t take a deep breath and feel air rushing into lungs. Can’t wake up and feel a stiffness in his muscles and an ache in his joints the way Reigen does in the morning. Can’t feel his heart racing in his chest the way Serizawa does when he’s in the middle of an exam.
He can’t taste coffee.
His sensations are cheap imitations of the real thing. They’re fake. They’re nothing. He’s nothing, not unless he’s in a borrowed body—
Someone’s pinching him.
Ekubo blinks. It takes a moment for his senses to register the world around him: Ekubo’s standing in the middle of their bedroom. Morning sunlight pours in from the window, curtains drawn. The sheets on their king-sized bed are undone, pillows lopsided and at both ends. The scent of a dark roast drifts in from a crack in the door.
Recognizes he’s wearing Reigen’s pajamas, the ones with the ugly-looking bear on the shirt. They’re baggy on the smaller man, but on Ekubo, it’s an ordinary fit. Recognizes Serizawa’s orange hanten, just a tad oversized on him. He’s holding his daily cup of black coffee in his right hand. His left hand is squeezing the red spot on his cheek.
Ekubo. A groggy voice with a chiding tone hums in his head. Are you thinking our head off again?
He blinks again, and the pinching stops for a moment. He hears Yoshioka sigh and his hand falls back to his side.
Morning, sleeping beauty, Ekubo says. Took you long enough to wake up.
You’re avoiding my question, Yoshioka scolds.
Ekubo clicks his tongue. For some reason, Yoshioka laughs internally at that, and Ekubo can feel a strange thump in his heart.
You’re just as alive as the rest of us, Yoshioka says. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but you are. Whether you’re walking around as a weird ass fart cloud or in one of us.
Besides the little snort he gives out, Ekubo is quiet. Yoshioka, his beloved Yoshioka, with whom he’s been sharing a physical form with for longer than Ekubo cares to think about. The one who’s been privy to nearly every thought Ekubo’s had about himself when he doesn’t vocalize his musings to Reigen and Serizawa.
It wasn’t Ekubo’s intention to get so close to Yoshioka. He knows Yoshioka has a similar thought about the two of them. The symbiosis they’ve found themselves in just…sort of happened. With Serizawa, Ekubo routinely asks for permission to possess him, if they’re not in a life-or-death situation. But Yoshioka is always open to him; his pulsing nerves, organs, veins are receptive when he enters, almost as though Yoshioka and his body are waiting for him. They pass the reins of control to each other with a fluidity Ekubo can’t begin to comprehend. It’s a sensation he nearly feels when he’s possessing Reigen, though it’s not as smooth. Another phenomenon Ekubo doesn’t know how to unravel.
And it just so happened Ekubo and Yoshioka shared similarities. Yoshioka likes his coffee black with one sugar. He’ll laze around the apartment when he's not working, wondering too much about his place in the universe. He likes to spend time around Reigen and Serizawa and Mob and every person important to Ekubo. He especially likes spending time with the spirit.
I’m not just a body you’re borrowing, Eku. What’s mine is yours. My thoughts, my feelings, whatever you want from me. Ekubo lets Yoshioka raise their hand to their lips, lets him leave a kiss on their knuckles, gentle, as though he were kissing a flower.
I know Reigen and Serizawa feel the same way. We’re yours, Ekubo. Sweet, thoughtful Yoshioka who makes Ekubo feel alive, just as being around Reigen and Serizawa made him feel like he was living.
Nibbling on the knuckle of their index finger, Yoshioka says in a lowered voice, I’m yours. Always.
Ekubo feels a lump in their throat. Warm waves wash over him, soothing the impending panic of his thoughts. Before he loses his courage, Ekubo takes over and presses a kiss onto the pads of his fingers.
“Ekubo?”
They lift their head to see Serizawa standing in the doorway of their bedroom. He’s in his dress shirt, tie hanging off one shoulder, and he still hasn’t changed out of his pajama pants.
“Hey there, Seri-chan,” Ekubo says smoothly, posture relaxing with a practiced ease. “You heading out with those pants you’re wearing?”
Serizawa lets out a soft laugh and enters fully now. Walks over to where Yoshioka and Ekubo are standing. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, we’re fine.” Yoshioka moves his hand back up, and Ekubo hastily adds, “I’m fine now. Just did some thinking.”
Serizawa nods in understanding. “You can talk to us if you need to,” he says.
“I will, don’t you worry, Seri.” And Ekubo means it. The day he sits down with Serizawa and Reigen to get into the nitty gritty of his life isn’t soon, but it’s somewhere in the future Ekubo’s imagined for himself.
“Oi, Ekubo!” Reigen’s head pops through the doorway and the blond fixes Ekubo with a less than generous look. “If we’re late to the office because you’re brooding again, you can forget about me taking you out for ramen later.”
“Oh yeah?” Ekubo narrows his eyebrows. “Guess who’s not saving your ass when an evil spirit tries to throw a building on you?”
Serizawa smiles. From within, Yoshioka laughs again. Ekubo’s chest feels a little lighter.
Reigen rolls his eyes. “Like you’d let that happen,” he shoots back. “Come on, finish your coffee and get ready. We’re booked solid today.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ekubo raises the mug in their right hand and downs what’s left of his coffee in three large gulps. Not as warm as a fresh cup, but still bold, the roasted almond flavor rolling over their taste buds.
Just the way Ekubo likes it.