Chapter Text
So, there's this guy who sits tucked in the back corner of Kame Coffee House almost every weekday from 5:15 P.M. until closing. He's always well-dressed, and he smells like a brand of cologne that probably costs about as much as Goten makes in six months. He has these bright blue eyes and a handsome face that seems more weary than it should be for his age, and Goten definitely, definitely does not have a crush on him.
Not that he's ever spoken to him directly, really. It's been a timing thing—probably. Maybe Goten doesn't want to admit that he's nervous to talk to him. He isn't the shy type, after all, but the way he flexes his shoulders as he loosens his tie makes Goten weak in the knees.
Unfortunately, his coworkers have caught wind of it and have been teasing him about it for months now. Every time Goten sees a pop of lavender hair walking by the window, he scurries to the back and lets someone else handle the order, trying to ignore the jeering up front as he busies himself with organizing the milks in the fridge.
It’s not that he’s scared or anything, he just—wants to make his first impression count. So when 5:15 rolls around and he sees that unmistakable head of lavender hair pass by the window, Goten is suddenly mortified to remember that his co-barista called out, and he’s manning the store alone. His stomach is doing flips as he watches him tuck himself into his usual corner spot and open his laptop, digging through his leather messenger bag and messily spreading papers over the table. He looks kind of exhausted, Goten thinks, but he doesn’t have much time to process the thought because oh shit he’s walking up to the register.
"Good afternoon, I'll have a—"
"Large drip coffee with Stevia, right?" Goten interrupts. Then adds, "I see you here a lot."
The guy meets his gaze then, and he can immediately see the wariness swimming in the blues of his irises. "Not—not in a weird way," Goten clarifies. Stutters. "I just mean—you seem like you work pretty hard. On stuff." Nailed it.
"Yeah, things are pretty busy at work," the guy replies. He still looks a little weirded out, and Goten is trying to pretend the downward turn of his lips was there before he started talking.
"What do you do for work?" Goten asks, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that's screaming at him to shut the fuck up before you blow this.
"I'm an intern," is his reply. Maybe Goten should listen to his conscience more often. Those cold blue eyes are boring into him like he's hoping to ice out any further attempts at conversation, and while Goten has never been adept at picking up on social cues, he hears this one loud and clear.
"So, one large drip coffee with Stevia, yeah?"
"Please," is all he says, and he's reaching for his wallet.
"Oh, don't worry about that, I've comped it." It's the least he can do after—whatever that was. "I'll have it out in a sec."
“...Right,” the guy says, and he somehow looks even more uncomfortable than before.
Awesome. Goten imagines bashing himself in the head with the Portafilter before grabbing a large paper cup and filling it with coffee and a packet of Stevia. “There ya go.”
He nods, muttering a quiet “thanks” before shuffling over to his usual corner where his open laptop and scattered papers have been patiently waiting. God, Goten needs to keep his mouth shut for once. Once he gets going he doesn’t know how to stop. He gets it from his dad, he thinks.
The rest of his shift passes without incident. Well, save for the lady who bullied him into remaking her caramel latte three separate times (the first was too hot, the second too cold, and the third too foamy). She had an unnaturally pointy nose, anyway, so Goten figured that was her cosmic punishment for being a royal bitch. Or maybe it was the reason she was bitchy. Either way, he left work with his feet aching and his mind exhaustingly numb. Sometimes he thinks he can physically feel his brain cells dying at that job, but it’s not like he has a choice—he had to drop out of college nearly two semesters in when his school suddenly decided to stop offering him financial aid. It was only community college, but still more than both his parents and him combined could reasonably afford; they’d already spent most of their savings helping his older brother Gohan through his PhD program. Goten has never been particularly ambitious, so it didn’t cause a rift between him and his brother or anything, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t cry over it for a few days.
As always, the bus ride home is relatively short—only fifteen minutes. It’s a five minute walk to the nearest bus stop and he spends the whole time kicking a bottle cap down the sidewalk. Despite the short walk, he’s learned that the bus runs on a tight schedule—he makes sure to close the shop as efficiently as possible in order to be at the bus stop by 10:30 P.M. sharp, because one night he’d missed it and had to walk home. That was months ago, but his feet still haven’t really forgiven him for that one.
“I’m home!” Goten calls as he unlocks the front door. It’s late, he knows, but his mother is usually up doing laundry or something. She’s a chronic worrier—Goten doesn’t think he was allowed to stray from her line of sight until he was at least sixteen—so she stays up late on nights he has closing shifts to make sure he gets home safely. His dad, on the other hand, is god knows where, but that’s a can of worms he doesn’t want to unpack any time soon.
“Hey, baby,” his mother says, tilting her head as Goten leans in to kiss her cheek. She’s sitting at the kitchen table next to a spool of ugly orange yarn with knitting needles in her hands. Goten hopes that particular pair of mittens isn’t for him. “How was work?”
He just groans in reply, nose already buried in the fridge. “We have any more of those pork buns left over?” he asks.
“Top shelf to the right,” his mother answers. “What happened?”
“Ugh. Nothing, really. Just rude customers,” he grouses, then adds, “And I think I might have scared off a regular.”
She lifts her head from her knitting. “Oh?”
Goten grabs the leftover container of pork buns and arranges them on a plate, covering them with a damp paper towel before popping them in the microwave. “Yeah. Cool guy. He’s there almost every day working on something. Told me he’s an intern for—” He pauses to think. “Well, he didn’t tell me where he interns, actually. But I basically admitted to stalking the guy or something.”
His mother laughs, shaking her head. “You and that mouth.”
“I know,” Goten whines, sliding to the floor, head in his hands. “He’s cool. I mean, I think I—well—he’s cool.” And then, peeking through his fingers, “I think I like him.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Romantically?”
He nods, face hot against his hands. It’s not typical for him to talk to his mom about stuff like this, but his brain never functions correctly after a double shift. It’s not like he thinks she’d disown him for liking guys or anything, it’s just—she’s, well, the way she is.
“As long as you give me grandkids,” she shrugs, and she turns back to her mittens.
“ Mom! ” Goten cries, but his embarrassment is drowned out over the sensation of his stomach cramping as the microwave beeps. Right—food. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s sitting at the table across from his mother with the hot plate in his hands before either of them can blink. “You could be, like, a little more subtle about it. That’s gross.” The bun he bites into burns his tongue in retaliation. He should know better than to talk to his mother that way, it tells him.
“It’s the miracle of life, Goten,” she chides. “There’s nothing gross about it. You know, when your father and I—”
“Loveyougoodnightmom!” he blurts, stumbling to gather his meal before scurrying off to his room. The sound of his mother’s laughter follows him down the hall and is only stifled when he shuts his door.
“Jeez,” he breathes, careful not to spill the contents of the plate as he throws himself onto the bed. He sets an alarm for 7 A.M. before he forgets. He has an opening shift tomorrow, and should get off around 5 P.M., so he doesn’t expect to see The Guy unless he’s doing a coffee run for his coworkers like he sometimes does. Now that he thinks about it, he probably doesn’t work too far from the café, given how often he’s there. Goten ponders it for a moment before realizing that he definitely should not be letting this guy occupy his thoughts outside of work, and scarfs down his pork buns before burying his burning face in a pillow.