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• • • 愛 • • •
The first time Chuuya orders coffee in the chic, library-like, weirdly-named coffee shop thirty minutes away from campus, he swears that the only reason he didn’t throw the scalding hot coffee right into the barista’s face is because coffee is practically his life-line to keep him existing twelve hours into the deadline of a goddamn paper that should have been done by his groupmates and he’s running on nearly thirty hours of zero sleep.
Plus, it’s kind of expensive too, and normal college students aren’t known for swimming in wealth.
That’s the only reason, because really, as a paying customer, he should have every right to protest against this inhuman treatment.
“Y-Y-Y-You bastard!”
“Ah, you’re shaking! Are you that angry?” The barista has the nerve to ask, eyes practically twinkling with his evil deed. “Or did you not hear what I said?”
Chuuya’s refined and elegant. He doesn’t act rashly nor does he raise his voice. Well, that’s all an act, but years of anger management therapy and boring etiquette lessons have taught him to act well in public. But somehow, just the sight of this man infuriates him to the core. And they’ve only met for what, five minutes?
“I dare you to say it again, bastard!”
“Ah, I said that instead of writing your name, I drew you on the coffee cup, but you’re just too small to see~?”
White-hot rage colors Chuuya’s sight.
“You fucking bastard—!!!”
• • • 愛 • • •
The second time comes thirteen days later, when his eyesight is too blurry and his sense of movement is not even half of his usual.
He stutters something about not believing that a respectable coffee shop is still open even in the wee hours of Saturdays - how can a coffee shop even find someone to man the counter during times of when college kids are supposed to be partying and forgetting common sense and such.
His companions ignore him, leaving him to collapse face-first to one of the tables. Thankfully, there are no other customers in the vicinity. Good for them - because why would they need to drink coffee and look at pretty cakes when they could be drowning in alcohol and filling their stomachs with cheap junk food?
Damn, Chuuya doesn’t even know why they’re here.
He groans and the sound vibrates against the wooden table that smells of coffee beans and vanilla cream.
“...not even sure why, but he kept on whining about this café.”
“Poor guy, he probably has a crush on one of the waitresses here, huh?”
“Ah, could be. Is that why he’s so insistent about this shop even when he’s shit-faced drunk?”
Chuuya’s tipsy, not deaf, and he swears to remember to beat up his companions once control circulates back to his arms.
Being tipsy is the only reason why his stomach rolls uncomfortably when he hears a voice that shouldn’t be familiar, but somehow is.
“Ah, no worries, I can deliver this to that gentleman over there~♫”
Chuuya glares into the shadows of the table, groaning as he hears the clink of porcelain against wood, shivering slightly as he feels burned by an intense gaze.
He slowly lifts his head - not to acknowledge the goddamn nosy barista who went out of his way to deliver the drink to his table - to see a steaming cup of coffee that smells like heaven to his drunk self.
“You look like shit,” the man says cheerfully, the only noisy person in this establishment. And the headache growls and pounds inside Chuuya’s head even more. “Are you even legal enough to drink?”
His companions have their cellphones up to record this confrontation, those bastards.
“What the hell did you say?!”
“Ah, is Chuuya even old enough to drink alcohol? I thought you were 12!”
Chuuya’s on his feet before he even thinks better of it, his vision swimming but his heart’s pounding enough adrenaline to his system so he should be okay even if he ends up punching the other right in the face.
“Shut the fuck up, you smiley smug bastard!”
“Ah, did my smile make you fall for me?” The other asks with a tilt on his head, as though considering him. “I figured as much, since you were all red in the face when you left last time.”
“I’m gonna kill you!” Chuuya shouts and doesn’t think about how his companions will probably tattle on him and good god, there’s going to be a hell lot of etiquette lessons and talks about not shaming the family name again. “I’m really gonna fucking kill you!”
The barista’s name is flashed in his name card, but Chuuya’s eyes are too tired to read the name properly. Whatever his name is, he’s a goddamn bastard who’s making him angrier and he can’t even see straight.
“You look so cute, like an angry chihuahua~♪”
He’s never been compared to a dog before, Chuuya thinks faintly, just before his eyes roll to the back of his head as he sways from fatigue, alcohol and elevated blood pressure.
• • • 愛 • • •
“Oh, it’s Chuuya-san!” The cashier named ‘Atsushi’ looks at him with wide-eyed recognition that should not be the case for a coffee shop he doesn’t even frequent that often. Also, how come the other knows his name?
“Just wait a moment, sir!” The skittish-looking teenager cries out, looking part-terrified and part-lost.
Come to think of it, this ‘Atsushi’ looks slightly familiar - he might be someone attending the same literature elective he’s taking or something. Chuuya glances at the reflective surface of the counter, frowning when he realizes that he can’t see his expression. Does he look too intimidating or something?
“Ah, it’s you, hat store~♪” *THE* barista says with a sickeningly sweet tone, all-smiles as always. Chuuya regrets not remembering the part where he supposedly threw up by the other’s shoes the last time he was here. “Did you miss me?”
“Hell no,” Chuuya retorts with as much acid he can inject to his voice. It’s a good thing this place is pretty far away from campus, because there’s going to be hell to pay if others can see the disgusted look in his face or hear the abrasive tone in his words. He’s supposed to be someone dignified and proper, damn it!
“Ah, you’re so not honest~” The other remarks, but there’s a self-satisfied grin on his face as though everything is a part of his plan. It’s fucking annoying. “But I guess that’s part of your charm?”
Chuuya closes his eyes and counts to thirty. “Shut the fuck up,” he says once the internal countdown is complete. He’s still thrumming with anger, but at least he isn’t in danger of flipping tables or strangling the barista who’s handing him his drink with a stupid smile in his stupid face.
He turns the cup in his hands. As expected, his name isn’t in the cup, but there’s a drawing of a hat and nothing else.
He isn’t amused, but he ducks his head anyway and leaves the shop, ignoring the wave of goodbye from that stupid barista and the stupid cashier who apparently knows him by face and name already what the hell.
• • • to be continued • • •