Chapter Text
Dazai liked the quiet. Not silence per se, but a muted quiet atmosphere made for the perfect environment; his brain could focus on the buzz while leaving space for thoughts to form. Hence why he enjoyed working the night shift at his coffee shop. There was often a “rush” between the hours of one and three: mostly college students getting their caffeine fix for the long haul of studying. Still, the rushes at that hour were nothing compared to the morning rush of 9-to-5 workers getting their morning fuel. Those were the shifts he detested the most.
In the middle of the night, college students were far more patient, oftentimes already shifting into the zombie-like study-mode. Dazai could take more time making their intricate lattes and brewing fresh coffee. College students appreciated artistry more than mundane office workers. The two A.M. younger groups came in with a simmerting optimism for their futures, only dimmed by the extensive lack of sleep and seven slideshows on their to-do lists. Six A.M. office workers were snobby and unsatisfied with their lives, and it certainly showed.
That isn’t to say that Dazai missed his years in college: those were some of the hardest of his life, both physically and mentally. From the sleepless nights wreaking havoc on his body to professors treating him as though he would never amount to anything important simply due to his learning styles, college was not one of his favorite developmental stages. He met a handful of wonderful people that he still considered decent friends, but aside from that…
“Hi, Dazai!”
A young woman snaps Dazai from his thoughts, and he realizes that he’s been cleaning that same portafilter for a couple of minutes. He recognizes her immediately as a starry-eyed music major who sits in the back corner of the shop with hot chocolate (“I don’t drink that caffeinated stuff, there’s no need!” Truly, she had more than enough energy on her own) and headphones obstructing the world around her. She plays the piano, and is learning to play the cello; Dazai had been given a full run-down of the parts of a cello one night when he asked about her books during a slow period.
“Sorry about that, Mai. Do you need a refill?”
“Please! Can I try it with oat milk this time? The girl next to me says that’s all she drinks.”
Dazai chuckles, and shakes his head fondly. “That’s because she’s lactose intolerant.” He learned that fun fact after hearing the other patron’s stomach gurgling; she’d drunk an entire whole milk latte. Sheepishly, she admitted to forgetting to ask for a dairy substitute. “But I will absolutely make you an oat milk hot chocolate. Give me a couple minutes, I’ll bring it over.”
“You’re the best!”
Dazai just grins softly and gets to work grabbing the frothing pitcher. He learned a new technique for chocolate milk: using steam to melt the chocolate chips before adding any milk to it. That made for a silky smooth drink that went down like butter. The intricacies of warm drinks were certainly not lost on Dazai. Making coffees, teas, and other drinks for people to enjoy fulfilled some sort of deep-seeded desire that he never knew he had until he ended up working as a barista during college. Getting to watch someone take that first sip of a warm, foamy, smooth drink and have that look of pure satisfaction was something he never tired of even so many years later.
After adding a small amount of steaming water, Dazai stirs the chips vigorously to coax them into melting while he pours oat milk into a separate frothing pitcher. Working at an espresso machine is almost as comforting as hitting the stubborn keys on his beat-up laptop. The frothing of his milk takes place shortly after the chips are completely melted, and Dazai takes great care in mixing the two pitchers together in an ornate teacup. Before adding a series of foam hearts on top, Dazai sprinkles cocoa powder, more than satisfied with his handiwork.
He deposits the teacup onto a small plate and adds a stirring spoon before making his way to Mai, who has already absorbed herself into her next lecture. All he gets when he delivers the drink quietly is a grateful, blinding smile and a small head nod. That’s more than enough for him.
Fresh out of college, Dazai had decided to take a leap and purchase this small property in the heart of Yokohama where he could plant roots and create something that would hopefully carry on for many years to come. Thus, Roast on the Rocks was born. At first, it was just another coffee shop, but traction picked up once students realized that Dazai catered towards them and their needs more than the average working Joe. They opened at twelve P.M. and remained open until five A.M. Completely opposite of most other coffee shops, but that was by design. Dazai wanted a particular crowd, and as time passed, he achieved just that. Now, Roast on the Rocks was a safe haven for all people to spend their time: read a book from the open library, draw art at designated open tables, use one of the few computers for browsing or homework. Dazai had it all.
The place was extremely popular among LGBTQ students, and soon, Dazai had an extensive collection of small pride flags decorating corners of his shop. Truthfully, he didn’t mind. If he could be a place for these younger generations to express themselves safely, openly, and without fear, he would gladly do so. Not a single person in his life gave him that growing up, so he knew what it felt like to be cast aside and told to sink or swim.
When he wasn’t working, Dazai spent much of his time writing: even at work he set up his laptop at the front counter to make headway on the pending novel that had been in his drafts for years. Surrounded by the smells and ambiance of the place, Dazai found that the creative cogs in his brain chugged away much easier. That isn’t to say his novel was something overtly uplifting or inspiring, but still. His dream was to publish at least one good book, but at the rate he moves, he’ll be old and decrepit when it happens.
The bell on the door dings, and Dazai takes a deep breath. Three students walked in together, all holding copious textbooks that made Dazai’s back ache just looking at.
“Hi, welcome in. What can I get started for you?”
~~~~~
The sun is starting to filter through the blackout curtains in Dazai’s room and he groans lowly.
“Mrs Meowington, if I find you sitting in the window sill again, you’re being rehomed.” Amongst the quiet, Dazai hears a thump and knows that his cat has just slipped away from the incriminating position. His blinds slip shut again, as though a sign of proof.
Initially, the cat wasn’t something he wanted, but Dazai found her shivering pathetically on his balcony and couldn’t let the poor thing die in the cold. Even he wasn’t that heartless. She provided some good company from time-to-time: a companion for movie nights and something to voice obscure drafts to in the middle of the night. She demanded her personal space and respected (miraculously) when Dazai did the same. They must have been two sides of the same coin.
Somehow, the two of them just worked in a strange, mutually understanding kind of way.
Dazai only works the overnight shift: all other employees go home around ten at night and leave him to close on his own. He likes it that way: there’s more peace and quiet, more time to get things done at his own pace. The only downside is that he sleeps through the daylight hours until roughly four or five P.M. and during the winter time, Dazai can go days without seeing the sun. He never makes plans during the day, anyway. He isn’t lonely, just… solitary.
Not lonely. There’s a huge difference.
With a groan, Dazai rolls onto his other side and feels the paws of Meowington start kneading into his sheet-covered back. The futon beneath him is hardly the most comfortable sleeping surface, but for him it does the job just fine. In the winter he has to double up on sheets, but that’s a small inconvenience. His salary doesn’t allow for such luxuries as a western style bed and mattress that many of his customers boast about having. Most money goes back into the shop, and towards his necessities like rent, utilities, and food.
He glances at the clock and sighs. Perhaps if he’s lucky, he’ll get a few more hours before begrudgingly starting his day.
~~~~~
When Dazai walks through the doors of Roast on the Rocks, he can immediately tell something is amiss. Two of his employees are behind the counter crouched low and giggling, while the place itself lacks its usual buzz. It’s a Tuesday night the week after midterms, so Dazai has to assume kids around the nearby campus are actually getting rest instead of pulling their hair out in front of books. A welcomed change, yet also a dreaded one. That meant tonight was going to be a long one.
One of the girls behind the counter, a newly promoted supervisor, perks up and smacks her coworker blindly.
“Dazai! Good morning!”
Immediately, his suspicions rise as the other girl stuffs her phone into her pocket, but Dazai schools his face to maintain a neutral composure. “Good morning,” not a single person comments on the fact that it’s nine at night: this is their tradition. “How were your days?”
“Not too bad. Opening crew left us some homemade cookies and we saved you one. It’s in the back!”
A muted hum is all the two get in response as Dazai makes for the back room. It’s a small shop, so employee area is limited, but he was blessed with an office at the very least. Although, it isn’t so much a private office as a multi-purpose room. People take their breaks there and shut the curtains, new employees use the outdated computer to watch orientation materials, and Dazai has business meetings there when necessary. Thus, it’s decorated rather warmly. Though, he had no hand in the final decor.
The first supervisor he ever had picked out the furniture, rugs, paintings, lights, and computer all from a second-hand store a short drive away. Over the years, materials had been added to the office but all those original pieces remained. The look of the place didn’t matter to Dazai, simply that it did what he needed it to do. If any employees wanted to bring in more decorations, he allowed it without so much as a passing glance. Whatever made them more comfortable in the long run.
He pulls the string on the lamp perched atop faded wood and drops his satchel onto the ground, all accompanied by a full body sigh. In truth, he’s exhausted. He did not, in fact, get more restful sleep that afternoon, and spent those remaining hours tossing and turning in itchy sheets. After a while, he gave up altogether and settled on trying to write before making the commitment to start the day.
Insomnia is no joke, and Dazai is reminded of that on the daily when sleep comes sparingly. He can’t remember a waking moment when he didn’t still feel exhausted. There were wires pulled loose or frayed in his brain that made simple tasks like shutting one’s eyes and turning their brain off virtually impossible. Even the sleeping pills he snagged from his doctor did little to ensure rest. Add that to the list of things Dazai detested about himself.
He takes a few minutes then to boot up his computer and go through the more mundane managerial tasks. Respond to vendor inquiries, work on the staff schedule for the next pay period, sift through applications to choose a couple potential add-ins for their little posse of misfits. He needs another support staff member for the nights he takes off; the people he hires never close alone like he does. He’s comfortable with the tasks and pacing it takes to run the place solo, but that amount of stress is unnecessary for one of his employees, no matter how experienced they may be.
The staff up front are set to go home at ten. Dazai squints at the time and tsks. It’s nine forty-eight. His body aches with vehement protest as he stands and stretches arms high above his head. He’ll need to see a chiropractor again someday, the persistent issues in his back are getting worse day after day. But really, when will he have the time or money to do so?
Another minute is spent securing a clean apron around waist and straightening his appearance in the mirror by the office door. Getting started was truly the worst part of the night for him; trying to force his brain to switch modes was quite the feat. When he emerges silently from the back room, his two employees are giggling amongst themselves again, observing something on the younger’s phone. Dazai approaches on light feet, until he can see clearly what they’re swooning over. It’s a photo of a person sitting by an open window, gazing outside. The person has long, fiery red hair and is wearing what looks to be a worn out t-shirt. Those are all the details he could make out, considering the angle at which the person was gazing through the window.
Dazai clears his throat.
There’s something painfully familiar about that photo. “Ladies…” Dazai lowers his voice to a whisper so as not to alarm other patrons of the contents they’re speaking on. “I know for certain that isn’t a photo of a patron enjoying themselves in this shop now is it?” The background is clear enough, that’s definitely Roast.
Both girls blanch. “Well-“
“Because if it was, that would be a massive invasion of privacy in this safe space we’re creating, hm?”
The supervisor’s face sobers. “Of course.” She snatches her coworkers phone and deletes the photo in plain sight, much to the chagrin of the younger. “I don’t know what we were thinking.”
It’s times like these that Dazai hates employing college age kids. There’s a level of immaturity in so many of them that can only be taught with age. They’re the sweetest bunch of employees but Dazai often feels like a glorified babysitter.
“It won’t happen again.” The younger of the two adds. Dazai doesn’t need to know anything else about the incident, he merely fixes them with a stern gaze.
“It had better not. Now,” his posture softens in the slightest. “Why don’t you tell me what needs to get done so the two of you can leave on time?”
A couple of minutes pass as they give a detailed inventory report, and close out the cash register so that Dazai can open a new one for the night. With as much grief as they cause him, he loves the kids that he works with; they’re eclectic and entertaining, and always willing to go the extra mile. Dazai treats them so well that they tend to stick around until graduation when they either move away or get higher paying jobs in their degree field. It’s almost like having a little family.
At nine o’eight, Dazai hears two cheery farewells and the bells jingle above the doors to signal that he’s alone to run the shop. At the far counter, he sets up his laptop and a worn down bar stool for his free time and gets to work taking stock of the pastries needed for the next day. They’re not made in house, but a couple doors down at a family-owned bakery. He’ll place a new order before the night is over and pick them up tomorrow afternoon.
There are a couple of people in the shop at the moment, scattered throughout. Only one is studying, the other two are reading books silently with earbuds blocking the outside world.
It’s peaceful.
Hours later, and it's midnight. Dazai is sitting at his laptop searching for synonyms of the word 'happiness'. If that isn't a sign that his brain is falling apart, he doesn't know what is. It's frustrating: to stare at jumbled sentences that mock him so blatantly, tell him he isn't good enough to provide another person with this type of intellectual satisfaction. Exhausting. Irritating. Annoying. And then the bells rings and Dazai instinctively raises his head to greet the newcomer. “Hi, welcome-“
In that singular moment, Dazai’s brain completely stalls. A man enters, though he’s short enough to be mistaken for someone barely twenty. He’s wearing dark brown boots, fitted jeans, a red shirt and a leather jacket. Tucked under his arm is a helmet, clearly made for some type of motorized bike (perhaps a full blown motorcycle), and a backpack sits snug to his back. Underneath his vibrant red hair, Dazai catches sight of glimmering earrings that span the entirety of his cartilage, and two wireless earbuds. Clearly, this is the same man from the picture his employee had snuck onto her cell. The hair itself was telling enough.
The guy pays no mind to Dazai at first, and truthfully, he’s thankful. Typically a master at schooling his features, Dazai is sure he looks like a fish gasping for water at that very moment. Dumbfounded, he observes in silence as the man picks a spot in the back corner of the shop and deposits his items, then removes the leather jacket. His shirt is, in fact, fitted as well and Dazai has to physically tear his eyes away before he gets caught staring.
He’s never felt this way before, so blatantly shell shocked by a total stranger's beauty. But at the same time, how often did people just look like that?
As though to hit a reset, Dazai clears his throat and digs his nails into his palms. The slight sting grounds him to reality once again. Embarrassment washes over him shortly thereafter. Nobody saw him ogling, but the mere idea of being caught doing anything remotely similar makes his blood rush unpleasantly.
Back to work now.
There’s nobody at his counter for a few minutes and Dazai fights to stay on track cleaning the Espresso machines. Every few seconds his mind starts to wander and-did he take his medication before coming to work? That would explain the inability to stay on track. But, no, he’s almost sure he did. The mental image of himself dredging around in an effort to dress, clean up, eat something that he could stomach-
“Um, hello?”
Oh even that voice is attractive. Somehow, Dazai has a gut feeling of who is standing at the counter before he even looks up from the chrome machine he’d been blankly observing for the past two minutes. Still, the fact doesn’t prepare him for the overwhelming sea of blue that Dazai meets when he does acknowledge the man. It’s not unheard of to say the eyes that study him critically are easily the deepest he’s ever seen and-God, Dazai wants to drown in them.
What a lovely death that would be, huh?
“Hi… hi.” Dazai snaps out of his stupor with even more embarrassment; his voice had cracked. He can feel the warmth tainting his cheeks the longer he looks at the guy, dammit all… “What can I get started for you?”
The man regards him with rapt curiosity, but says nothing on the matter. “What tea is your favorite?”
“That depends on what I need it for.”
That beautiful face twists in confusion. “What you need it for? I need it to drink, obviously.”
Dazai snorts. “Obviously.” He mirrors in a similar, flat tone, then chuckles hesitantly. “But what do you want to get out of it? Some teas have soothing properties to calm your nervous system if you are feeling highly agitated or stressed, while others sharpen focus with small amounts of caffeine. If you feel under the weather, there are teas that will boost your body’s natural healing processes too.” Amusement tickles his soul as the man’s eyes widen in the slightest. “So, I’ll ask again: what do you want the tea to do for you?”
“I…” clearly, he’s never been to a place like this. Dazai’s knowledge on the drinks he serves is quite extensive; he’s never been satisfied with bare minimum. He wants to know the ins and outs of his products so that customers get the best experience possible, so that they feel cared for. It isn’t a run of the mill coffee shop more concerned about profit than satisfaction. “I guess… to relax me?”
“Any allergies?”
“Uh… no?”
“Hot or cold?”
“Hot.”
Dazai studies the man for another few seconds and then nods once, mind made up. “I’ll bring you something in a couple minutes.” It’s been a while since he’s made a custom tea blend on the spot, but this seems as good an occasion as any.
The guy lingers awkwardly at the counter. “Don’t I need to pay first?”
“The first one is on the house, if you like it and want another, then I’ll snag your money.” He does this sort of thing when he makes custom, off the cuff drinks like this: the last thing he wants is for someone to pay and get stuck with a drink they hate. Over the years, it has helped build trust between him and his customers.
After a moment, the redhead retreats and leaves Dazai to sift through the ornate, wooden boxes of loose leaf tea that are stored on the back wall. He’s decided on a lavender-chamomile mix with splashes of honey and perhaps a sprig of mint. That’s a personal go-to when he’s trying to rest and recoup.
He gathers supplies: tea infuser, spoons for measuring, tea cup, and a tiny pair of tongs. Carefully, Dazai weighs out the portions of lavender and chamomile, going a bit heavier on the second. He gets steaming hot water from his Espresso machine and transfers it into the tea cup where the leaves are waiting eagerly inside the metal infuser. The aromas are almost instantaneous, going so far as to soothe his own nerves through that one sense alone.
While it steeps, Dazai busies his hands with any task available: straighten cups, clean stray dishes, put back all tea materials. Why? Because he can feel those ocean-blue eyes boring holes into the side of his head. It doesn’t feel threatening or with intent to intimidate, simply… inquiring. Still, Dazai doesn’t dare make eye contact again, not until he has tea in hand. With small hums emanating from his lips, Dazai uses a mortar and pestle to carefully break down the fibers of a mint leaf. Not enough to allow bits to float freely, but enough to make the mint appear moist.
The small timer by the tea dings and Dazai removes the infuser. The last step is to soak the mint leaf for about a minute and a half: just enough time to allow those newly released juices to permeate into the surrounding liquid. Once that finishes, Dazai drizzles a tiny amount of honey in and gives it a little stir. It smells divine if he does say so himself, and he’s sure the stranger will enjoy it.
(Deep down he secretly hopes it gets the man hooked. Then he’d come around more, and wouldn’t that be a treat to see his face a couple days a week?)
After depositing the china onto a fresh saucer and brandishing the plate with a clean small spoon, Dazai heads for the corner where that man has made a home. A laptop is on the table, near a notebook with what appear to be doodles of bodies and lazy scrawl. He doesn’t allow his eyes to linger long enough to discern what’s actually on the page, no matter how badly he wants to know.
“Here you are.” He comments quietly as the saucer is deposited safely. “It’s lavender-chamomile tea with mint and honey. One of my favorite combinations to soothe aches.”
The man takes in a deep breath of the steam coming from within the cup and his eyebrows shoot up. “It smells great.”
That warms Dazai’s chest, for more reasons than one. “Let me know if you need anything else, or if you end up wanting a different drink.”
Red curls bounce gingerly when he nods, and Dazai makes for the counter. His mind and heart are racing. When was the last time he wanted so badly to sit down and talk to someone? Learn more about them: understand their likes and dislikes, discern what makes them tick happily?
Dazai isn’t lonely, but… a dull ache starts filling out in his chest as the seconds go by. Especially when he hears a minute gasp from that quiet corner, followed by more sipping.
About thirty minutes later, Dazai is approached once again by the mystery man, who returns the tea cup and shyly asks for another serving.
~~~~~
It takes a couple more hours for the man to leave: sometime around three in the morning. The mystery man begins packing up his belongings, Dazai’s keen eye takes note immediately, but he focuses on the latte balanced in his hands. The ginger is just another customer, and Dazai needs to realex about him already.
“Do you recommend the vanilla or honey latte?” A woman asks from the register where she’s been diligently studying the menu for at least ten minutes. Dazai told her to take her time, and went about filling other orders, but just how indecisive was the young lady?
Without stopping the steady pour of textured milk into the shot of espresso, he hums. “You could always do a vanilla latte with honey drizzled on top.” The offer seems to delight the woman’s senses and she nods briskly.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Give me one moment and I’ll ring you up.”
Chaos overnight is muted and easy for one man to manage, especially Dazai. His movements flow seamlessly as he develops a swan design on top of the current latte and delicately lays it on the counter where the eager hands of another customer await. They take it with a grateful smile and head back to their secluded window seat as Dazai makes for the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices red hair hovering nearby. It makes his heart rate pick up (again), but he focuses on tapping the woman’s latte order correctly into the ordering system.
“I’ll bring it to you when it’s finished, no worries.”
She pays and nods gratefully, slipping headphones back over her ears while making for the designated reading corner. There were a couple fluffy sofas, single armchairs, and side tables. Lining the walls of that corner of the shop were bookshelves built in, painted a beautiful golden brown color and decorated with small twinkling lights and other trinkets gathered over the years. It was Dazai’s favorite corner to decompress in after closing was said and done.
Without giving himself a moment to make eye contact with the blue-eyed redhead observing from the end of the counter, Dazai begins preparing his portafilter for a new pull of espresso. He measures out the grounds, aerates and tamps them down before connecting the portafilter to the machine. Just as he pushes the start button, that smooth, deep voice from earlier crashes right into his train of consciousness and makes him seize.
“Hey.”
Dazai swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and barely manages to place a teacup under the filter as espresso begins to run through. He plasters on a kind smile, hoping to mask the awkwardness that he feels inside. “Are you heading out now? It’s about time, I thought you’d been glued to the seat.”
An eyebrow is raised. “I’m a night person. More calming when the sun is down.”
“Guilty.” Dazai notes as he fights to pull off the lid on the whole milk half gallon. Are his hands sweaty, or is he really that inept? He just opened the thing a couple minutes ago-
“I think you’re supposed to twist the cap.”
Oh. Oh, he’s an absolute idiot. Dazai wants to crawl under a rock and die at this point, harsh red tones turning splotchy across his cheeks. Curse his lack of sunlight, making imperfections that much more obvious. He makes a mental note to get outside more.
“Right, I… I thought this was…” There are no words to save him from himself, so Dazai gives up the search for them. Thankfully, the man does little besides chuckle under his breath and dig through his pocket until he can produce a couple of bills. They enter the tip jar and Dazai blinks.
“Thank you for the drinks tonight. They were great.”
“Come around more often and I’ll extend your palate.”
Mystery redhead grins a crooked line, adjusting the helmet underneath his arm. “Sounds like a plan to me.” With not another word, he leaves, those darned bells grating Dazai’s eardrums in the process. He realizes that the espresso shot is done, and he’s still holding a cold container of milk.
Sounds like a plan to me.
Is that a promise? Or shameless flirting on a stranger’s part? Dazai doesn’t attract attention like that, he never has. But given the way his heart flutters, he wants desperately for it to be true.
~~~~~
After closing duties are completed at six in the morning, Dazai empties the tip jar on the counter and begins counting all the bills. The girls emptied it during their shift so he adds that amount to the total as well and-
A plain white paper, folded loosely, glares at him. Clearly not any type of legal tender.
He blinks at it, in awe. With tentative hands, the edges are undone and scrawl is revealed; neat and free flowing from letter to letter, as though following a stream of water.
‘Chuuya Nakahara’
The name is followed by a phone number and Dazai nearly yelps in surprise into the thick silence of the shop. Red hair and blue eyes are matched with a name perfectly suited. With a small grin, he quickly types the digits into his phone, heart skipping another couple beats.