Chapter Text
Today starts, as morning shifts go, just as mundanely exhausting and boring as always.
There’s nothing to report in particular— which, Suguru figures, is something he should be grateful for. No drama is good drama, as they probably say, because he’d prefer to spend ass o’clock in the morning with as little trouble as possible, thank you very much. That precious hour or two before the sun rises is important disassociating time, after all, and if Suguru has to deal with some asshole demanding for his coffee to be rebrewed at seven in the morning again he thinks he’s going to do something drastic.
This morning isn’t bad, though. It’s dark, and it’s cold; about what’s expected of six in the morning, truthfully, but at least it isn’t raining, so Suguru’ll take that as a win. The new hire in particular is hard working and an absolute delight, unnaturally cheerful considering the time of day but you don’t see Suguru complaining. It’s only his third shift and Haibara Yuu mans the registers like a pro; for the first couple hours of their shift, Suguru watches from behind the espresso machine as his coworker’s fingers fly over the screen, expertly reciting his lines, tone polite but kind and painfully awake. Orders are repeated back. Legal tender is exchanged. He thanks every single one of them with a smile, bright like a miniature sun— an appropriate replacement, considering it’s yet to rise.
Confident in the rookie’s ability to handle himself without him, Suguru feels a weight slide off his shoulder as he pulls back his focus to the order screen, unflinching as he watches them stack. Large drip coffee; two extra shots. Ieiri. Right, the medical student. Hope she doesn’t give herself a heart attack from all of that caffeine. Small latte. Sakurai. Really can’t go any more normal than that. Medium drip coffee; blueberry flavoring. Nanami. Another regular; Suguru’s more familiar with the bags beneath his eyes than his smile. Not that he blames him. Coconut milk latte. Hiroyama.
He reads them both, calls out both, then places the drink down on the counter as Hiroyama, some nicely but plainly dressed middle-aged salaryman— likely on his way to his office job, he guesses idly— squints down at his drink. Suguru resists the urge to throw it into his face ( what? Something wrong with the drink? You think I made a mistake? Here you fucking go, take it for free, it’s on us! ), but the moment passes as he takes it with a mumbled “thanks” and shuffles away.
Suguru only smiles as he leaves. He knows his voice will betray him otherwise.
Haibara hasn’t done anything wrong, though, and so the smile he offers him instead is much more genuine— “Good work with that rush,” he adds, wiping down the counter. “Usually new hires struggle with their first one, especially with a doozy like that. But you managed well, and all alone on the register. Impressive work.”
Haibara beams under the praise the same way he has for all of their other customers, identically wide and toothy. Must be a personality thing, then. “Thank you, Getou-san! I don’t mind the chaos— it makes it a lot more fun!”
“That makes one of us.” That’s half to himself, rubbing out a particularly stubborn stain next to the grinder. He checks out its remains beneath his rag, then glances back up at him. “Why don’t you take your break, then? I don’t think you’ll have a chance otherwise in the next few hours.”
“Are you sure, Getou-san? What if things suddenly get busy again?” Oh, he sounds so concerned. It’s a little unfounded, and Suguru straightens from hunching over the counter to take a quick stretch. There’s the tell-tale beep of a mobile order coming in, and he leans over mid-stretch to rip it out of the printer before peeking— Chocolate croissant. Small caramel latte. Matsuoka. The steam wand shrieks as he starts the drink.
“Don’t worry. I’m the shift lead for a reason— I’ll take care of things up here.”
“Alright!” And just like that, it’s like a switch is flipped; he goes right back to beaming, and it’s a little too infectious— Suguru smiles back.
“Cool. Want a drink? Maybe a snack?”
“Hm…” Haibara freezes, literally, in the middle of untying his apron as he considers. “Banana bread. And a tea, please! Sencha.”
“Coming right up, then. I’ll bring it to the back for you.”
So there he goes, and Suguru drops the croissant into a bag and sets that aside for Matsuoka before starting Haibara’s order. Suguru’s grateful that it’s so simple; he handles it with more care than he had with the customers’, one because it’s a fledgling employee and two because it’s, well, this guy, and he pokes his head into the breakroom for the briefest of moments to place the steaming mug and warmed plate next to his coworker. Haibara’s tapping at his phone, thanking him while half-distracted, and Suguru has half a mind to peek at his phone but simply breezes out without another word.
The shift continues as normal, there. Busy, but not painfully so; it’s enough to keep his thoughts occupied, that perfect in-between. It’s the mental equivalent of a casual jog, where he doesn’t have to think too hard but still leaves little time to stare at the bottom of the sink to reconsider his life decisions, too swept up with steaming milk for the next customer or rearranging their constantly dwindling pastry display or bagging another order of freshly roasted beans. But it’s nice like this. The rhythm is comfortable, in that way. He sees his regulars, offers them their normal hellos and good mornings, exchanges coffee and money and finally, goodbyes. Rinse and repeat.
He’s happy to see their faces, of course. Food service is a thankless job, ultimately, and Suguru’s complaints can go on for miles, but he doesn’t hate it. It’s more of a sort of… give and take when it comes to being in charge of weekday morning shifts at the local cafe.
So Suguru doesn’t mind. He chose the damn shift in the first place, after all, which is a fact most seem to forget when he mentions his unusual work schedule to friends and they always, without fail, shoot him that half-shocked-half-pity expression of someone who could never fathom waking up at such an hour. Which, fair. Despite one would think, Suguru’s really not a morning person, but with plenty of discipline and red eye coffees it’s manageable. Besides, there are all the other little perks— the privilege of getting off work right at lunch to have the afternoon to himself, having the first couple hours before the first rush entirely to himself and his thoughts, getting to watch the city around him wake up with the sunrise…
So he even likes it like that, in a sort of way. It’s his special little corner in the ecosystem of a city— providing a little fuel to all the overworked salarymen and university students alike; it’s not quite a necessity in the literal definition, but all sorts of people come in and out of these doors and most of them would consider it a personal one, anyway, even among the unfortunate rotten apples of the bunch whose goal in life seems to be making the already underpaid and overworked service workers’ lives as miserable as possible. Whatever. Suguru deals with those as he does, alongside everything else; it’s certainly a lifestyle, but it’s his.
Quiet. A little quaint and humble, maybe a little lonely, but he’s always been. The distance between Suguru and his customers is a necessary and blessed one, really. They know of him— Suguru Getou, late twenties, coffee enthusiast, been here for a good five years or so, give or take— but nothing more. Same goes the other way, and that’s fine. He’s happy to exchange words with them during work hours, get his daily socializing need, but he doesn’t find himself seeking more of their company after work. It’s the perfect social life.
He doesn’t need anymore.
Not even a girlfriend… or a boyfriend. Whichever. No comment on that one.
His eyes flicker to the clock sitting above their fake fireplace. Half past eight. Another faint beep; Suguru leans over, peeks at the order, only half registering it as he finds himself already going through the movements of prepping a damn blender order— even his annoyance is delayed by a couple seconds before it sweeps over him like a wave, feeling his lip curl up half in annoyance and half in amusement. Caramel Creme Dream frappuccino. Gojou. Really? For breakfast? There’s a cookie ( Everything But the Kitchen Sink, warmed ) with that too, so as the blender shrieks he tosses it into the oven to blast for a couple seconds. Five, four, three—
The bell rings. “Morning, welcome to Little Cloud. I’ll be with you in a second.” Two, one. Cookie gets tossed in the bag, and he feels the melted chocolate barely scald his fingertips.
”Mobile order?” calls out the new customer. Suguru squints at the bag.
“Gojou-san, right?”
A pause. He’s about to wonder if the stranger’s even heard him when he hears, ”Uh. Yup. Cookie and—?”
“Cookie and frappuccino, right. I’m finishing up your order right now, sir.”
What’s with people putting in mobile orders two seconds before entering the store? Whatever. Suguru doesn’t even bother giving that complaint an appropriate expression to express it through and instead a little messily finishes the drink instead— guy can live with a half-assed cup drizzle and an ugly crown of whipped cream. “Order for Gojou-san,” he says smoothly, turning around and sliding the order expertly across the counter. “Your cookie and Caramel Creme Dream frappuccino. Enjoy—“
The stranger drops his phone. Onto the drink. The cup bends beneath the weight, and the lip pops off almost comically, before the whole thing— drink and whipped cream and cup and lid and phone— collapses to the floor.
Suguru gapes. He kinda wants to cry, but the shock settles for too long before his half a decade of professional settles in and next he knows he’s darted around the counter, rambling off apologies with fistfuls of napkins as he tries to assess and very badly clean up the damage. And because the universe’s timing is always right, Haibara slips out from back… to stare at the mess.
”I’ll grab the mop!” he calls out, and darts right back. Suguru hears the faint commotion of him digging through their supply closet, and makes a mental note to reassess his knowledge of all of their cleaning supplies throughout the store.
He’s attentive, though, he’ll give him that, Suguru thinks as he pries the customer’s phone off of the sticky floor. Newest model iPhone, no case or anything. No cracking, though, despite the fall; the whipped cream was good for something, at least. “Sorry again, sir,” Suguru begins, carefully getting back to his feet as he wipes at the screen with the napkins, only creating ugly streaks across the glass, “I’ll clean your phone for you if you’d like—“
It’s only about an hour after the exchange Suguru realizes what was so strange about the whole thing— the stranger, Gojou, hadn’t said a word. Ruined his own drink, ruined his own phone, and with nothing to say for himself, even between all of Suguru’s rambling and unneeded apologies. Now that he looks at his face, it strikes him why.
Gojou stares at him like he’s seen a ghost.
He doesn’t react to his drink. He doesn’t react to his phone. His cookie is left untouched on the counter, and he doesn’t even react as Haibara skedaddles out with the mop in tow, trying to mop around his coworker’s and customer’s feet.
”I—“ Suguru blinks, then clamps his mouth shut. How is he even supposed to react. “Sir? Gojou-san? Are you alright?”
That seems to be enough to snap him out of his trance. Or… only a little. His eyes are still fixed to his, blue and wide, sclera like white frames around his blue irises. He swallows, though, at Suguru’s words, and something hopeful and tentative leaks into his mannerisms as he reaches up… to…?
His hand stops halfway to his face, frozen in time.
”Suguru?”