Archive of Our Own

It was a day like any other.

Seto brisk walking down the length of the Central Business District, wearing his signature accessory of what might as well be a patented scowl, billowing trench coat a physical shield, never slowing – why would he need to accede to these plebeians? – passers-by, who knew better, parting like waves bowing back into the ocean at his urgency (or perhaps it was fury, even he couldn’t really tell).

It was a day like any other.

Katsuya ambling down the length of the Central Business District, a cuppa clutched in his cold hands – his daily treat he deemed more necessary than indulgent after a full shift at some pretentious bistro that was born out of a bored high-society wife’s capricious whims – steps light, relaxing into the hours that were finally his.

Turned out the universe had other ideas. (Universe here meaning Katsuya’s preoccupation with his drink and Seto’s obstinate refusal to step aside for anyone.)

“Oh, fuck—“

A clack of shoulders; a clop of stumbling heels; a clatter of a cup; a single click of the tongue. 

A single very displeased click of Seto’s tongue.

Katsuya looked up from what must looked to be his very dignified sprawl on the pavement, eclipsed by the monolithic shadow of an irate Seto. Although at this point, it was more accurate to say it was the beginnings of infuriation – his anger mounting with every second Katsuya spent gaping at him from the ground.

How in the absolute fuck did he end up – literally – bumping into the world’s biggest prick?

Katsuya averted his gaze and palmed for his fallen cup, convincing himself it was to avoid the glare of the sun instead of the icy daggers from the other man’s eyes. 

That was when he noticed his previously undiscovered talent for expressionist art; one he had brazenly inscribed – in a suspiciously convenient shade of brown, no less – on the pristine white canvas of Seto’s shirt.

His eyes widened at the realisation. The previously pristine, easily six-digits price tag, white canvas of Seto’s shirt. Which was obviously spun from the silk of a species on the brink of extinction or something, else his overly delicate upper-class skin would probably erupt into hives at the mere thought of commoner’s cotton.

Number Of-My-Cadaver-in-the-Morgue, 2025, Jounouchi “I’m So Gonna Get Bollocked” Katsuya.

Then again, the transgression felt nice. Real nice. Not that Katsuya would have done something this appalling voluntarily. But if he had to do it again, he would savour the moment a lot more and commit that uppity bastard’s look of surprise to memory. Katsuya chuckled subconsciously at the thought.

Seto’s scowl deepened.

Katsuya gulped audibly.

It was a day unlike any other.

Two hundred and fifty thousand yen.

That was his entire month’s salary.

Assuming he was given his usual hours. Not happening given the slowdown in traffic. Also assuming he could go through an entire month without accidentally breaking something and ending up with docked pay again. Who the hell uses fine china as servin’ wares in a cafe?!

Which meant it was definitely more than his entire month’s salary.

Katsuya groaned loudly, letting his neck drop and smacked his forehead repeatedly on his folded arms. It was just his rotten luck. Bumping into anyone else would have been better than him.

The cold-hearted devil gave him two propositions: Direct transfer into his already bloated bank account or work off his debt at KaibaCorp’s cafe starting the day after (because apparently it was the only job he was qualified for, since even janitorial duties required some level of operational expertise that Seto claimed he didn’t have).

There was a third option of liquidating or trading his assets of an equivalent value or something; but the fucker withdrew it, saying there was no way Katsuya’s possessions could come anywhere near to the amount owed. Not that Seto was wrong, but the insufferable way he sneered it at Katsuya made the latter want to sock his face. Repeatedly. With extreme prejudice.

It was a Hobson’s choice, really.

Katsuya left his head buried in the triangle of his arms. He wondered if he could request for a month’s reprieve from his existing place.

The other alternative was, in the event – and only if he could have it indelibly inked in a signed contract – the pay was somehow better than his current place, he could request for an extension of work…

Katsuya shook his head. No amount of money was worth being taunted by Seto’s smug mug that he wanted to slug. Every. Single. Day. Nuh-uh.

Resigning himself to his fate, Katsuya sent his request for a month’s leave of absence via text to his manager, making extra effort to sound especially apologetic whilst effusing the difficulties about being the only loyal son to an ailing father who needed his desperate and urgent care. (Was it really a lie if his father had already been sent to a care facility by cash scourged from his own two hands?) 

Until he received a reply, Katsuya distracted himself with chores he had left undone for weeks, muttering a repeated prayer to deities he had only just found intense interest in, hoping to reverse what was looking to be a particularly wretched stroke of luck for the upcoming year.

No.

That was the one-word answer the kid cosplaying as his manager dignified him with.

After the half-hour – or a good six hundred and fifty yen! – he had spent spinning his (kind of true) sobs-worthy story about his family.

Katsuya rang the owner on a whim, chewing his bottom lip with a mixture of anxiety and irritation as he awaited her answer.

She was by conventional accounts a lovely woman, one who offered her sincere sympathies and asked after his father in a way that showed actual concern. Just that her demeanour was juxtaposed against how beyond sheltered and ignorant she was of anyone who didn’t sit in her social stratum. And under any other circumstances, Katsuya would have been happy to hold a conversation with her.

Today did not fall within those other circumstances.

Hire a helper or a full-time carer, and fully quit to spend quality time with him, she recommended, assuming Katsuya could feed himself on filial piety alone. She would let Katsuya go immediately, because family is oh-so-important, and his heartfelt devotion to his father that she could only hope her own kin would replicate one day shook her fragile heart and caused her very bones to tremble in awe.

Bring his father overseas to see specialists that cost more than what Katsuya made in a year, she suggested next, listing off foreign names he could not understand, ones he presumed were of said doctors. As a sign of goodwill and her well-wishes for his father’s recovery, she would wire the rest of the month’s pay after the call so that he could be free of this small hobby of hers that was the running of a cafe for other wealthy wives and expats.

She followed up in a tone that was genuine and considerate, yet felt like a blade slipped between his ribs twisted more deeply in condescendence than anything even Kaiba Seto had spat at him before. At how a man in his prime such as himself could only be working in a cafe like hers to experience some form of youthful self-actualisation. And that it was definitely only a phase all youths like him and her son tended to go through before moving back into a proper corporate job. Definitely not because Katsuya could literally not land any other office role without any tertiary education, she laughed, since even her foreign helpers arrived equipped with at least one.

Katsuya swallowed the heat of frustration and exasperation back into the abyss of his gut and mumbled as polite a thank you as he could muster amidst her continued outpouring of misguided advice.

He hung up the phone shortly after.

Well shit, he just got fired, didn’t he? (Or did he resign? Semantics, semantics.)

Now he was truly fucked.

Somehow, Katsuya found himself riding the lift with none other than Seto when he arrived at KaibaCorp. Almost like a reluctant child chaperoned by his mother on his first day at school. 

Except the mother here was a tiger holding his purse strings, and he was the rabbit dumped into its enclosure for posterity.

Katsuya shook his head at his anxiety-conjured metaphor that somehow still made more sense than his current situation, choosing instead to tug at the constricted neckline of the starched dress shirt that was apparently his new uniform.

The same one that made him look more like an oversized penguin than a service professional. (Didn’t modern cafes opt for the effortlessly chic minimalist monochromes he had finally refreshed his wardrobe to?)

“Who the fuck puts a cafe on the tenth floor?”

“Me,” Seto snapped, eyes distinctly trained at the rising floor numbers on the lift’s display. “And my team of over a hundred behavioural scientists with opinions much more valuable than yours.”

Katsuya shot a dirty look at Seto’s back in return. At the too-slender, graceful arch of Seto’s back—

Katsuya pinched himself. Hard. He wondered if his sleepless nights were finally driving him into delirium.

Instead, he replaced that completely uncalled for mental intrusion with an important hypothesis: Seto’s strange proclivities for garish garbs only arch-villains would wear was due to how his scrawny self needed that extra mass to look intimidating. 

Like a Pomeranian with its fur standing on end when it got angry. Heh.

The door opened to a large open area flanked by neat rows of potted plants equidistant from one another. At the end sat a long single counter overseeing an array of seating areas of varying configurations, most of which had who Katsuya guessed were actual office employees of the company seated within.

It was not yet the official start of KaibaCorp’s office hours, but Katsuya could easily estimate at least fifty people present. He spotted two coffee machines on the counter but only one of him.

Welp.

Assumption: Each customer only ordered one coffee. 

Rate of execution: Approximately two minutes on average to brew a proper cup. 

(Barring absurd requests like three pumps of caramel, a rounded – not flat – dollop of vegan strawberry cream, two extra shots of espresso, finished with latte art on one half and chocolate dusting on the other – both of which cannot overlap lest eldritch horrors descended upon them.) 

Conclusion: Even if he multi-tasked, that was still a good hundred minutes before he could get through the current crowd. Well over the mandated lunch hour.

Katsuya gulped. That was not the orientation he had expected.

If Seto noticed Katsuya’s discomfort, he did nothing to revel in nor acknowledge it. He chose instead to pick up the speed of his stride, not bothering to check if Katsuya could keep pace.

“You will manage the taking and fulfilment of all drinks and bakery orders from 8.00am to 7.00pm every weekday, excluding national, city-wide and company-wide holidays. All leave must be requested from Kisara minimally a week in advance. Medical leave can be submitted the day of, but is subject to approval on a case-by-case basis.”

Katsuya frowned. Leave? Did Seto have such low faith in his ability to commit to a sole month that he needed to mention it? Wait— Did a job like this even include regular leave? 

(Also, who was this Kisara person and how was he supposed to find her in this massive erected building that was KaibaCorp?!)

“Tardiness will not be tolerated. Failure to adhere to the expected working hours will necessitate the relevant deductions from your bonus.”

Bonus? Katsuya was thoroughly confused now. What sort of organisation paid bonuses by the month? 

Even KaibaCorp, with what Katsuya imagined had to be literal mountains of cash and gold and jewels-laden coffers would be haemorrhaging money if they paid every single one of their tens (or maybe even hundreds) of thousands of employees bonuses that often.

More importantly, why did it sound like Seto expected him to work here beyond the month?

“Wai—, wait!” Katsuya started, trying not to crease his uniform as he hurried after Seto and his endlessly long (spindly and giraffe-like, Katsuya corrected himself, again) legs. “Kaiba—”

“It’s Mr Kaiba,” Seto retorted without looking back. “Or Master Kaiba, which is vastly more suitable for someone like you.”

Katsuya bristled. “Up yours! Like hell I’m callin’ ya anythin’ but Domino’s most tightly puckered arse—”

They reached the empty counter just as the swear evaporated from the vehemence of Katsuya’s tongue. Seto spun around, unimpressed, peering at Katsuya’s clear annoyance past the finely tapered point of his nose – as a disapproving headmistress would a particularly disobedient child.

That disrespect only made Katsuya’s blood curdle further.

Katsuya pulled the strings of his back taut, tilting his own chin up in attempts to make up for the difference in their heights. (Only to make a point, not because it bothered him.)

“Let me remind you of the contract you signed this morning,” Seto said coolly.

“Ya high or somethin’? I ain’t signed anythin’—”

“You signed it when you entered your fingerprint into our biometric system.” Seto glanced down at his watch. “Ten minutes ago. Willingly.”

Katsuya blinked. “Yeah, but that’s ta enter the buildin’? I din see no contract—“

Seto sighed exasperatedly. He impatiently tapped his watch, pulling forth a holographic display of what looked to indeed be a contract – complete with a photo of Katsuya that the man himself definitely did not remember taking.

Seto scrolled to the bottom, jabbing a finger – with an elegance Katsuya did not expect was possible – at a slanted thumbprint. 

Katsuya’s slanted thumbprint.

Did the arsehole superimpose his fingerprint onto a contract he din even have a chance ta read?!

“Then you have agreed, and are now contractually bound, to serve KaibaCorp until you are terminated,” Seto concluded, swiping the hologram down with a finality that was meant to warn Katsuya from disputing further.

Katsuya stared open-mouthed in disbelief, struggling to stutter out the appropriate signifiers to clarify, contest, accuse the absolute gall of the blasted snake before him—

"Contractually or physically, whichever comes first,” Seto added just as nonchalantly, the glint of amusement in his eyes betraying his otherwise emotionless expression on just how much he was enjoying Katsuya’s unhappiness.

“Contractually bound?!” Katsuya nearly shouted, barely noticing the sea of shocked faces turned his way at his arrogant display of blatant disrespect against their Great, Illustrious, Tireless CEO of KaibaCorp, Kaiba “the biggest GIT of Domino City” Seto.

“Shit’s straight up illegal! Ya can’t—“

“This isn’t a choice, Jounouchi.” Katsuya could hear Seto’s patience wearing thin. Great, because his own had long frayed into sparking ends eons ago.

“Ya can afford ten—, no, ten thousand of those fuckin’ shirts and still have enough left over ta buy over half the city!” Katsuya exclaimed incredulously. “The hell are ya fuckin’ wit’ me for that chump change?!”

The utter nerve of this buffoon. Whether it was a sick joke Seto was trying to play or if it was one of the usual displays of his extremely parsimonious nature, Katsuya was not going to take this quietly. 

“Then I’ll see you in court for said chump change,” Seto replied simply. “My destroyed shirt isn’t going to pay for itself.” He continued, tone a flash colder, “I didn’t realise you enjoyed being bankrupt. Not that it would be too much of a difference from your current standards of living.”

Okay, Katsuya was going to take this quietly. 

Also, ouch, that fucker didn’t need to punch him that far below the belt.

Satisfied with how uncharacteristically pliant Katsuya had become, Seto whipped around, storming off. Probably to terrorise some other unfortunate soul.

Katsuya made his way sullenly behind the counter.

He familiarised himself with the layout and items, relief releasing the tension he had not realised accumulated in his shoulders when he recognised most of the equipment, the most important being the model of the coffee machine. 

At least that was score one for Katsuya, and zero for Mr Stupid Face.

As he was giving everything a cursory wipe down, a line of people started to form, anticipating the arrival of the hour.

Katsuya took a steadying breath.

He knew how to do this: take the order, brew coffee(s), snag a snack or two (optional), ring the bill, and send them off on their merry way. 

Simple. 

It was a routine he had done a thousand times before.

It was going to be a day like any other.

“Katsuya!” A familiar voice pulled Katsuya from the drone of his workflow.

“Mokie?”

Sure enough, a recognisable fluffy head popped up from amongst the throngs of lunch-goes. Its owner gave a quick wave before squeezing towards the counter.

“Happy to have you join the KC fam!” Mokuba shuffled up next to Katsuya, a positively dazzling beam directed at the latter. 

Katsuya nodded, thanks forgotten at how taken aback he was that Mokuba was one, next to him and wrapping a half-apron around himself; and two, talking eye-to-eye with him with wayward hair now shortened to an acceptable corporate length. What happened to the (adorable) pipsqueak of his memories?

Also, why was Mokuba dressed like a fellow member of Seto’s Club Penguin cafe?

“Sorry for being late and thanks for holding the fort…” Mokuba gave a quick glance at his phone. “For the past fou—, three-ish hours.” He grinned toothily before peering over Katsuya’s shoulder at the seemingly endless train of orders.

As if it were willed by some divine scriptwriter with a penchant for the cliché, Katsuya’s eyes widened as Mokuba reached past him and grabbed a handful of pending orders Katsuya had neatly pinned up. Equally oblivious in spite of Katsuya’s full-mouthed gawk, Mokuba whistled jauntily as he sauntered to the idle machine at the other end of the counter.

“Wha—, Mokie! Mokuba! I’m makin’ those now!” Katsuya called out, frantically trying to catch the young Kaiba’s attention without scalding himself, again, on the steam wand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you!” Mokuba flexed an arm, already getting started on his (Katsuya’s) orders. The one Katsuya had just handed off to the now departing customer. Great.

What was it about these Kaibas and their absolutely maddening inability to listen to others?

Mokuba was waist deep in the cabinet, deciding if he wanted to use the locally sourced small-batch oat milk or an imported European brand for the (long-completed) order he was peering at.

“Milk’s milk, jus’ pick one! And move onta the next—, the fourth order! I’m done wit’ the others!” Katsuya called out from memory, desperation a lot more apparent as he strained to get some—, any kind of acknowledgement from Mokuba’s unmoving derriere. 

Mokuba casually picked up the local brand, only to replace it after a second thought, fingers tapping a symphony from the chords of his own preoccupation before finally settling on a carton of the imported oat milk. 

Katsuya inhaled sharply through his teeth. 

Hearing an impatient cough from his waiting customer, Katsuya capped the coffee in his hand, swapping his irritation for his well-practiced, and most definitely award-winning, smile when he handed it off. Katsuya may be overwhelmed, angry, and twenty kinds of confounded, but he was still a professional.

“I expected better from you, Katsuya,” Mokuba shook his head forlornly.

Katsuya cast a begrudging glance over, noting how the single customer who was waiting at Mokuba’s end of the counter had slinked to the back of his own unending queue.

There was a huge order of thirteen drinks that just dinged in his system and Katsuya was too far up his neck with cramping cheeks (top and bottom) and forearms to show Mokuba what truly being forlorn felt like.

“…drinking coffee is more than sustenance. It’s about leaving a taste memory in your soul—”

Did the Kaibas have childhood trainin’ in bein’ supervillains or somethin’?!

Katsuya’s eyes darted from orders to customer to machine to Mokuba back to machine back to oh shit the queue is nearly hitting the lift landing Goddess of Mercy please watch over me—

“…I need people who have passion. People who care about the little things. People who can help show a whole new world to customers who visit my cafe…”

Katsuya’s hands halted. His cafe?!

“Your cafe?” Katsuya asked, jug of steaming milk hanging limply from his hands.

Mokuba snapped up, now broken from his reverie. “Yeah! This cafe is my idea,” he declared, a smug grin that looked a little too reminiscent of Seto’s directed at Katsuya.

Katsuya was going to kill Seto. Metaphorically, of course. For legal reasons.

“Seto mentioned your extensive cafe administration and management skills…” (Was that how he should have described it on his resume?) “…would be mighty handy in helping me run my dream cafe. So, thanks for agreeing to move over here!”

Katsuya nodded slowly. Hell, this was the one time he agreed with Seto. It was painfully obvious (his body could attest to that) Mokuba had no clue how a cafe – or any food and beverage establishment, for that matter – worked. 

Wait a min. Did I just get conned ta take on managerial and babysitting responsibilities wit’ part-time pay?!

He was definitely going to kill that penny-pinching bastard. Metaphorically again, of course. For legal reasons.

Refocussing his displeasure at Seto, Katsuya imagined it was his dumb too-pale-cause-only-a-vampire-would-be-such-a-bloodsucker face he was dumping milk on as he served what felt like the hundredth cup he had brewed in this hour alone. He should sign up for the barista Olympics at this rate.

“Jus’ one question,” Katsuya jabbed an elbow at the menu, trying to distract himself from his ire. “Eh, what’re the costs for all these?”

Mokuba laughed, “Oh! Don’t worry about the prices.” That response lifted one of Katsuya's brow. “It’s all covered by KC! Perks for being part of the fam, you know?”

Katsuya nearly dropped the cappuccino he was pouring. 

Employee benefits, company culture and all that all corporate human resource bullshit aside, it must be really, really, nice to be rich enough to pull a stunt like this. 

Katsuya tipped the milk jug with a little too much gusto, splattering searing hot liquid across his bare skin. He barely noticed the spill, trading his displeasure for befuddlement at the waiting customer’s look of aghast when he handed the completed coffee over.

After the lunch rush had finally dwindled, Katsuya turned to Mokuba, “So… Why didcha wanna open a cafe, Mokie?”

What Katsuya did not realise was with that one innocuous line, he had just given Mokuba permission to expound very enthusiastically, and in minute detail, a monologue about how owning and running a cafe was his lifelong passion.

That despite being an adult and an heir to one of the world’s largest and most profitable Big Tech conglomerates, Mokuba still longed to pursue his own unrealised dreams and desires. Specifically, of the romanticised quaint lil’ cafe with a handsome barista (Mokuba) who could brew a cuppa so irresistible it snagged him the shy, but somehow with an otherworldly beauty that no one else seemed to notice but said barista, person-next-door (yet-to-be-discovered) through love at first sip. 

And they lived happily ever after in a lifestyle that was most certainly within the means of a small business owner in an ultra competitive industry driven by trends and fickle-minded customers.

“Don’t I deserve my own happiness too?” Mokuba lamented dramatically. 

Katsuya bit back a remark about how his young friend should consider pursuing a career in theatre instead.

And another about how this setup wasn’t really reminiscent of a stereotypical cafe.

And yet another about how every person who was single in this building – Katsuya included, not that it mattered – had at least ten years on Mokuba.

He wasn’t going to do Kaiba’s job for him. Besides, bursting Mokuba’s bubble was way above his pay grade. 

“How long’ve ya been at this?” Katsuya pivoted the conversation, growing weary.

“Two months!”

Katsuya balked, hitting a stray saucer but thankfully managing to catch it before it hit the ground. If this kept up, it would be a miracle if he did not get his pay docked by the end of the week.

“And I’ll have you know, I can brew thirty cups now!” Mokuba finished proudly, arms folded across his chest, as if awaiting the approval of an adult.

That was impressive. Katsuya ruffled Mokuba’s hair before he realised it was probably professionally inappropriate to do that to his boss. “Ya’re a quick learner! I’m at thirty an hour too, which means we can halve the waitin’ time—“

“A day,” Mokuba clarified, pride unwavering.

This must be what his ex-employer meant about having a misguided phase of youthful self-actualisation.

Katsuya was currently thirty and of relatively good health, so he could probably live until eighty or so. Assuming physical rather than legal termination of his employment: He was barely Day One in thereabouts of twelve thousand more days of (excluding weekends and holidays) needing to put up with this. 

This being the flights of fancies of the privileged; making coffee until his arms almost fell off; getting unintentional geometric tattoos of steam wand burn marks; stuck in an hourly-wage job with no future ad infinitum; unsure if he was even getting paid in said hour-wage job; suffering under Kaiba fucking Seto—

Katsuya buried his face in his palms.

It was looking less and less likely that his future days would be like any other.

Katsuya might just be getting the hang of this. Hell, he might even be enjoying it.

It had been around a fortnight since he was coerced into this job, but if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was being adaptable. 

Adapting to this bait and switch; adapting to Mokuba’s predisposition to late arrivals and even earlier departures; adapting to the unceasing horde that populated the queues from morning until mid-afternoon; adapting to being able to enjoy three warm meals a day again; adapting to light conversations and budding camaraderie; adapting to the tiny hope he dared not nurture at possibly enjoying something that was becoming his and that something was stable and secure and kinda nice for once—

Adapting to not needing to see the particularly pretentious (plus perfectly proportioned) prick that put him in this position to being with.

Not that Katsuya hadn’t been doing a good job. On the contrary, he was (mostly) on his best behaviour – an easy smile, a playful wink; all whilst efficiently multi-tasking – expecting Seto to pull a Michael Myers, slithering up with tablet and deathly pale face poised to execute him for the most trifling of mistakes.

Katsuya was convinced this entire thing had to be a farce. A permanent job with a steady pay check? In this economy?

There had to be a catch.

(And that catch was likely Katsuya stuck in the web of Seto’s sadistic schemes where the true ROI – or return-on-idiocy – was him dragged through all eight hells of humiliation in front of the whole of KaibaCorp. And being fired after.)

Which was why it served him to keep his guard up since the true best friend the universe had deigned him worthy of was Murphy. (Sorry, Yuugi.)

Katsuya sighed audibly.

The only customer at this late an hour caught his exhalation and stiffened. Before Katsuya could correct the misunderstanding, the man had scooped up everything from his table, doffed a greeting of thanks, eyes avoidant – which Katsuya barely had time to return – before rushing out of the floor.

Well, that was not what Katsuya had intended.

Katsuya very well hoped that his performance was not graded on customer satisfaction. Because in this data (and privacy-invading) freak’s wet dream of an Orwellian building, he was sure Seto would have caught every minutiae of that interaction, context be damned.

(That would also explain Seto’s conspicuous absence, not that Katsuya minded the least. In fact, he quite appreciated this newfound autonomy.)

Still, that didn’t stop the ache that tugged tension into his ribs at the thought that the hand that so generously gave could also be the one that so spitefully seized. 

It had been over half an hour of Katsuya toiling in unpaid labour. Specifically of the repeated hunch-squat-lean-lift cardio workout variety of cleaning the frankly absurd number of furniture items on the floor. Muttering gripes about how KaibaCorp with its billions still couldn’t send a cleaner or five his way, his complaints were rudely interrupted by an unexpected ding of the lift.

Katsuya gingerly stood up, every joint south of his neck cracking in response. (He was not old, the furniture was just a bit too intricate and warranted creative manoeuvring.) He replaced his frown with a practiced smile, apology ripe on his tongue before he choked on it at the sight before him. 

What the fuck is Kaiba doin’ here?!

Okay, so wrong franchise – it wasn’t Michael Myers he had to worry about. It was his very own Nemesis from Resident Evil making a beeline for him.

So much for it being a day like any other.

Before Katsuya could squawk out a greeting – a refusal – an if-you-fire-me-I-won’t-be-able-to-liquidate-enough-to-afford-your-stupid-shirt, Seto careened past him. No acknowledgement, no insults, no nothing. The snap of Seto’s obnoxious jacket lashed at Katsuya’s leg dismissively as Seto veered close enough for Katsuya to catch the whistle of Seto’s speed.

Seto set his tower of electronic devices down on a table with a heavy thud. One that allowed him clear view of the space in a far corner of the first row.

Which was also a table that Katsuya had painstakingly cleaned earlier. 

Seto unstacked his electronics.

Katsuya gaped at his employer, damp white cloth still in the surrender of his wrist and cheek still cool from the contact of Seto’s presence.

“Eh, Kaiba…”

Seto enclosed himself in an open polygon of devices, their collective glare offensive in the muted ambient light of the space.

“Mr Kaiba!” Katsuya tried again, more polite and louder. “We’re, um, closed. It’s past seven, ‘member?”

Seto started to work.

“Look, I’unno what game ya’re playin’ at but I ain’t participatin’!”

Seto's typing became more furious.

But not as furious as Katsuya was becoming.

Since Seto wanted to turn a blind eye to him so much, two could play at that game. 

Katsuya dunked his cloth back into the pail, sloshing soapy water everywhere as he stomped off to the furthest section of the floor. He consciously rotated, putting the offending under-lit silhouette behind the coil of his back as he got back to work.

It was a little over an hour later when Katsuya started on his final round of washing, anger since (mostly) dissipated in place of fatigue. He was idly rubbing rings into the glassware, more focussed on how his back was in uncountable kinds of agony and legs knees were sore in places he didn’t know existed. Gig work was rough with age, but surely the thirties still counted as being in one’s prime?

He narrowed his eyes, searching for a distraction in the form of inconspicuous peering around the hunk of coffee machine to where Seto was seated at. The man was clearly still engrossed in whatever was important enough to require the eye strain of four separate screens.

Not noticing his diverted attention, Katsuya heard the clatter of glass into the sink before he felt it slip. He froze, the perfect mimicry of a deer in four screen lights as he nervously peeked in Seto’s direction.

Somehow the world didn’t explode nor was he thrown out of the tenth floor by some Terminator-esque robotic arm. Weirdest yet was how the demon in white and blue never came to retrieve his soul to the afterlife or whatever damnation it was that he had unknowingly signed himself into weeks ago. 

Katsuya very slowly picked up the fallen glass and resumed his washing. All the while, Seto remained unmoving in his seat, eyes lurid from his screens’ reflections, his patter of typing falling into constructive interference with the steady gush of water from Katsuya’s tap.

It took about another good few minutes of rubbing the same spot of the cup into near erosion before Katsuya was convinced he was indeed not going to die a painful death tonight.

And that Seto was not going to slam him into a wall, fists in his dress shirt, pressing too close, glacial eyes promising cold rage and the heat of something darker—

Katsuya set the glass down and slapped a soapy hand onto his face, sputtering when he realised how foolish an action that was. He must really be incapacitated by lethargy and hunger, because there was no way his mind would conjure up something as ludicrous as that when properly lucid.

Deciding the best way to absolve himself of this rather strange and absolutely involuntary notion was some good ol’ service professional courtesy, Katsuya swiped his employee card and rummaged through the cafe’s stash of foreign teas. 

After squinting at bags that sounded more reminiscent of a saucy young adult novel title than actual tea, he picked out what smelt like rooibos and tossed it into a clean pot. Katsuya posited that even if he was wrong and the tea wasn’t of a decaffeinated variety, Seto was clearly already hopped up on enough caffeine and who-knows-what-else to stay crouched in induced wakefulness well past dawn.

Katsuya hovered at Seto’s elbow, suddenly feeling all shades of self-conscious holding a pot of mystery tea, other hand balancing a saucer and cup. Each second of non-reaction drove the blush further down his neck as he tried to solve the spatial geometry puzzle of how he was going to set the three items down with all those bloody devices in the way.

Opting for flagrance more than finesse, he placed both items within the enclosure of Seto’s electronics, paying extra attention to put them by, but sufficiently away from, the curve of Seto’s forearms. Were his wrists always this dainty?

“Coffee machine’s already on idle,” Katsuya said to no one in particular.

He waited, unsure what for, discomfort turning into disgruntlement as he felt his own temperature rise with the wavering steam from the stout of the pot.

“A good fuckin’ evenin’ ta ya too.”

That felt good, like David going up against the Goliath. Except this Goliath was just a meagre few centimetres taller.

(Although Katsuya was actually broader, not that he was comparing. It was just one of those things he happened to commit to memory because of how he found himself repeatedly in the unwilling close company of said not-so-giant recently.)

Katsuya marched off, aches in his joints forgotten as he muttered curses at how Seto must be an unholy incarnation of hell itself who will combust on expressing any kind of humanity.

Seto finally answered, without so much of a glance in Katsuya’s way.

“Using company resources without proper documentation is considered theft. Repercussions include the docking of an equivalent amount from your salary and the potential pressing of criminal charges.”

That. Ungrateful. Sod. 

Katsuya bristled. He had logged the tea under his pass, but that was besides the point.

“It’s called ‘ya’re welcome’ ya condescending piece of shit!”

Katsuya ripped his half-apron off and grabbed his backpack, lips curled into a snarl that flexed with his barely contained fury. He thundered towards the lift, too livid from the blatant disrespect to care if his incomplete closing duties and impertinence would result in a docked pay or his dismissal.

Even after Katsuya’s outburst, Seto kept coming back.

Every single night. Always between half-past seven to eight. 

And he’d sit at the same table, within his fortress of electronic devices, and worked. 

Like clockwork.

All the while ignoring Katsuya, of course. 

(So, Katsuya had obviously returned the favour and always left before Seto did. It wasn’t like he was getting compensated extra anyway, and oddly enough, Seto never once kicked up a fuss.)

If Katsuya didn’t actually crash into Seto that one very unfortunate time and felt the actual warmth of contact (which again, he did not file to memory specifically for any other reason than pure coincidence), he would’ve thought the man was actually a robot in disguise.

Worse yet was how it was always only Seto. No other KaibaCorp employee had so much as strayed into the area past closing. Katsuya wondered if somehow the work-life balance here – for everyone else but him – was a lot better than the news had alleged.

It had been almost a week since the incident (precipitated by tea, not coffee – Katsuya realised he had a lot more incidents with Seto than he’d have liked), and honestly, whatever this was had started to feel…pretty nice. Just him and him in each other’s presence; a shared reticence on the otherwise diverging work they were beholden to.

Katsuya was midway of wiping down the inside of the pastry and sweets display when he thought he heard Seto’s voice. 

He brushed it off. 

Seto would have likely weighed the marginal benefit of this not-so-cold war of having more utility than the inevitable snowballing of whatever conversation they had into a full-on altercation. In other words, nah, why would Seto be speaking to him?

Katsuya dove deeper into the case, humming a tuneless melody, the tip of his tongue sticking out from concentration as he tried to extract a Seto-level-of-stubborn crumb from the far seam of the glass—

“Brew me something.”

Turned out Seto was speaking to him.

The unexpected voice – much louder this time – startled Katsuya sufficiently to bump his head very inelegantly into the top of the case. He spat a rap of an incoherent jumble of curses and ouches as he extracted himself back into the open…

…only to see Seto hovering right in front of him.

“Kaiba?! Wha—, whatcha doin’ over ‘ere?”

“I’m not repeating myself another time.”

“It’s…past seven? Equipment’s been cleaned.”

Seto gave him a long look.

“Ya ain’t payin’ me ta work now,” Katsuya retorted, finding confidence again in the instinctual whip of his tongue. “All this? Free. Labour. Ain’t happenin’.”

He folded his arms in defiance.

Seto mimicked his posture.

“Make me something decent and I’ll clear your debt to me by the end of the month.”

Katsuya’s eyes bulged. He hasn’t considered himself a negotiation specialist but, dang! That went a lot better than expected. Next up: A career in dispute management.

“For real?! I swear ta god ya better not be fuckin’ wit’ me…”

“Trust me, you’ll know if I were ‘fucking with you’.” Something about the way the profanity rolled off Seto’s careful labilisation made Katsuya’s blood dilate against the heat of his skin.

If swearing less made it that much more effective, perhaps he should reconsider his predilection for dropping one too many F-bombs.

Katsuya coughed, trying to regain his composure.

“Um, ‘kay. Uh, what wouldcha like?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Okay, this was starting to sound a little more like one of Seto’s infamous read-my-mind-for-the-exact-answer-or-you-will-be-banished-to-the-Shadow-Realm type of deal.

Katsuya frowned, “Gotta be more specific or I’mma dunk some instant in a cup and call it a night.”

“You’re the barista. Get creative.”

Somehow that sounded more like a warning than motivation.

“Fine. Calm ya tits. Ya in a hurry?” Katsuya asked with a grin.

Seto quirked an eyebrow in response, stare lingering for just a moment before he made his way back to his seat.

Katsuya felt his heart rate quicken.

Welp, apparently he now had a thing for thin strips of manicured hair that arched ever so gently past the pull of endless blue. 

Katsuya twisted the blooming of something warm and foreign at the base of his throat into what he hoped passed as a careless chuckle. To detract from the sensation, he busied the restlessness of his hands with his tools, all the while repeating a mantra of the long-memorised formula of the one brew he kept fixating on.

The star of tonight’s show: the Nel drip coffee. 

A cloth filter pour-over that introduced a fuller-bodied flavour with innate sweetness, yet retained the complexity and smoothness of traditional filter coffee with a bonus of reduced acidity. It was brewed within a glass carafe cuffed with a wooden collar, upon which the crown of the filter was set – just for that added showmanship. The secret to its veritable richness of flavour? The percolating of the dark roast through a flannel-based filter, thereby allowing more oils to enrich the final brew.

But Katsuya digressed.

It was a brew that was especially temperamental, choosing only to release its nuanced flavours to the patient and fastidious. Rush the process and the concoction turned acidic; languish and it ended up flat. Hell, even if it was spared no attention, it was still more than capable of giving a proverbial up yours, just because.

It reminded Katsuya of an individual just as mercurial.

To pair with the brew, a large, rounded ceramic cup in the same earthen tone as his customer’s hair.

Katsuya placed the pot of Nel drip coffee, the warmed cup and a single piece of financier on a bamboo tray and proffered it to Seto. He somehow felt more anxious than when he was awaiting the results of his university entrance exams. (Which he did dismally in, something he hoped not to mirror this night.)

Seto gave the sweet a quizzical look.

“Ain’t good ta have coffee so late on an empty stomach.” Katsuya shrugged noncommittally, already half-regretting his decision.

Seto folded one of his laptops shut and moved it to an empty seat beside him – a silent gesture of acceptance.

“Enjoy.” Katsuya winced at how uncertain his voice sounded, encircling his hands behind his back to obscure his nervous wringing of fingers from Seto’s piercing gaze as he perused his work.

This must be how the Iron Chefs felt, free-roasted on a konro grill before the scrutiny of the judges.

Seto sipped.

Katsuya’s smile slipped.

But the Armageddon he was anticipating never arrived. There was no crater where the shadow of his disintegrated self stood; no armed private army piling onto him; no stray divine lightning strike from the dry skies because god forbid Seto would leave something like the weather and nature outside the purview of his dominion.

Seto dabbed his lips and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Katsuya sighed three ancestral generations’ worth of relief and resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air.

Somehow, it was still a day like any other.

Another night, another visit from Seto. 

Katsuya couldn’t tell if he was starting to look forward to their meetings. Hangouts? Totally normal professional boss-worker/client-customer encounters? 

Whatever they were, Katsuya knew he appreciated the company in the otherwise desolate sprawl of the floor, where any human(-like) presence helped soften the incongruence between the cold black marbles yawning into the evening against the warm cafe lights.

Also, somehow, the cafe was always returned to an immaculate state before he started the morning after. Which was a very nice bonus and something he wasn’t going to concerned himself with the how of. (Thank you, cafe elves, for your service!)

“Brew me something.”

The same request again.

Katsuya had long gotten accustomed to their new routine, having already cycled through the entirety of the cafe’s menu since. He pondered, wishing for some kind of astrological chart he could reference; whatever Saturn rising with Uranus under the light of a thousand scorned or some other gibberish that was still more comprehensible than Kaiba Seto’s inexplicable preferences.

“What wouldcha like?” Despite knowing the answer, Katsuya asked regardless, hoping to buy a few more seconds to discern if there were still any permutations of the menu he had yet collocate.

“Surprise me.”

Oh. That was new.

“Surprise ya? Like, wit’ anythin’?”

“It’s your choice.”

Katsuya squinted. The freedom was definitely welcomed. Although, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Seto had acquired a traumatic head injury or if this was another one of Seto’s trap cards awaiting activation. Not that it would be the first time Katsuya had walked right into one; more often than not, and willingly to boot. (He was not gullible, just very, very, very trusting of people around him.)

Katsuya gazed at Seto, since folded back amongst his pile of work, fingers drumming to the pulse of his anxiety (and excitement?) as he contemplated his options.

Seto looked…tired. Really tired. Since when did he have frown lines? Wasn’t the man impervious to mere mortal concerns like ageing given how he had literal billions to spend on skincare and dermatologists? And had limitless networks to procure goo of everlasting youth from endangered snails that could only be applied with a solid gold spatula?

Even the skin Katsuya thought radiated a lustre of their own seemed dull with fatigue; the edges of his eyes swollen and creased by the gravity of sleep eluded; the set of his lips bringing prominence to the cracks that threaded them— And was that a yawn he had just stifled?

Seto looked like absolute hell. 

Even then, Katsuya could not find the energy nor malice in him to gloat at Seto’s pitiful state. He knew the last thing Seto needed was more coffee. Maybe he had just the thing that could offer a little boost without throwing Seto off the cliff of caffeine-induced heart attacks. 

(It was a decision he made not from altruism, but a practical consideration that he would, again, be out of a job – and put in permanent confinement – if his new boss K.O.ed after ingesting a drink he had made.)

“When I said surprise me, I didn’t mean staring into space trying to imagine a drink into existence.”

Katsuya pulled a face before moving to retrieve his equipment. 

Tonight, Katsuya was going to inject a little bit of fun into the programmed monotony of Seto’s life.

To start, a milkshake glass. He opted for a latte base – to provide a hint of a kick whilst soothing the acid of what he knew was an empty stomach with its generous milk ratio. Adding some depth was the unassuming layer of unevenly diced warabimochi settled into the bottom of the glass. The sweetness of its molasses-like syrup a contrast against the mild brew, while the crystalline nature of the potato starch mochi created a dimension of texture. Topping it off was whipped cream sprinkled with a heavy dusting of soybean powder, reminiscent of a reverse Mount Fuji resting atop a horizon of a snow dusted landscape.

Katsuya popped in a reusable straw with a larger diameter, and stood back to admire his handiwork.

(The utter lack of interest from the recipient at his flurry of motions irked him more than he would have liked.)

Pulling on a lone white glove, he carried the glass to Seto. When he set it down on a coaster by Seto, Katsuya admitted the voluminous drink looked more like something a child would badger their parents for as dinner instead of dessert. (Which was surprisingly accurate a comparison, in this regard.)

Seto looked up at him, as if awaiting an introduction.

Since when did a cafe nestled in the middle of a corporate skyscraper evolve into a fine dining establishment?!

“’Tis a kinako warabimochi latte.”

Seto’s eye contact did not waver.

“Eh, the latte’s from a dark roast with caramel notes?” Katsuya tried again, “I put kinako powder in the whip cream ta mix wit’ the kuromitsu syrup. Ta not overwhelm ya wit’ milk. I also added some warabimochi for that fun, chewy feel, ya know?”

Katsuya chose not to vocalise how the mochi also served as something solid for Seto's stomach to digest other than his long-abused lining.

“Enjoy. And ya should stir it a lil’ before ya drink it.” Katsuya supplemented helpfully, giving a small laugh out of nervousness before returning (high-tailing it) back to his station.

When Katsuya’s back was turned, he thought he heard Seto slurp the drink before lightly smacking his lips. (Katsuya quickly drowned any notions about how those lips could have parted for a tongue to flick lightly at the whiff of cream clinging to its eaves—)

Such an action had to be an impossibility given how strictly Seto adhered to Western standards of etiquette. Also, Katsuya was certain a stick-in-the-mud like Seto would never express even a modicum of enjoyment or else his circuits would be fried to kingdom come.

By the time Katsuya departed for the night, he was too preoccupied with his own wailing stomach to notice the empty glass resting in the shadow of Seto’s screens.

The morning after, Katsuya found a blue sticky note adorned with sophisticated cursive stuck to his coffee machine.

Make me something new next week was what it said, along with instructions to request for any other equipment or ingredients he would need from Kisara.

The author did not bother to sign off, but Katsuya could hear the clinical tone from which those words originated, delivered with the accompaniment of unyielding blues that somehow seemed warmer with each recollection.

Katsuya felt his heart thrum with anticipation at the prospect that Seto somehow liked his drink.

This was a trajectory he hoped to continue along, if only to secure financial stability. And not from some misguided attempt at currying the favour of one so unpredictable and unlikeable.

But first things first: Who in the bloody hell was this Kisara?! 

Did a person like that even exist? He was sure most of the building had descended upon the cafe at least once since his arrival, and even then, not a whiff of this so-called Kisara. 

Katsuya extracted the note and folded it, tucking it into the safety of his bag before his shift commenced. He would have to get Mokuba to elucidate later.

“So… Ya ever heard of a ‘Kisara’?” Katsuya opened as nonchalantly as he could after the lunch peak had lulled.

Mokuba stared at him as if he had grown two other dragon heads.

“I, uh, needa get a sock.”

Mokuba stared harder. Now that Katsuya considered his request in the lack of any context, perhaps he had indeed spouted two other dragon heads.

“Not—, not like socks-on-feet kinda socks!” Katsuya found himself increasingly flustered as he tried to formulate an explanation. “Like a coffee sock,” he tried again, as though his chosen descriptor would alleviate instead of aggravate further confusion.

“Whoa, whatever it is you’re into, power to you. But leave me out of it!” Mokuba put some distance between them with his hands raised in the air. “Also, Kisara? No offence, but she’s kinda out of your league,” Mokuba couldn’t resist adding in cheekily.

Katsuya tried to swat at Mokuba, but the new-and-improved version of the kid he remembered, who was now enhanced by a brand of lanky only the Kaiba family genes could gift, dodged easily.

“Am not interested! But I am so in her league,” Katsuya huffed, turning crimson, not caring he had no concept of this Kisara. 

“‘Nyway, it’s a strainer thing? Like a…Filter! Yes, that’s the word. But from cotton? With a long twisty metal handle.” He scrolled furiously on his phone until he found a reference photo. “I’ll also need a tall metal pot thing with a handle and a long spout, like a teapot…but stretched and bigger?” He mimed the size and cursed inwardly at the heavens for his profound ability to be inarticulate when it was most inconvenient.

Mokuba remained just as baffled, agreeing that if anyone knew where to procure whatever those contraptions were in the middle of Domino City, it would be Kisara.

“Kisara is Seto’s personal secretary! How have you not spoken to her? Isn’t she in charge of your payslip?” Mokuba laughed good-naturedly, agreeing to pass Katsuya’s list of requested equipment and ingredients to her.

“You can send her a request on the KC app to get in touch, like any other employee in KC!”

Now it was Katsuya’s turn to stare at Mokuba.

“What app?”

He was so going to turn Kaiba Seto into Cry-ba Seto when he next saw him.

Katsuya couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed when Seto failed to turn up later that night. Or the night after. Or the rest of the week, for that matter.

It seemed the list of drinks he had planned to create would need to wait. (As would his promise to get even with Seto.)

Katsuya dried off the last of the ceramics, his motions reverberating throughout the mostly darkened space. He noted how it was minutes before it slipped to eight, feeling strangely melancholic at the revelation. 

The space felt a bit too open, a bit too empty, a bit too cold; almost like it was reflecting the hollow scooped from behind his ribs that he tried so hard to ignore.

At some point, the cafe after-hours had turned into a bit of a solace for him. The hum of Seto’s ring of electronics stepping together with the sounds of his cleaning in unexpected harmony into the waning quiet of the night. These were the pieces of normalcy that somehow also made his day feel unlike any other.

Who knew the absence of one he did not care for could evoke a yearning this deep?

When the clock struck at the hour, Katsuya switched off the rest of the lights, still finding it hard to adjust to the way the shadows wrapped around him as he made his way out of the building.

It was Monday when Katsuya found a basket of his requested items on the counter. He thumbed through the contents: New coffee beans, alternative milks, some flutes of herbs, a variety of sugar, metal jug and tin thingums, and of course, the sock.

Feeling instantly reinvigorated, he went about his day with a newfound fervour that Mokuba instantly picked up on.

“Didn’t know you enjoyed working here so much,” Mokuba commented appreciatively as he repeated the same order of latte for the third time since the neck of his swan was drawn at ‘the wrong angle’.

“I enjoy getting paid,” Katsuya half-joked back.

“How much are you getting, anyway?”

That was a very good question. Katsuya never actually found out where to view his contract. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if it existed beyond the taunt of Seto’s words.

“No idea,” Katsuya replied truthfully, not fully grasping how absurd he sounded. “Figured it’ll be at least a couple of months ‘fore I could pay him back.”

“‘Though Kaiba said somethin’ ‘bout freein’ me from the debt by the end of last month? But knowin’ that toss—, too busy man, he prob’ forgot ‘bout that.”

“Debt?!” Mokuba handed the coffee off to an employee who had clearly ordered something else, but was too constrained by the power-distance to take affront.

“The shirt…? That I spilled coffee on?”

Mokuba paused mid-pour of a drink that wasn’t in any of the tickets, nonplussed.

Katsuya gave the nervous customer a look of understanding.

“Yeah, Mokie, why doncha come here and help me with the food instead? Easier for me ta explain what happened.”

To no one’s surprise, Seto had conveniently left out his original impetus for hiring Katsuya, allowing Mokuba to celebrate it was by his brother’s ingenuity and magnanimity that there was a familiar face to help (slave) drive the cafe’s success.

That aside, while Katsuya was getting comfortable with the current arrangement, surely Seto the Scrooge wasn’t expecting him to work here gratis until his eventual ruination?

Mokuba promised to check in with Kisara on any discrepancies in his compensation package. Until then, Katsuya returned to his mechanised assembling of drinks, his thoughts somehow drifting back to what he would next serve to Seto when the latter finally showed up.

After Mokuba had absconded a little before three, Katsuya took the opportunity to experiment with his new ingredients.

Unlike the usual arabica batches the cafe received, the small packet of Javanese beans Katsuya held were of the robusta variety. Even though they were more potent, these beans lacked the acridity of its cousin, and boasted an earthier aroma and a slightly more bitter aftertaste, making it  an especially effective palate cleanser and great for pairing with sweets.

Katsuya knew he was taking a risk by challenging the industry’s worship of arabica beans. Then again, wasn’t it also Seto who asked to be surprised previously?

The variety wasn’t the only special characteristic. Sugar and butter were added to the beans during the roasting process, the heat causing the beans to be infused with a smoky caramelisation and velveteen finish. The result? A blend that was naturally smooth and sweet even when consumed black – something Katsuya hoped would complement the sweet tooth he deduced that Seto had. 

Katsuya retrieved a hand-grinder, turning it to a medium fineness before he got to work, the pleasant redolence of the blend’s unique flavour turning the heads of the few employees who remained on the cafe’s floor.

Feeling particularly inspired, Katsuya decided to give the dessert he was ruminating about a whirl as well. It wasn’t a recipe he was especially well-versed in, which meant it likely warranted several attempts before he was comfortable serving it to Seto. With no indication of Seto’s return, he figured there was no better time to start than the present.

He pulled out a hefty bundle of long thin leaves, feeling himself relax into the induced memory of forested morning dew that enveloped him. Native to the Southeast, after being crushed to extract a concentrated juice from, these pandan leaves could infuse everything from cakes, drinks, and rice with a flavour reminiscent of a lighter vanilla, spliced with a spritz of something floral that brightened any palate.

Katsuya knew he could have easily ordered a concentrated extract from a specialty mart, but never one to turn down a challenge, he opted to manually, and very tediously, pound the finely chopped pieces of leaves through a muslin bag instead.

To encourage himself, Katsuya imagined the two hundred and fifty thousand yen he owed in the palms of his hands as he squeezed the bundle to within a centimetre of its proverbial life, adamant on maximising the amount of juice he could obtain. 

(For some reason, he found his wrists faltering whenever he tried to replace the original stimulant with Seto’s face.)

Katsuya glanced at the scant few stems that remained after his rigorous treatment. He had grossly underestimated the amount of leaves he would need per batch. Which meant he could either hope Seto was still gallivanting wherever he was until his next shipment of leaves arrived, or this batch of cakes had better turn out perfect. 

He added the pandan extract to his chiffon cake mix, tossed it into the oven, and uttered what he thought passed as a prayer – hoping for bonus points in desperation and earnestness – for some divine miracle.

Katsuya had just concluded his stint as an oven DJ and was waiting with every finger and toe crossed for that signature browning of the top crust when he heard the unmistakable ding of the lift. Seto. Murphy had to pick the most convenient of moments to show back up in town.

Resigning the rest of his cake to fate, he felt a tingling warmth rise from his neck to his cheeks as he turned to watch Seto cross the length of the floor, unsure if he should call out a greeting. (He never did previously, would it be weird if he tried to now?) 

Seto made the decision for him. His curt footsteps rounding off at his usual spot before he settled silently into his fortress of screens – all without so much as a breath in Katsuya’s direction.

Well, at least that did wonders in shoving back all traces of the blushing schoolgirl pining for a crush after winter break that Katsuya was unintentionally cosplaying earlier. How did he ever think the man was anything but a Level 12 douche canoe?

And because Katsuya was a generous man in spite of Seto’s constantly dreadful disposition (not because he had a cake sitting in the oven threatening to collapse and/or burn), all he did was let out as loud a huff as he could before he went back checking on his dessert. If anything, Katsuya concluded that Seto would be so lucky to have been graced by his charity instead.

Unlike the Nel drip coffee with its brewing process closer to zen personified, the coffee – or kopi – Katsuya was making now had its history rooted in the common folk. The instructions were simple enough for even a child to follow, with all its steps curated for practicality than frivolous things like refinement and patience that working class folks like himself could not afford. That meant even the dose of showmanship in its process was steeped more in impact than image. 

There was no other coffee more apt than this for Katsuya to serve to Seto.

Coffee grounds into sock – sock into tin – a flash of near boiling water into the sock in the tin – and strain. Unlike other filter coffees with their precise volumes and temperature, this process was very much contingent on the barista’s instinct and observation, making each brew its own unique experience.

Once Katsuya was happy with the depth of colour and weight of body of the brew, he poured out an estimate of a cup’s worth into a separate metal tin, tossed in a scoop of sugar and shook a rounded serving of condensed milk within. 

In his concentration, Katsuya missed how the clink of metal on metal caused Seto to shift in concealed interest. 

Katsuya stirred the mixture rapidly, the anxiety of a performance to an audience between zero and one causing his palms to sweat. It was an optional step meant to mix and aerate the drink further, but for an all-or-nothing kind of guy like Katsuya, he had to do it.

Tin with his brew in one hand just above eye-level and a petite ceramic cup embellished with a verdant print of foliage in another by his waist, he tipped the former, watching the blend pull into a loose crescent before pooling into the cup. 

The kopi settled into an even shade of rich hazel. 

Katsuya sighed in relief. (Seto offered a wisp of a smile.)

One down, one more to go.

He looked into the oven, delight curling his lips up when he saw one, the cake rose to the occasion; and two, there was a thin light brown crust encasing the cake without a single crack in sight. 

Katsuya gently removed the cake, holding it with more care than when he first received his Red Eyes Black Dragon card.

The first cut revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The body was fluffy and light, the barely-there crust offered a hint of a contrast, and the crumbing showed no major holes or pockets. If anything, it was the faint tint of green that worried him a tad. He pinched a bite.

His grin evaporated. 

He could barely taste the pandan flavour.

Katsuya suppressed a groan, berating himself for forgoing the pre-made concentrate in his over-confidence. The leaves had been detached from their parent plant ages prior, and had likely gone through prolonged refrigeration to survive the journey to Domino. Although extracting its essence was still viable, significantly more volume was necessary to make up for the reduction in intensity. He shot the few remaining leaves sorrowful look, knowing he should have exhausted his supply; it wasn’t like he could do anything meaningful with the leftovers anyway.

It was a rookie mistake borne from a lack of practice and complacency. One he had previously thought a professional of his calibre would not commit.

Katsuya called out, trying to hedge his bet, “Am thinkin’…maybe, we can give eatin’ a miss tonight? The drink’s already real good alone and I dun wanna mix—”

“Bring the dessert. Isn’t that why you made it?”

Bummer. Katsuya winced. He bit his tongue and grunted in agreement.

Today’s forecast: A significant chance of Seto thinking the cake tasted as shit as his ability to hold small talk, or any kind of conversation for that matter.

Wrist heavy with apprehension, Katsuya cut as small a portion as it was socially acceptable and brought it along with the kopi to Seto.

Katsuya held the tray, not knowing how he was going to set it down given the exceptionally wide sprawl of devices and working papers on the table this time. 

Seto got up, not waiting for Katsuya to vocalise his request, walking past the confounded man before sitting down in the middle of the row of empty counter seats.

Which was right by Katsuya’s original work area.

If Katsuya weren’t so invested in the success of his day’s venture – his kopi, at least – he would have lobbed what he was holding, tray and all, at that numbskull’s thick head.

And because Seto, with his main character syndrome, chose to put himself right in the line of sight of the coffee machine that blocked Katsuya’s access from behind the counter, Katsuya was made to stand right next to him instead. Knowing Seto, Katsuya didn’t put it past him that the decision was more deliberate than coincidental.

Katsuya set the tray down harder than he should, but not rough enough for the drink to spill. (A useful skill he had picked up over his years of waiting on customers plucked from the same mould of obnoxious.) He gave Seto a smile that was grim with both annoyance and anxiety, and tried not to observe the way the parallel of Seto’s legs draped past the length of the high stool until they barely brushed his own.

Seto angled his vision at the stool next to him.

Katsuya stared at the furniture, peeled it as far back as he could from Seto, and perched gingerly on it.

(His ankle bumped into Seto’s during the process and somehow he didn’t find himself flying across the room from a kick of retaliation.) 

“Um, ’tis a Southeast Asian coffee blend roasted with butter and sugar.”

“What’s it called?”

That was not a question he had predicted.

“Kopi?”

“The full name of this specific mix.”

“Kopi c?”

The fumes of coffee he had been inhaling all day must have addled his brain into regression because Katsuya could have sworn he saw Seto smile at his answer.

Seto hooked a finger through the small handle of the cup, closing his eyes as he lightly inhaled the scent before taking a small sip. Katsuya felt his own lips part with Seto’s, swallowing a small gulp as Seto gracefully sampled his work.

Katsuya barely heard Seto’s hum of approval. He was too close to Seto, hypnotised into the glow of warmth that was his presence in the cool air. He looked up, pulled from the magnetism of Seto’s eyes to the smidge of coffee that stained the purse of his lips; a mark from him, received willingly. He felt the furling of something more tender than he knew how to nurture in his sternum, one he tried to clasp his palms around, only to feel it evaporate into the heat of his skin. 

If Katsuya reached out and thumbed that ghost of him away, would Seto’s lips feel as soft as his imagination promised? 

Would Seto’s lips taste as inviting as his imagination promised?

He curled his fingers into the material of his half-apron instead, choosing to focus on how much more rested and healthier Seto looked.

The clink of the cup replaced in its saucer pulled Katsuya from his involuntary, irrational, incendiary, indefensible, incredible reverie. 

Good riddance, what was with him today?

“—oduce the cake.”

“Uh… ‘Tis a…” Katsuya deemphasised his voice, “Pandan chiffon. Enjoy.”

“What was that?”

Katsuya swallowed, “Pandan. Pandan chiffon.”

Seto brought the small piece he had segmented with his fork to the attention of his nose, pausing for a brief moment before he tried it.

Katsuya clung to the circumference of the stool as if his life depended on it.

Please dun spit it out please dun spit it out please dun spit it out—

Seto set his fork down. And Katsuya’s face was still clean of any half-masticated cake.

Unable to contain his nerves, Katsuya blurted out, “It’s not normally so light ‘cause I din know if ya would be back today, next week or next month so I din order more leaves ‘cause I just got these and 'tis meant ta be a trial and I ain’t had the chance ta test the quality of the leaves—“

“It’s fine.”

Katsuya felt his foot slip from the stool’s rest and nearly stumbled off his chair.

Seto’s eyes crinkled.

“It is quite mild.” Seto casually twirled another piece of cake on his fork and Katsuya felt his own stomach coil at the motion. “But the texture is much better than I’d expected.” 

“Especially from someone like you.” The statement held none of the hostility it suggested.

Trying to regain whatever little shred of dignity he had left, Katsuya coughed sheepishly, “Thanks?” Feeling a flare of something a little more audacious at the mirth reflected in Seto’s eyes, he added, “Ya wouldn’t have hired me if I din ‘ave somethin’ ta show!”

Seto looked like he wanted to say something but chose to replace his words with another bite of cake instead.

“Din know ya're familiar wit’ this style o’ coffee,” Katsuya manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position, opting to look forward at the polished material of the coffee machine than the man beside him.

“Hard not to be since I’m in Southeast Asia often for work.”

“Oh…I see.”

Could ya not dangle a lil’ bit more of somethin’ for me ta work wit’, ya nut?

Suddenly the stray blemish on the surface of the coffee machine seemed that much more interesting to Katsuya. He focussed on it, trying not to look at Seto in the reflection of the metal panel instead.

“Where did you learn to make these?”

Scapegoats must be flying in the sky because Katsuya was certain he heard Seto initiate a conversation with him. Turned out those speech training the Kaibas were made to go through was of some use after all.

“Used ta work in a cafe that served ‘em. Not the one I was jus’ working’ at though,” Katsuya started, still undecided if wanted to talk to the coffee machine or look at Seto instead. “This other one was real cool. They had coffee from places and cultures all over.”

He decided to sort of angle himself back towards Seto, but not fully commit. A compromise that Katsuya maintained was from the general oppressive aura Seto had more than his own ambivalence. 

“Learned how ta make kopi, Turkish coffee, café au lait, Vietnamese coffee…” Seto raised both brows slightly at the fairly passable pronunciation, eliciting a (half) playful scowl from Katsuya in return. “Really like me a good spiced coffee, like Café de Olla and Moroccan coffee. ‘Though stuff like Yuenyeung and the Dalgona coffee ain’t my…” 

Katsuya turned to look at Seto directly, a wide grin plastered across his face, “Cuppa coffee.”

Seto’s expression was as blank as Katsuya’s ego would be in the next couple of seconds. 

Katsuya considered why he bothered to jest with someone whose sense of humour was worse than a desiccated block of wood.

He maintained his smile because he was a performer and one who would always see his stage through. Even if his sole audience was unable to appreciate the spectacular wit of his craft of snazzy dad puns.

“‘Cause those dun really taste like coffee,” Katsuya added, more to justify his joke than for Seto’s benefit. “But yeah, real sad when the place closed. No other spot like it.”

“Why did it close?"

“Menu’s too foreign for Domino,” Katsuya shrugged. “People jus’ want the basic stuff. Am talkin’ lattes twenty-four seven or swiggin’ pre-mades from a can. Not even drips or sumiyaki, usually.” He wished he had his own cup of coffee to anchor his fingers around.

They sat in silence, their mutual agreement percolating the space between them.

“Should I, eh, continue makin’ these?”

Seto nodded, a stray finger slowly running up and down the height of the ceramic cup as he pondered. Katsuya never knew he could be this envious of a cup.

“You can continue to experiment with new drinks and let me assess them. If I think they are suitable, I will consider adding them to the menu. Either as an evergreen or a seasonal item. The process for getting the items you need will remain the same.”

“And make me a cup of kopi o every morning.” 

Now it was Katsuya’s turn to be surprised, brain scrambling to translate the colloquialism into black coffee with sugar whilst contending with Seto’s fluency.

“When it is meant to be drunk.”

Katsuya wanted to retort that it could technically be consumed at all hours of the day, just that it was preferred as a morning drink given its hefty caffeine content.

“Ain’t my fault if ya only drop by when the sun dun shine.”

Seto ignored the quip, although there was a a hint of consideration in the stilling of his hands.

“Have it ready by eight, sharp.”

“Ya want me ta bring it ta ya or…?”

“You can put it here, by this seat.”

Seto pushed his chair back.

Katsuya pulled himself from his seat too.

“Ya leavin’?” Katsuya tried to squash his disappointment. And he could not believe this would be his first time watching Seto leave before him. Oops?

Seto moved to retrieve his items from his original spot, only then did Katsuya notice it was nearly nine. No wonder his stomach had since collapsed into a gastroenterological black hole. 

“And if I recall, your duties include a complete cleaning of this cafe.” Seto gave a pointed look at the ceramics scattered on the counter.

“Cut me some slack. It’s way past my work hours! Whatcha want me ta do? Wait for ya?”

“Yes.” Seto’s reply was instantaneous.

“Pay me.”

Seto gathered his electronics into his briefcase, and Katsuya could hear the smile in his voice even if he couldn’t see the other man’s face. “I’ll consider.”

Katsuya resisted the urge to strike a victory pose because he was a Mature and Serious adult who was technically still at Work and negotiating his compensation with his Boss.

“And continue to refine the pandan cake. The current iteration tastes like a chiffon cake that accidentally walked through a breeze of pandan and decided it liked it enough to make that its identity.”

Ouch. For both the backhanded compliment and the emotional whiplash.

“You’ll need a lot more leaves and maybe the help of some extract too. Once the result is successful, this can be the first new item added to the menu.”

Katsuya gaped for a moment in disbelief before the spark of ignited pride took precedence, “Hell yeah! I betcha I’ll have one that’s so fragrant, so flavourful, so bloody delicious that it’s drippin’ in pandan for ya by the end of the week.”

Seto smirked, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“What if I succeed?”

“What if you don’t?”

“If I succeed, ya pay me overtime. If not…”

“You will start wearing dog ears as part of your uniform.”

Katsuya choked on air. 

“The bloody hell?"

He knew it was a terrible idea but he was having too much fun – a word he never expected to collocate with Seto – to let unimportant things like logic and rationality ruin things.

“Tomorrow’s me will hate me for this, but deal. Ya a closet furry or somethin’?”

“I’m not, but if you pull it off, I may be barking up the wrong tree.”

Katsuya couldn’t tell if Seto was seriously joking or jokingly serious.

And at eight in the morning after, Katsuya finally got to meet the fabled Kisara in person. (Spoiler: she really was out of his league.)

The days continued to be filled with things Katsuya now considered part of his routine. Although routine was a little bit of a misnomer when every other day seemed to bring forth a new task, new activity, new (self-initiated) inspiration that somehow found its way into the permanence of his schedule. Not that Katsuya minded, since he had found the straddling of the predictable and spontaneous tremendously more enticing than the basic responsibilities nine-to-nine shift work entailed.

If anything, his days were becoming unlike any other – and that was somehow the new baseline for days he considered like any other.

(He would prefer not to admit it, but much of that was thanks to Seto’s intrusion into his life.)

His late nights would be consumed by ideating what drinks he could brew. Should he pull a sui generis yet known quantity that was from his cache of knowledge from days bygone? Or would leaning into the creative for something just shy of the avant garde be something more suitable for a man who had basically sampled most of what the world had to offer? 

He would put all his ideas into a cheap convenience store notebook that he scribbled everything and nothing into. Volume, temperature, barely legible sketches – inscribed as though they were incantations for treasures one would guard with their life.

Each morning just before the commencement of his duty – more unpaid labour, albeit obliged – he would transfer his notes into more coherent requests, handing them over to Kisara along with Seto’s daily brew.

This day was a Thursday, just a little over halfway in the week; a promise of the weekend without any reprieve from the workload. A day when Katsuya noticed Seto tended to look even more done than his already frightful usual brand of vexation.

Which was why said grouch was currently perched atop his usual bar stool, hunched over in a position closer to a gremlin than the high-powered tech lord most associated him with. Katsuya placed a cold brew in front of Seto – calculated, in spite of the weather – and sat down next to him. (It didn’t matter how many times he had done it, but being next to Seto was still oddly thrilling, and not only in an intimidating way.)

“Ya look like ya got run over by a truck,” Katsuya placed a plate of chocolate covered snacks next to Seto’s glass.

Seto grunted a reply, attention redirected at the sweets.

“Ginger and blood orange cold brew for ya today. I also added a teensy bit of soda water.” Katsuya gave Seto’s pallid complexion a woeful look. “And some choc-covered momiji manjyu. Ya look like ya need more than a bit of an energy boost.”

Seto popped a sweet. It could have been a trick of the cafe’s yellow lights but Katsuya saw a sliver of colour return to Seto after.

“Dessert first? Ya’re too old ta be a kid,” Katsuya chided playfully.

“They’re meant to go together, are they not?” Seto retorted, still as grumpy as before.

Touché.

“How’s the mix this time?” Katsuya tried again, knowing the hours will be filled with him striking the flint of conversation against Seto’s lukewarm answers.

While his tone was casual, Katsuya had spent more than a while iterating the blend, approaching it more like a legal cocktail that was professionally appropriate to have at work. (That said, given the near criminal amount of caffeine both of them had been taking, alcohol might actually be the lesser evil.)

Katsuya had built the drink with ginger and orange as the original inspirations, given how they mirrored Seto’s penchant for spicy insults and his innate sour puss nature too well to not be featured together. As much as he would have preferred to keep his motivation mostly superficial, the ginger was more to keep the sipper warm whilst adding body to the brew, and the citrus would refresh the sipper and prevent the heat of ginger from building up too much in one’s mouth. Finally, a touch of fizz to neutralise the acidity and to hold it all together.

He might not look it, but Katsuya was very much a substance over style kind of man. 

Usually.

Katsuya tried to look away from how Seto wrapped his lips around the tip of the straw, pinching it lightly between his index finger and thumb as he suckled it long and slowly, eyes hooded from the fatigue of the day—

“Different.”

Thank goodness, for Katsuya was just about to dunk himself head-first into the freezer.

“In a good or bad way?” Katsuya pushed cautiously.

Seto took another sip but did not reply.

Trying to squash the bubbling of panic, Katsuya nosily clambered half over the counter to pluck a new straw, plopped it into Seto’s glass, and took a small taste.

“The mix seems ‘kay? A bit watered down since it’s been out ‘ere a while, and maybe it can use a bit more ginger but—”

Katsuya paled.

Did he do what he thought he just did? To Seto’s glass. While Seto was still drinking from it. Oh fuck—

Now properly panicking, Katsuya snatched the straw from the glass, spraying droplets of brew onto Seto’s unmoving hand as he did.

Okay, now he was exceptionally fucked. 

And he had to pick the absolute worst day of the week of all days for such a violation of respect and space. Which just so happened to be the two things Seto was infamous for not tolerating indiscretions on.

Katsuya grabbed a handful of serviettes, crumpling them in the crush of his trepidation as he tried to dab the physical representations of his sin from Seto’s hand, mind conjuring up increasingly elaborate scenarios of himself being dropped into a volcano, or into the middle of the ocean, or forced to live out his days in KaibaCorp’s totally real dungeon for people who irritated their CEO one too many times—

Seto retrieved the napkins from Katsuya’s fists – the ice of his fingers brushing past and igniting a fire of fear and something more in Katsuya – and wiped the remaining coffee from his skin. 

He looked right at Katsuya.

Katsuya looked down instinctively.

“Be careful.” 

Seto’s tone sounded more tired than incensed, but Katsuya still felt as though he was a child who was just berated by their parent. Something about being more disappointed than angry.

Katsuya mumbled an apology and got up.

Seto put the used serviettes to his far side.

Katsuya found his mind wandering to how Seto could scrunch something up so neatly. (It was really weird how his mind tended to detract from the danger at hand. A sort of anti-survival instinct, if you would.)

He was beginning to take the long way around the counter before the inadvertent explosion when he heard Seto speak again.

“You…must’ve spent some time on this.” Seto was stirring his drink, talking into the air. The rhythmic clinks of metal against glass echoed with the throb of blood under Katsuya’s skin.

“It’s…nice. Refreshing.” Katsuya stopped.

“Good with chocolate.” Seto tapped his free hand against the plate before glancing at Katsuya from the corner of his eye. Katsuya retraced his steps, still not meeting Seto’s eyes.

It was an honest mistake, borne from a disposition overzealous, one untempered by decorum. Yet why did Katsuya let his neck fall to a guilt he should not have claimed? Why did he still feel the hurt of something lost, gnawing at the space within him long accustomed to the company of one?

Katsuya stood by Seto, again.

Seto nudged the plate in Katsuya’s direction.

Deciding to take the olive branch before Seto’s compassion ran out, Katsuya tried the confectionery.

The chocolate was sweet, more than Katsuya would like – which was why it was made as such for Seto. It created a solid case that protected the soft manjyu whilst enhancing the smokiness of the coffee. And within the centre of the manjyu, another sweet burst of maple to complement the tart bitterness of the brew. 

Seto eyed Katsuya’s discarded metal straw on the now wilting pile of napkins.

Hoping he had not misread Seto’s intentions, Katsuya hesitantly took the straw and pierced it just past the cover of coffee, next to Seto’s own. He took a sip, a small grin pulling at his lips before he took a bigger mouthful.

“Good after chocolate too.”

Katsuya laughed. He couldn’t disagree with that.

Had it really been nearly two months?

It was a slow Friday night (as slow as a metropolis like Domino City could be), and Katsuya found himself once more seated beside Seto. Not acknowledging how their arms were barely touching; how their ankles were occasionally bumping.

The persistent glare of Seto’s ring of electronics had since disappeared, remaining in the neglect of wherever Seto’s office was, leaving the duo to bask in the comfortable low light of the cafe without the constant pressure of work.

(They were taking a break, not procrastinating.)

One drink had at some point turned into two; cups sitting in the shadows of each other within the orbit of whatever dessert was served. Until they were pulled in opposition by their owners, only to be magnetised back to their original positions, never far from their shared gravity.

If Katsuya could, he wanted these moments to last forever.

He took a swig of his drink, a butter coffee (or bulletproof coffee, as the West had recently taken to calling) recipe that was an amalgamation between the Southeast Asian kopi gu you and Ethiopian niter kibbeh. More from how equivocal he was about picking one over the other than trying to impress. 

(Katsuya had long learnt that it was the simple things that Seto appreciated. Who would have thought, given the man’s advertised predilection for the ostentatious and extravagant?)

The caramelised flavour of the kopi beans went surprisingly well with the aromatic Ethiopian spiced clarified butter, making it feel more like a drink meant for the later hours of the day than a traditional kopi. The butter also helped cut the bitter tone of the coffee, and added a smooth finish to the harsher robusta beans.

It was a blend that some baristas declared borderline blasphemous, but given how Seto was already halfway through his mug, it seemed like it was a risk well calculated.

Katsuya tossed a handful of peanut crackers into his mouth, watching Seto sample his dorayaki. One that sat solidly within the jurisdiction of Seto’s end of the counter, and well out of reach of Katsuya – even though Katsuya was the one who had made it.

“Nothin’ like a good cuppa coffee ta end the day!” Katsuya stretched his back, feeling a cascade of joints cracking in response.

“Too bad no one else comes up at night ‘cause they be seriously missin’ out.”

“They can’t.”

“Huh?” Katsuya could not have been more gauche with his confusion.

Seto chewed his pancake, almost looking like he was relishing Katsuya’s growing bewilderment before replying, “The access to the tenth floor is locked after seven.”

“But ya always come here near eight?“

“My card bypasses that restriction.”

Of course it did. It wasn’t like Kaiba Seto owned the entire building and paid everyone’s salary or something.

Katsuya debated whether the gesture was one of consideration for his closing duties, or a flex for Seto to partake in the cafe’s offerings without needing to be in the presence of plebeians with whom he would rather suffocate than share the same breathing space with. (Did that mean Katsuya wasn’t one of said plebeians or was he an exception? Perhaps that was an answer he didn’t need to know.)

“Ain’t that convenient.” Katsuya grinned, “Ya can keep all this ta ya lonesome.”

“You’re drinking and eating too. Without recording it on your pass.”
 
“‘Tis under R&D!” Katsuya defended, “I had ta make more than usual today for science, and it’s a waste ta dump it all down the drain.” 

Seto smiled and stole a peanut from Katsuya’s bowl. 

(And Katsuya felt like Seto took a beat right from his chest.)

Katsuya sputtered in protest at the nighttime robbery; but then again, everything here, including the packet of peanut crackers he was snacking on, was also technically Seto’s. So, Katsuya decided to forgive him. 

It also helped that his boss fell solidly into the category of really pleasant in Katsuya’s eyes.

Leaning forward, Katsuya peered at Seto’s half-eaten red bean snack. Seto frowned and moved it further away. Yeap, still ever the stingy bastard. Except this time, Katsuya couldn’t bring himself to summon any loathing at his gripe.

“So eh,” Katsuya fiddled with the handle of his mug, knowing this was a conversation he should have broached ages ago. “‘Bout the debt…”

Seto gave him a questioning look.

“The one from me walkin’ one fine day, mindin’ my own business, then oops! Coffee all over ya. My bad.” Katsuya corrected himself, just in case legal was eavesdropping, “All over one small part of ya shirt.”

“I was wonderin’, not that I’m pushin’ or anythin’, when that would be…cleared? I’m kinda runnin’ on empty and needa decide if I hafta work another job…”

“Didn’t we already go through this? Weeks ago, I recall.”

“Yeah, so, is that, uh—” Did Seto not realise that burning holes into Katusya’s head was anything but productive? “—confirmed confirmed? Do I needa sign anythin’…?”

“I have your thumbprint.” As much as Katsuya would like to remind Seto that unauthorised use of his personal identification was illegal – like go to jail level of illegal – he chose to forgo that for now.

“Have you not looked at your contract?”

Katsuya shook his head sheepishly.

“I mean ya were pretty much being a prick—” Seto shot Katsuya a warning glare. “—so I guessed ya weren’t serious ‘bout waivin’ it, ya know?”

Seto chose to ignore Katsuya’s attempted justification. “During these two months, did you not once consider going to Kisara to go through your terms of employment?” Seto pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning hard enough for a stray vein to make itself known.

Katsuya scratched the back of his head, a nervous force of habit he never outgrew.

It wasn’t that Katsuya didn’t want to ask Kisara. He just…forgot. Put it aside. The intended checking just happened to fall in the vicinity of the near future for every single day these two months. 

Also, Katsuya figured if anything major changed, Mokuba would speak to him. Which he hadn’t, and his own anxiety was also a special kind of wanker that prevented him from so much as thinking about his account statement, so who could really blame him for living in the status quo of the present?

Seto kept pinching his nose bridge.

“The debt was cleared the day you brewed the Nel drip coffee. You should have received the rest of that month’s pay in your account by now.”

Katsuya could hardly believe his ears.

He didn’t have to vocalise how he thought the overtime bet was a deal Seto wasn’t intending to keep as well, despite the pandan cake having already made it into the cafe’s regular menu a while back. 

Seto read Katsuya loud and clear, his grip moving from his nose bridge to white-knuckling his cup instead.

“And this month’s salary, along with all the calculated overtime, will be ready in a couple of days. If you don’t see it, go to Kisara. Immediately.”

The silence between them was almost palpable enough for Katsuya to suffocate himself in, which would have been preferable to being crushed from the pressure of the harsh intensity in Seto’s eyes. Or he could throw himself into the chasm he felt in the centimetres between them, buried a thousand metres under before he could make an even bigger fool out of himself.

Their emotions were tipping past the boiling point; heads too hot, too much, too fast. Katsuya felt if he didn’t reach out to grasp at the threads of them fraying before him, the days he had taken for granted as being like any other would soon be steeped in bitterness he didn’t want to (and couldn’t) adjust to.

Katsuya didn’t want to lose this. To lose all they had built these past two months.

Drinking together in a skyscraper of the business district at twilight, conversations between two men who fell in anything but parallel save for their fondness for coffee; small talks and big smiles, modest gestures and lasting impressions. 

Theirs was a relationship percolated from time; filtering the friction of their incongruence, pulling away the immiscible from their potential, leaving that which was once hidden in the presence of a comfortable warmth. There they had remained, watching their halves melt into something new, something desperately fragile. Over shared cups, they awaited the saturation of understanding; in hopes of a tomorrow when mutual accentuation would replace their history of requited accusations.

Pride came before a downfall, right? Even though ten storeys was still a really high floor to get thrown out from.

Katsuya swallowed his reluctance.

“Tha—, thanks, Kaiba. And for the extra overtime pay. For this.” He gazed at what had long become a bit of a home away from home, with a weighted wistfulness at the possibility of losing that which wasn’t his to begin with.

“I didn’t really expect much in the beginnin’,” he confessed. “Another day, another cafe. Not like I haven’t worked at more than a dozen before.”

“But this is...” He traced the silhouettes of space, items, imprints of people he had etched into the cadence of his day, familiar anchors to hours that used to pass him by. “Somethin' else.”

He thought back to the days before them, in rewind, on repeat – each like any other – him always craving for something (or maybe, someone) to slow his life into some new significance.

“Somethin’ special. Somethin' I’ll remember.” Katsuya enunciated the words slowly – an exhaled promise. 

He looked down at his cup of bulletproof coffee, now cooled, in the cradle of his palms.

Whatever the outcome, Katsuya was ready. Easy come, easy go, right? There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel? Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? He could spend the rest of the night regurgitating overdone idioms about hope and growth and other positivistic shit that wankers liked to perpetuate. But even then, he knew the ache of having to let this one go was going to smart like ever living hell.

It felt like hours before Seto responded.

“Do you want to keep doing this?”

“This?” Katsuya fumbled, “Didja mean like, managin’ the place or the experimentin’—“

“Everything. Do you want to keep doing all of this?” (This is your choice, Jounouchi.)

Seto’s tone was even, if not a bit impatient, but his intention was clear and sincere. (And if Katsuya had listened more carefully, he would have caught the slightest waver of doubt.) Katsuya recognised the gravity of the offer; the onus of a decision willingly entrusted to another – no fine print, no conditions.

Katsuya felt his answer before he could assemble the words on his tongue. “Yea—, yeah! I’d love ta. If ya and Moki—, Mokuba agree ta have me.”

The prospect of this, of them, being his new baseline elicited an exhilaration pounding away in his ears unlike any other. 

Katsuya drew circles into the rim of his cup, composing himself. He gathered his courage before he answered, more firmly this time. “I’d like ta keep workin’ here.” 

With you.

Seto breathed, blowing ripples into the coffee he held just below his lips.

“Good.” Seto drank deeply, eyes closing. Katsuya traced Seto’s inhalation of his promise against the undulation of his throat.

When Seto pulled away, all Katsuya could see was the hue of them darkening the blush of Seto’s lips.

Katsuya wanted so much to drink it all in, to know what was the them that Seto tasted on his lips. 

Did Seto taste the anticipation of an unlikely companion after the exhaustion of the day? Did Seto taste the comfort of their long winter nights and longer conversations? Did Seto taste the warmth of a devotion oblivious in their cups? Did Seto taste the hope in the staying of wrists, eyes, heart, longing in his presence?

Katsuya needed to know.

It had been more than a few of his transgressions that Seto had forgiven him for recently. What was but another expression of bravery/impudence if it meant he could redefine his days into eternity?

Katsuya leaned in to Seto, the falling of his gaze just past the curve of Seto’s face belied the confidence of his motion. 

He paused, close enough that he could feel Seto’s breath, warm and heavy, against the stutter of his own. The expanse of his imperfections – the hairline pulls of skin by his edges, the small patches of fuzz that clung to the angle of his chin, the uneven constellation of browns and pinks that graced the breadth of his cheeks – now plain to see. Yet, those suggestions of humanity made Seto seem that much more ethereal, the reflection of the heavens sculpted into the constraints of mortality.

Katsuya lingered, populating their distance with their imagined infinities.

Seto didn’t pull away.

Katsuya nearly missed the way Seto tilted his neck in wordless acceptance, wisps of his fringe catching in his – gold and brown, melting, like butter in coffee.

Falling, eyes and hearts – until they met, in hesitant vulnerability.

A reacquaintance, in the form of an introduction of selves bared upon each other’s tongues. Seto curling his palm into the anchor of Katsuya’s neck, Katsuya pressing the foundation of him into Seto’s thigh; mouths searching, for a shared taste, to find rest where there was an absence unfulfilled.

An exploration of learning, together, tempering the acidity and coarseness of mouths used to combat. Teeth retreating, a softness prevailing; pulling away the bitterness of a history finally laid to rest. Adapting lips, adapting hands, and adapting hearts – tongues loosened to an equilibrium of tenderness previously concealed, from which a new sweetness could be imbued.

Who knew that two persons so disparate could find such harmony in each other?

Finally, parting, from a past filtered. Lips stilled; hearts thrilled. Their cheeks sharing in warmth against the other’s.

“Seto.” A prayer uncertain.

“Katsuya.” A whispered assurance.

And Katsuya didn’t know how a name like his could sound so sweet.

So Katsuya kissed Seto again, deeper, with an urgent fervour; folding Seto’s sweetness into the memory of his tongue. He held it, blooming them into a bouquet of possibilities with Seto at his centre. Of rose syrup soaked lattes in spring; of palm sugar dripped into iced espressos in summer; of chestnut mont blanc topped frappuccinos in autumn; of cinnamon and honey spiced Spanish coffees in winter. 

A proposal across the seasons whispered between souls, for when their days together could become days unlike any other.