Chapter Text
The first thing you ever remembered anyone ever telling you, when you said you wanted to go into the arts, was that you had better learn how to take orders from behind a counter.
They always said it with a stupid smirk on their faces; you might have wiped it off yourself if you had a little less self-preservation. You know. With your fist. Your mom said that would never turn out well, that you had to be the bigger person. Your dad told you that when people pushed you, you had to push them back. And God, you always wanted to.
But you held your tongue instead. Like the bigger person. Like the "right thing to do" person, aligned with the imaginary scolding in the back of your mind, in spite of the high-five you knew your father would have given you once your mother turned her back.
You figured that was how retail workers felt, or anyone in food service. At the very least, that was what you thought when you took a detour into a nearby coffee shop after class and happened upon an angry customer at the register.
The plan—and you used that term loosely, because when did you ever have the time or bandwidth to make plans?—was to stake a claim in one of the corners at this place and bang out a few hundred words. Maybe some character studies, maybe some setting studies, or an exercise in description. Maybe even a draft of a poem, but you weren't banking on that. But it was definitely harder to concentrate with no caffeine in your blood, and a middle-aged man gone red in the face over a refund he demanded but shouldn't have gotten, and a medium-colored coffee spilled on the counter and dripping onto the tiled floor.
Learn how to take orders, they said. Hold your tongue, they said.
So you gritted your teeth.
You could barely make out what the man was saying, but you didn't think you wanted to. Better to shut him out and not have to deal with him, selfish as it might have been. It was what the other customers were doing anyway, tapping at their laptops or smartphone screens, sipping at straws or steaming cups or chipping away at desserts, not daring to help or approach either person.
You had no idea how the barista behind the counter managed to keep his lips pursed and his eyes and tone apologetic, but maybe he'd been through this enough times to have built up a tolerance. Or perhaps he'd just gotten to that point in his life where he couldn't afford to care about it anymore. (It sure as hell would resonate with you.) Even still, you hung by the door, stepping aside every so often for entering and exiting customers, until the angry man pushed past you and stormed out with his veins bulging just above the collar of his pressed white shirt. Not even the tinkle of the bell above the door did much to loosen the quiet tension in the atmosphere.
Still. Now it was safe. Relatively.
With hesitation in each step, you made your way to the now-empty counter, where the barista was wiping the surface down with a wet rag. Now that you were close enough, it was easier to make out the frown in his face and the furrow in his brow in his otherwise patient expression. Maybe... if he didn't mind...
You cleared your throat, and his eyes, large and dark, jumped up to meet yours. "You have an extra washcloth?" you offered. "I can get this side."
For a flicker of a moment, he actually looked surprised. But his face almost immediately broke out into a smile, and he shook his head. "Don't worry about that, all right? I can handle it!" Sickening wasn't exactly the right word to describe the sweetness in his tone, but it was close. A little too close.
Not that it was difficult for you to match. You'd been around people long enough to know that sometimes you had to act how they wanted you to. Expected you to. Sometimes you had to match just to get along. "It's not a problem at all, honest! I'd like to help, if I can."
Had you blinked, you might have missed the slight falter in his smile, but he conceded, handing over another wet washcloth, and together you made quick work of both sides of the counter.
"Now," he said, once his hands were clean and dry and the washcloths were soaking in the sink, "what can I get for you?"
You had to appreciate the barista's resiliency, and his ability to plaster a smile on after all that; you didn't know if he tended to, or had to, treat each customer with too many benefits of the doubt. You still didn't even know what you would have done if it were you behind the counter. But you gave him your order and money, quiet and simple, and hoped it made his life a little easier. You thought so, considering the way his eyes lit up as he grabbed a plastic cup and moved to fill it with ice, encouraging you to take a seat and wait. You didn't mind waiting by the counter, but he seemed to insist, and you'd already won one exchange—why not hand this one to him?
With a smile as polite and seemingly plastered as his, you shuffled toward a window seat, tugging out everything you would need for the afternoon: your trusty leather-bound notebook, a pen, your phone, a set of earphones. Sure, you'd meant to get some writing done—a warmup, at least—but you found yourself idly twirling your pen and staring out the window until the barista brought two drinks on a tray and a few coins to your table.
"It's on the house," he said, his voice just as sweet as the twinkle in his eye as he pulled out the chair across from you and handed you an iced chai latte. "As a thank you, for helping earlier."
Almost on instinct, you pushed the coins back towards him. You couldn't. All you did was clean up a mess. All you did was help someone who needed it. That didn't warrant a free drink.
Did it?
Still, you shifted uncomfortably and pinched the straw between thumb and forefinger, the coins awkwardly settled between the two of you. "Don't you have to go back to your shift...?" You didn't mean for it to sound like you were pushing him away. You hoped he didn't take it that way, that your tone of voice was more curious than dismissive—if you weren't going to write after all, you could at least use some company for a little while.
The light in the barista's eyes seemed to fade, if only briefly, and his grip slipped from the back of the chair. Even still, his smile came back twofold, almost as if overcompensating for something beyond the run-of-the-mill Service Worker Persona. "Actually, I just went on my break, so I have some time to spare. I was wondering if you'd like some company, but..." He gave a polite nod of the head, took a step back with the other cup cradled in his hands. "It seems like you're busy. I'm sorry for disturbing you! Please enjoy your drink."
Great. Of course you felt like a jerk now, and you didn't know if the airs he put on we're making you feel better or worse. He was probably one of those lonely types that looked for validation in other people, and you had to go and walk all over that. Not that you thought you had much worth to him as a stranger, and you didn't even mean it that way to begin with. You just figured he had other things to do. More important things. But even that reasoning didn't do much to shake off the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.
Before he could take too many steps toward what you assumed was the break room, you swiveled around in your seat and called out to him. "You don't have to go, you know." For good measure, you offered him a smile, as genuine as you can manage, and tap the tabletop with your fingers. "Have a seat."
In spite of the way his eyes lit up, he took his time making his way back and sitting across from you. Maybe a little of the facade had cracked. Or maybe it hadn't. Who were you to judge?
At least he was a conversation starter, because as soon as he'd taken a sip of his drink and glanced out the window, the first thing he said was, "So, what brings you here?"
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Well..." He quirked his lips and gave a shrug that was sort of noncommittal, and yet almost endearing. "By now I know most of the customers who come by here. If not by their names, then at least by their faces or their orders. But I've never seen you around here before." The smile broke across his face again, less of a worker's and more of a friendly stranger's. "Are you new in town?"
You hummed. "Not particularly... I just wanted to get some work done. Don't most people who come here?" To match him, you took a sip of your drink, and the bite of the spices was more than a pleasant surprise. Definitely not as bland as the one from the shop closest to your apartment.
The barista seemed to notice, and beamed—was he really that proud of a drink? Or was he really that interested in whatever you had to say? What kind of person was so attentive to someone they'd just met? Someone whose name they didn't even know? "Some people do. Some come to spend time with their friends." His gaze dropped down to your notebook and the pen still balanced between your fingers. "I hardly see anyone do any work by hand these days, though. It's all about technology, you know?"
You gave him a shrug of your own, and decided to bite. "I work better by hand, that's all. I can't write in front of a computer or anything. I get too distracted." A weak, apologetic smile tugged at the corner of your lips. "The Internet is a dangerous place for artists, don't you know."
That seemed to grab his attention. Sure, plenty of artists had come here for inspiration, he said, but it wasn't like he had ever spoken with any of them. They all seemed standoffish, or self-absorbed, or busy. Like they hadn't slept in three days, or maybe longer. (He was probably right about that—deadlines were always trouble, especially when they crept up on you. Even more so whenever you felt blocked.) But he insisted that you didn't look like that at all—that you looked fresh, and kind, and sweet. Even if it was face-value flattery, you couldn't help but bite back a smile; he caught it, and grinned back with his chin in his hand. Not even the slightest bit sleazy or expectant.
It was kind of refreshing.
It wasn't until the end of his break, when the timer on his smartphone rang from inside the pocket of his apron, that he had the sense to introduce himself, and you had the sense to do the same. "Todomatsu Matsuno," he said, the smile on his face hurdling over "forced" and skidding to a halt at "friendly." "But you can call me Totty, if and when you come back."
He was already back behind the register before you realized that he'd left the coins behind.
---
In spite of yourself, and the little amount of work you'd gotten done that afternoon, you did go back two days later. And Todomatsu was behind the counter again, with a cup in one hand and a permanent marker in the other.
His eyes lit up when he saw you hanging by the door, almost like he hadn't expected you to actually return. Like he ran on empty promises, or something. The guy was practically rocking on the balls of his feet when you finally got to the front of the register. "Another iced chai? Or maybe something else?"
Okay, so maybe it was adorable that he remembered your order. Even though you'd only been there once. Even though you had to be a drop in the proverbial bucket of customers who wandered in and out of the place. But you shook your head and wrapped your fingers more tightly around the strap of your messenger bag. "Something stronger, I think. What would you recommend?"
"I've got just the thing." This time, he did ask for the money, and reached for a ceramic mug as he encouraged you to take a seat. The table by the window was vacant again, and this time you actually managed to open your notebook and jot down something about the ripple of the wind through the leaves before Todomatsu approached you and set a mug of a rich brown liquid, decorated with layers of white hearts, on the tabletop.
"A macchiato," he offered, pressing the tray he was holding flush against his torso. "Give it a try! Maybe it'll give you the kick you're looking for."
Truth be told, you hadn't tried much in the way of actual coffee. You could stand it iced, and if it were more like coffee-flavored milk with the way you nursed it. But Todomatsu was looking at you so patiently, like he really wanted you to enjoy his suggestion. And, well, it had been awfully thoughtful of him to make it at his own recommendation...
Hoping that he couldn't see the hesitation in your grip—or hoping that he thought you were scared to ruin the hearts he'd likely drawn himself—you lifted the mug to your lips. The macchiato tasted just as rich as it looked, and maybe that was what took off the edge of the coffee. Or maybe it was the milk, but it didn't look like there was much in it to begin with. Still, you couldn't help but take another sip, and you could already feel it warming your body, the caffeine coursing through your blood.
You would have thanked Todomatsu, but he'd already made his way back to the register to take another customer's order. Somewhere in between constructing some elaborate dessert and steaming a cup of milk, he looked your way, flashed all ten fingers twice, and winked.
Twenty minutes until his break. That would give you enough time to get something done. Briefly, you wondered if it would be rude to have finished the macchiato by the time he came over.
You didn't, but you spent the time observing with one headphone in, jotting down a few words here and there. "Darlings," you called them. Lines and phrases that you didn't want to forget, that you could pick from when you finally decided to put together a story, or a poem. Your notebook was full of them, out in the open and scribbled in the margins alongside extensive plotting, half-finished drafts, and doodles you had to restrain yourself from tearing up and throwing away. You didn't know how anyone else would be able to decipher it. You didn't even know how you were able to decipher it.
Maybe it was because they were your own methods. Your own madness.
You wrote that down, too.
Before long, Todomatsu was pulling out the seat across from you again, draping his apron over the back of his chair and resting his chin in his hand. Like he could have been satisfied spending his whole break just watching you, or something. It might have been sweet if you actually knew him better. But then, who were you to judge, when you were the one taking notes on practically everyone else in the shop?
"Managed to write anything today?" he asked, swirling a cream-colored, foamy-looking drink in a mug before taking a sip. (Why was he still talking like he was behind the register?)
You snorted and shrugged, pausing your music and yanking the earbud out. "Nothing substantial, I guess."
Todomatsu frowned—"I'm sure that's not true!"—but didn't look like he was about to make a grab for your notebook to prove himself right. You could at least give him credit for that. Some people weren't as kind. "Well, what have you been doing, then? It didn't look like you were just doing nothing..."
You raised your eyebrows, taking another sip of the macchiato; if he were proud of his handiwork, he didn't necessarily show it. "Were you watching me?"
"Ah..." An innocent smile graced the corners of his lips as he bumped the butt of his fist against his temple. "Seems you caught me."
Okay. So maybe you could give him a little more credit for being adorable. You could bite. "I was just people watching. I guess I could watch you, too. You're right in front of me, after all..."
There was a flicker of excitement—or was it nervousness?—in his eyes, but the rest of his expression was as controlled as ever. "All right, then." he agreed. "Watch me."
He was surprisingly quiet after that, almost as if he knew this was supposed to take more concentration than other people let on. Sometimes he sipped at his drink; sometimes he glimpsed the outside world through the windows; sometimes he was bold enough to look you in the eye and offer you a smile, simple but hinting at flirtatious. When it was quiet like this, it was easier to notice the little things. Like the way his hair managed to fall into his too-big eyes. Or the clean press of his work shirt, or the gentle curl of his fingers against his jawline—visible, but not defined—as he absently ran his thumb around the rim of his cup or examined the screen of his phone.
It was easier to capture someone when they were willing. And when you weren't trying to be subtle about it.
Apparently that wasn't the only thing you weren't being subtle about, because Todomatsu laughed behind a hand and tapped the top of your notebook. "Aren't you supposed to be writing what you see?"
You cleared your throat, hoping your cheeks weren't too hot, and managed a laugh of your own. "Guess you caught me, too."
This time, you actually remembered to write down what you saw. It didn't matter if it was poetic or not. You just had to get them down as you saw them, so you could at least try to mimic the sight in your mind at your desk hours later. And this time, Todomatsu didn't laugh. He smiled, faintly, but it seemed like the only few minutes you'd seen him as something a little more genuine. Even in spite of the occasional glance toward you, like he was entirely too self-aware. Refreshingly so. Like you could get used to this.
Like maybe he wanted you to get used to this.
Just as you were jotting down your final thoughts, the alarm on his phone went off, and a frown stole across his face. "Back to work, then," he said with a lilt in his voice, chair legs scraping against the tile as he got to his feet and taking your cup. "We should do that again sometime. How about it?" And then, teasingly, "Maybe I could watch you, too."
Your eyes dropped down to the half-page of notes you'd scribbled, bits and pieces to jog your memory later on, and his name written in all capital letters at the top. Slowly, your gaze returned to his; he hadn't moved an inch. He genuinely wanted an answer.
You could bite again.
Tuesday, at two o'clock, you told Todomatsu, and all he offered was a grin, just wide enough for you to smile back.
"Be looking forward to it," he said, practically sang, and turned on his heel to return to the counter.
Inexplicably, and somewhere between the grind of the espresso machine and the clatter of ice cubes, you thought you were, too.