Work Text:
There is a small café down the street, not far away from Idia's flat, that's open 24/7. And by the gods, it was a miracle— the perfect place for insomniacs like him.
The lights were low, warm enough to soften the orange of the brick walls. Somewhere near the counter, milk steamed with a gentle hiss. Outside, the city hummed, most people turning off the lights to go to bed, others returning home after a long day.
Idia liked it best at this hour.
He sat in the corner booth, laptop open, the glow of the screen reflected faintly in his resting glasses. A black, bitter coffee cooled on the table, beside it sat his aggressively sweet treat: a slice of cake layered with too much frosting and edible glitter.
Ah, yes— balance.
He kept on typing.
He paused, reread it, and added that one stupid comma that would've ruined his whole script. Programming while being sleep-deprived wasn't easy, but the café's low murmur helped.
Home felt heavy lately, and the atmosphere at work felt suffocating. Here, he could just exist.
The bell above the café door chimed. He glanced up — just briefly — and immediately looked back down.
The man who had entered was, as always, overdressed. Not in a flashy way, no— just formal.
The dark vest he wore was tailored to his frame, his shoes polished, and his shirt always seemed recently ironed. He carried himself like the room ought to adjust around him.
Idia had seen him before. Several times, actually.
The first time he saw him, he begged the earth to swallow him. Because as that man entered the shop in his suit, Idia was sitting with his shrimp-like posture, looking like a mess in his 'I'm a gamer, don't speak to me' cringe-ahh hoodie.
That happened months ago, in spring.
He didn't care anymore— it was not as if they interacted. Idia preferred it that way.
Anyways, that man always came to the café around this hour. Always alone.
He approached the counter with the same calm composure, speaking in a low voice Idia couldn't quite hear. He always ordered a simple coffee (still, Idia suspected he would like something else better, he once caught him eyeing his affogato when he ordered it).
And then he would take a seat by the window, and open whatever book he had brought that night. A real, hardcover, thick book.
Idia had never seen him check a phone.
Not once. Which was suspicious— everyone checked their phone. Even people who claimed not to care.
But this man? He would set the cup down, remove his gloves with careful precision, and read. Sometimes he turned pages slowly, on the days he seemed stressed he turned them quickly. On rainy days he would pause and stare out the window as if the water drops were delivering a message.
Idia had no idea if he even owned a phone.
Maybe he was some kind of minimalist monk trapped in corporate attire. Or a time traveler.
Oh, to have a time machine…
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Idia tried to focus back into his work. He leaned closer to the screen, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The frosting from his cake left a faint sugar tackiness on his fingers, he wiped them absently on a napkin without looking.
He told himself he wasn't paying attention. But he was aware of the quiet rhythm of page turns. Aware of the fact that he thanked the barista by name every time, even though the employee barely responded.
He was curious.
Why come here dressed like that? Why this café? Why at this hour?
The place wasn't trendy nor impressive. It wasn't a place where important people lounged.
He risked another glance.
The man was reading, posture relaxed but upright, one hand lightly cradling the mug. Steam curled upward between his fingers. He didn't look bored. He didn't look like he was killing time. He looked rested— but not relaxed. As if he was taking a breather.
He understood that. The late hours felt like a loophole in the world's expectations.
He took a slow sip of his coffee — grimaced at the bitterness — and chased it with a forkful of cake so sweet it nearly hurt. Gods, he was so gross sometimes— at least he didn't try to mix his energy drink with the coffee this time.
When he looked up again, the man was staring out the window.
Idia wondered, briefly, what someone like that thought about late at night in a place like this. Probably important things, probably structured thoughts.
The man turned a page.
Idia looked away quickly, as if he'd been caught doing something improper.
It was ridiculous— they had never spoken. They might never speak. They were just two regulars occupying separate corners of the same shop.
Still, he couldn't help it.
Outside, a car passed, headlights illuminating briefly across the window.
The bell above the door did not ring again for several minutes.
He returned to his work, fingers moving steadily now, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he counted the seconds between page turns. And when the man rose to leave — precisely an hour and half later, as usual — he didn't look up, but he noticed.
The bell chimed softly.
Malleus had a steady routine— waking up, taking a bath, going to work, having lunch with Silver and Sebek, work a bit more, and returning home.
Lately, going to the café had become part of this— it was a place where he didn't feel suffocated, where no one knew who he was and where he wasn't all alone.
The bell chimed softly as he stepped inside, shutting out the city's metallic rumble behind him. The warmth met him at once, it was enough to soften the pressure in his lungs. The lighting was low, bathing the space in amber, welcoming in a way his office never was.
He approached the counter. "The usual?" the employee —a young man, probably still a university student— asked without looking up.
"Yes, thank you, Ruggie."
The barista nodded, no small talk. He appreciated that.
He paid, thanked them, and turned. Malleus did not look toward the corner immediately. He did not need to, he already knew: the young man with the blue hair was there.
He always was.
Malleus did not allow himself to stare, but he permitted himself a few glances as he walked towards the window seat. From there, he could see both the door and the room, and, something about the view through the window, into the dim street, made the café feel less enclosed.
He set his cup down.
The familiar stranger sat in the far corner, laptop open, posture slightly hunched. His hair caught the café light, vibrant blue.
It startled Malleus every time.
He had known others who dyed their hair — Lilia did so regularly, usually sticking to magenta, changing it from time to time if he felt bored. So the concept itself was not foreign. But there was something about this particular shade that felt almost contradictory.
The young man usually wore dark clothes, nothing flashy. He avoided eye contact with nearly everyone. And yet his hair was unapologetically vivid.
It did not match the rest of him. Or perhaps it did, and the rest was what was muted.
Malleus opened his book, but he didn't focus on the words just yet.
The young man typed rapidly, barely hesitating over the keys. The screen light reflected faintly in his glasses. Tonight, his overly sweet treat of choice appeared to be a slice of cake with an excess of frosting.
He found that to be oddly endearing.
He went back to his book and turned a page.
Across the room, the typing stopped. The young man leaned back slightly and stared at his screen, his eyes unfocused, distant.
After several seconds, the young man's hand moved toward his own wrist. He rubbed it absently, thumb pressing into the joint.
An anxious gesture— that's how Malleus catalogued it without meaning to.
When the typing resumed, it did so with renewed urgency. He grabbed his cup and drank too much at once, then returned to the keys.
He found himself measuring the rhythm of the other man's work against the pace of his own reading.
The young man did not look around, he did not engage with anyone else. He existed within the rectangle of his screen and the narrow world of his booth.
And yet — he had chosen to come here. To be among people.
Malleus understood that choice. His own days were saturated with expectations. At the firm, he was never simply Malleus. He was the successor. An heir, authority.
Every word he spoke carried weight.
Here, it carried none. Here, he could sit and drink without someone analyzing how he held the cup.
And the young man — he, too, seemed to come here to exist without the need to perform.
Another pause, the typing stopped abruptly. The blue-haired man leaned back again, this time pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Then he stared at the ceiling. Malleus found himself wondering what he saw there.
He noticed when the young man exhaled in quiet frustration. He noticed the faint smudge of frosting at the corner of his mouth, hastily wiped away with a napkin.
After nearly an hour, the typing slowed. The man sat very still, staring at the screen. Then, gradually, his shoulders lowered, relieved.
He then reached for the cake and took a careful bite this time.
Malleus closed his book. He stood, adjusting his vest.
For a second, he considered doing something reckless: speaking. A simple greeting.
But he did not.
As he passed the corner booth on his way to the door, he allowed himself one last glance.
The young man did not look up.
The bell chimed as Malleus stepped into the night. The air outside was cooler, particularly for the summer heat— a storm might be coming.
And as the door closed behind him, he found himself wondering if he'd ever have the chance to speak to that steady presence in his routine.
That night, the café had been unusually quiet.
No couples lingering. No late study groups. Just the steady hum of the espresso machine and the low whir of a ceiling fan fighting the thick air.
Idia had noticed the pressure change before the rain started— he relaxed, storms were needed with this heat— especially when you weren't comfortable in summer clothes.
He leaned forward, fingers hovering over the keyboard, eyes scanning the screen. His computer battery was running low, he connected the charger not so long ago.
Outside, the first flash of lightning lit the window white. A second later, thunder followed.
Idia flinched slightly. Across the café, the well-dressed did not move.
Lightning flashed again, the thunder louder this time.
Rain followed, Idia paused his typing to watch.
Another flash. And then— the lights went out.
The hum of the appliances behind the counter died. The ceiling fan stopped, and the café exhaled into silence. For a brief moment, the only sound was rain.
Idia sighed, looking at his work on the screen. "—Great," he muttered under his breath. Then he saved the project and turned it off, he wasn't going to risk it.
Then, from across the room, a small, steady white light cut through the dark.
Idia stared, blinking once, and his mouth moved before he could even think about it.
"So you have a phone!"
He froze, then brought a hand to cover his mouth, eyes wide, as his eyes met the man's.
Oh no— Oh no, no, no. Why would you even say that? He sounded like he's been tracking his technological habits like some kind of stalker—
They were the only two customers left. The barista had disappeared into the back room, likely checking the breaker.
There was nowhere to hide.
The man was smiling. "You sound surprised," he said calmly.
Idia immediately looked down at his laptop, as if it had personally betrayed him. "I just— I mean— I've never seen you use one," he mumbled. "It was, uh, it was starting to look suspicious."
Suspicious.
Wonderful. That helped.
The rain intensified, drumming against the glass.
"Suspicious?" he echoed back, still smiling.
Omg— please stop, handsome stranger, Idia's way too awkward and gay for this. He's going to start crying like the boyfailure he is. Send help.
"I assure you," the man continued, calmly, "This is a fairly common possession to have."
Idia let out a short, nervous breath. Who talks like that?!
Lightning flared again, briefly lighting both of them. In that flash, they saw each other clearly.
The man tilted his head slightly, now a bit uncomfortable by the silence. "I simply prefer not to consult it unnecessarily."
Idia risked glancing up. "Ah— But you never check it."
"Not here," the stranger corrected gently.
He swallowed.
"I didn't mean to, uh— stalk you or anything," he added quickly, voice cracking. "That sounded worse than intended."
"I do not mind."
There was something unexpectedly earnest in the way the other man had spoken — like a curious child discovering something new.
Ruggie's voice drifted faintly from the back: "It'll be a few minutes!"
Which meant they would remain in the dark a little longer.
A pause. Then, because the silence suddenly felt heavier than usual, he hesitantly added: "I'm Idia."
The man straightened slightly— formal even in an energy blackout. "Malleus."
The name settled between them.
Idia blinked. "That's— cool, cool name dude," he said after a second, then winced internally at the inadequacy of the word.
"Thanks," Malleus inclined his head in acknowledgment, hiding a small, amused smile. "You seemed disappointed I possess a phone," he added lightly.
"I'm not disappointed," he protested, flustered. "It just— ruined a theory."
"And what theory was that?"
Idia rubbed the back of his neck. "That you were either a time traveler or, like, some kind of minimalist executive who rejected technology for, uh, philosophical reasons."
Lightning flashed again.
"Is that the impression I give?" he chuckled, "I am afraid I am neither."
"That's exactly what a time traveler would say."
OMG, IDIA, SHUT UP.
Malleus laughed, more freely this time.
In the gentler quiet that followed, something shifted. The darkness felt less intrusive now, more intimate.
"I have seen you here often," the man confessed, voice calm. "You work very intensely."
Idia blinked. "You've been observing me too?"
"Ah," he said lightly "so you are a 'stalker'."
He meant it teasingly. Though the word came out in a very serious manner.
Idia, however, went very still. "A— what?"
Malleus noticed the shift. The tension in the man's shoulders.
Had he misused the word?
He searched in his memories. Lilia had once used it jokingly in a similar context.
He cleared his throat softly. "Sorry," he smiled, "What I mean to say is: you come here often, I have noticed you."
"Yeah, well," the programmer muttered under his breath, a bit defensive, "It's not my fault you read like you're solving ancient prophecies, mystery man."
Malleus let out a soft, genuine breath of laughter. The sound surprised them both.
The café lights flickered.
Warm yellow flooded the room again, chasing away the shadows. The refrigerator resumed its hum. The ceiling fan began turning.
They both blinked against the sudden brightness. The moment could have ended there, could have dissolved with the darkness. But it didn't.
"Idia," Malleus repeated, as if testing the sound.
"Yeah?"
"It is a pleasure."
The sincerity in it made Idia's throat tighten. "Yeah, you too."
Malleus inclined his head once more before returning to his book.
He stole one last glance, this time he didn't try to be subtle.
Idia was late— he pushed through the café door, laptop bag slung low over one shoulder. At the same time, Malleus stepped in from the opposite side of the entrance, having arrived slightly earlier than his usual routine.
They both paused.
Ruggie blinked between them as if he were witnessing some sort of social experiment. Idia adjusted his bag. Malleus cleared his throat.
"I—" the programmer started.
"Idia," the other said at the same time.
They stared at each other.
"Please—"
"Go first—"
Once again, they spoke at the same time, in sync.
Idia's face burned. He pressed his lips into a thin line, gaze dropping to the floor. He had told his brother about the stranger at the coffee shop, Ortho said that it was a great opportunity for him to make friends— he was doing this for him, he hadn't expected it to be this awkward.
Seeing that the man would wait indefinitely, Malleus tilted his head and said, "I was wondering if it would be fine if I sat nearer to you tonight?"
"Oh," he answered. "Oh, Yeah. I mean—that's fine. That's… good. Proximity buff unlocked, I guess."
Malleus did not understand the last part, but he nodded anyway. Maybe he could ask Lilia later.
From then on, they sat side by side— not sharing a table, but close enough that their conversations no longer required raising their voices.
Idia would mutter about struggling with some lines, or a program just not working— on other nights, he would mutter about his games and his 'C tier luck when pulling' or 'his favs refusing to come home', whatever that meant. Malleus, as a response, would ask thoughtful, unexpectedly precise questions. Sometimes, when he was running on a deadline, he would sigh faintly over a dense legal text; Idia would lean sideways just enough to glance at the page.
"Ugh," the programmer commented once, "That thing looks like it could summon a demon."
"It's a contract," he replied, eyes not leaving the page "In a sense, yes. It does exactly that."
The man snorted before he could stop himself. "So," he managed. "You read a lot of contracts for fun?"
Malleus hesitated— just slightly, "I'm a lawyer."
There was something weird in the way he said it. Idia decided not to pry. Instead, he shrugged lightly. "Sounds exhausting."
"It is," the lawyer admitted in a soft whisper.
There was a night where Malleus came in wrong.
Not disheveled— he was never disheveled. But something in him was too rigid, uncomfortable— even his jaw was tightened.
Idia noticed.
The man sat down beside him, and opened his book. He spent a total of ten minutes on the same page, not reading a single word.
The programmer stared at him for a full three minutes before closing his laptop halfway.
"So… Is it a really long page or—?" he muttered.
Malleus blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You look like you fought the horrors and lost."
Silence.
Then, slowly, the lawyer exhaled. "There was a board meeting today," he said. His tone was even, but something felt strained beneath it, "It was— a lot."
The programmer didn't know what kind of board. He didn't know how high up Malleus stood in his firm, what authority he held or didn't hold. He just knew that whenever this man mentioned work, there was weight in it.
"Corporate gladiator arena," he murmured, "Yeah. That tracks."
Malleus huffed a breath. "Something like that."
Without thinking, Idia nudged his own overly sweet pastry across the small gap between their tables.
"Sugar helps when existential dread spikes," he said, a weirdly loopsided smile on his face, "Scientifically proven. By me."
Malleus looked down at the offering, then back at the man.
"You dislike sharing your desserts," he said.
Idia flushed. "Hey! That's— data breach."
He allowed himself a small smile and broke off a piece. It was far too sweet for his tastes. But he ate it anyway.
They sat in silence for a moment after that.
The programmer reopened his laptop but didn't resume typing. "You don't have to tell me details," he said after a while. "Corporate stuff always sounds like it comes with, like, ten NDAs and a blood oath."
The lawyer smiled slightly. "Your consideration is appreciated."
"But," Idia continued, eyes still on the dim screen, "if it's the ‘everyone expects you to be perfect and unfazed' kind of exhaustion, I get that."
Malleus looked at him again. "Do you?"
The man shrugged, rubbing his wrist absently. "When you're ‘the smart one,' people don't really want you to hesitate— or admit that you're not sure." He gave a small, humorless smile. "They just want outputs."
"Yes," the lawyer said after a moment. "That is familiar."
Another small silence.
The café lights glowed warm and steady. Outside, the city hummed softly.
"It's like a never ending discussion," Malleus admitted at last, choosing his words carefully, his fingers pressed lightly into the edge of his book. "Sometimes it feels less like collaboration and more like— proving oneself worthy of remaining."
The blue-haired man's brows furrowed faintly. "Remaining?"
"In the room," the man clarified. "In the conversation."
"That's stupid," Idia said bluntly.
"It's tradition."
"Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people."
That earned him a soft, surprised laugh. Malleus' posture loosened, "You speak very freely," he observed.
"Well, uh—" Idia mumbled, "I— Programmers don't survive if we pretend bugs don't exist."
"And you consider this— a bug?"
"I consider anything that makes you stare at the same page for ten minutes a bug."
The lawyer looked down at the book in his hands. Then he closed it. "I suppose," he said gently, "I am grateful that you noticed."
Idia's fingers stilled on his keyboard. "Yeah, well," he muttered. "It's hard not to. You're usually steady."
"Steady?"
"Like— you don't get all" he made vague movements with his hands, trying to explain, "rattled."
Malleus considered that for a few seconds. "I am rattled," he confessed.
"Okay," Idia glanced at him sideways. "Well. You're allowed." The words came out awkward and clumsy, but they were sincere nonetheless.
"Thank you," the lawyer replied, his expression now softer.
The programmer shrugged again, unsure on what to answer. He offered another piece of pastry without comment. This time, Malleus accepted it without pointing out the oddity.
When the lawyer finally reopened his book, he turned the page within seconds.
The next time they saw each other, Idia arrived first.
He stood near the counter longer than necessary, pretending to debate between two equally terribly sweet pastry options while his eyes flickered toward the door every few seconds. When the bell finally chimed, his shoulders straightened involuntarily.
Malleus stepped in. He removed his gloves carefully, nodded to Ruggie, and ordered his usual.
"Are you feeling indecisive today?" he asked him.
Idia swallowed, then nodded.
He picked one before he could think too hard about it.Then followed the lawyer to their usual tables.
Malleus looked up as the chair across from him shifted slightly.
The blue-haired man froze halfway through sitting. "Is, uh, is this seat taken?" he asked, immediately wincing at himself. There were six empty tables around them.
The man's expression softened, "You know it's not."
And so, Idia sat across.
Okay. Okay. Just do it— he thought— Ortho would say exposure therapy is effective in low-stakes social environments.
The table was small: their knees nearly brushed beneath it. He set his laptop down but didn't open it immediately.
They sat facing one another, steam rising between them from their cups.
Malleus studied him openly now. "There's something I wish to ask," he began, "It might be personal, though."
Idia blinked. "Uh—well, shoot."
"Your hair," the lawyer said calmly. "Why blue?"
Of all the questions he'd expected, that wasn't it. He reached up unconsciously, fingers brushing through the vibrant strands.
"Oh." A small, almost embarrassed exhale left him. "It's— not, like, a rebellious thing or anything."
"I did not assume it was," he made a small pause, "I wouldn't judge you if it were."
"It's my little brother's favorite color," Idia confessed, quieter now. "When he was younger, he used to say it looked like the sky in his favorite video game. So when I started dyeing mine, he asked if I could do his too. Said we'd match."
A faint smile, sweet smile appeared on his lips.
"So we did."
Malleus listened.
"I have pictures," the programmer continued, staring down at his coffee. "He used to sit on the bathroom counter when I did our hair, he would always complain if our shades came slightly different."
Then, the warmth in his voice dimmed. "He— doesn't move much now," he added.
The lawyer's brows furrowed, a silent question clear in his face— he didn't wish to pry. If Idia wished to tell him, then he would. He wouldn't push anything.
"There was an accident," the programmer said after a while, the words coming slower. "A few years ago. And he—" He paused, jaw tightening. "He's disabled now. Stuck in a wheelchair— I was supposed to be there with him," he then added, almost too quietly. "I was the one who insisted he came with me. If I hadn't—"
He stopped. His fingers had begun rubbing his wrist again, thumb pressing into his joint in small, repetitive motions.
"Idia," Malleus called, "You are assigning yourself a heavy burden. Accidents aren't always predictable."
"I am his older brother," he insisted weakly. "I was supposed to protect him."
"Yes," the lawyer agreed. "And it seems you still do. You dye your hair to have something with him, you carry his favorite color with you," he made a small pause, averting his gaze, "You care, and that's what matters. I think."
Idia blinked rapidly, caught off guard.
Malleus hesitated only briefly before speaking again. "I, too, have a younger brother," he said.
"…You do?"
"Yes. His name is Silver," his voice was fond, deeply so, "He has narcolepsy," he continued. "It started in his late childhood. Sudden sleep episodes, without warning."
Idia's brows drew together. "That sounds— a bit terrifying."
"It is, at least to me," Malleus admitted. "For many years I feared what might have happened if I were not nearby. If he collapsed in an unsafe place, if— if no one noticed."
His fingers curled lightly around his cup.
Idia let out a soft, sympathetic huff. "Hypervigilant older sibling club, huh."
"It seems that's what we are, indeed."
They exchanged a small smile.
"He is currently staying with my former tutor," the lawyer added.
"Former tutor?"
"Yes. He raised me for a significant portion of my life."
There was weight in that statement too. Idia studied him across the table, careful not to pry too much.
"Sometimes," the blue-haired man started, carefully, "I wake up in the middle of the night just to check on Ortho. To make sure he's okay. That he didn't need something and didn't call because he didn't want to bother me."
Malleus' expression softened. "You love him deeply."
"Yeah," Idia simply said. A pause. "Do you?"
"Yes."
They held each other's gaze for longer than necessary.
Outside, a car passed, headlights briefly illuminating the window behind the lawyer's shoulder. The café remained warm, steady.
"…Thanks," The programmer said quietly.
The man smiled. "I'm afraid I don't have anything sweet to offer you," he started, "You know, to help with the 'existential dread spike'. But, if you want, I could get something for you."
Idia blinked at him once, cheeks slightly flushed. "Ah— no, no. Thanks, it's fine," he swallowed, "really."
They sat there for a while after that. Their cups cooling down between them. The distance between their hands on the table felt smaller now.
After a moment, the programmer let out a small, self-conscious laugh. "Wow. We really speedran trauma bonding tonight, huh?"
Malleus' eyes lit up. "I'd prefer to call it trust."
Idia looked at him then, their eyes met.
Oh, he looks happy— that's beautiful.
And for the first time, sitting across the same table, knees nearly touching, he didn't feel so alone.
The next time they met, the café had betrayed them.
There was red everywhere.
Paper hearts dangled from the ceiling fan, a bunch of uneven pink hearts framed the counter. Even the chalkboard menu had tiny drawn cherubs in the corners.
It wasn't even Valentine's Day yet— February had barely started!
Idia stopped just inside the door and visibly recoiled. "Oh no," he muttered.
Ruggie, behind the counter, didn't even look up— though he swore he heard him laugh—. "Don't blame me."
Malleus entered a moment later —their schedules were in sync lately—, pausing as he took in the decorations. The expression on his face was unreadable, but there was a tiny trace of curiosity in his eyes.
Idia finally moved towards the counter, glaring at a tray of heart-shaped sugar cookies wrapped in clear plastic. "This is psychological warfare," he mumbled to himself.
And then he bought one.
He didn't comment on it when he joined Malleus at their table. He just set the offensively festive cookie beside his laptop and tried to pretend it hadn't happened.
Malleus noticed, "You appear troubled," he said.
"It's corporate propaganda," Idia said flatly. "Weaponized romance. Seasonal capitalism at its peak."
The lawyer folded his hands neatly atop the table. "You object to Valentine's Day?"
The programmer laughed, "Object?" He then hid his grin behind his hand, "Okay, Mr. Lawyer, leave the courtroom for a while."
The man only raised a brow.
"I 'object' to the pressure of it," Idia corrected. "The whole ‘buy this to prove you care' thing. Feels less like love and more like a revenue strategy."
Malleus hummed thoughtfully. "There is truth in that," he admitted. "Many celebrations are for the companies."
The blue-haired man broke off the corner of the heart cookie and shoved it into his mouth.
"But," the man continued, "isn't love worth celebrating?"
He was genuinely curious to know what his companion would think about that.
Idia chewed more slowly. "I don't know," he said after swallowing. "I mean— I guess. In theory?"
"In theory?" Malleus echoed.
The programmer leaned back in his chair, staring at the red paper heart taped to the brick wall. "I, uh, I tried," he admitted suddenly.
The lawyer's brows furrowed, "Tried what?"
"Dating," Idia clarified, shrugging in a way that was meant to be dismissive. "A couple times. Nothing catastrophic. Just—" He gestured vaguely. "I don't really get it."
"You don't get dating?" the man asked, then got ashamed at his own words, "I mean, not everybody does, I believe it's fine if that is not your thing."
"No— I just— don't get how people trust each other like that." His voice lowered slightly, eyes lost. "I always felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop," he confessed. "Like eventually they'd realize I'm too much work. Or too quiet. Or too— whatever."
He picked at the icing on the cookie. "It's hard to believe someone could love you like that when you barely tolerate yourself."
The words came out blunt.
Malleus did not flinch, he went very still instead.
"Sorry, I—" Idia started.
"I understand," he cut him off quietly.
The programmer glanced up, surprised.
"My own experience with— attachments has not been simple either," the lawyer continued, choosing each word with care. "I have attempted it. Once."
Idia's stomach tightened. "Oh," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral. "Like— a serious relationship?"
"Yes." Malleus' gaze drifted briefly towards the window. "It lasted longer than it should have," he said. "Neither of us wished to admit it was wrong."
The programmer's fingers stilled against the table.
"There was a lot of resentment," the man went on. "He and I— we didn't work, it was much too destructive. For both of us." He did not elaborate further. "It was my first and only relationship," he added softly. "And when it ended, I found myself questioning whether I was suited for such things at all."
Idia felt something unpleasant coil in his chest: it was jealousy.
Which was ridiculous. He had no claim. No right to feel that way.
And still. "What happened?" he asked before he could stop himself, "I— I mean, if you want to tell me."
Malleus' expression did not change, but there was a flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes. "We never really understood each other," he said simply. "I think we just— liked the rush or the power. Neither of us was brave enough to acknowledge that sooner."
Outside, looking through the window, they could see a couple walking past hand in hand. They were laughing about something, shoulders bumping playfully.
Idia watched them. "They look like a stock photo," he muttered.
"They look content," Malleus corrected gently.
The programmer huffed, bitter.
"Yeah, well. That's what they sell you, right? Candlelight dinners and dramatic airport confessions."
Malleus hummed, "Do you dislike that image?" he asked, eyes still tracing the lovers.
Idia hesitated. "…No," he admitted reluctantly. "I think I'd like that," he said, quieter now. "Not the airport thing. That's— kinda stupid," they both chuckled at that, "But— to be loved so strongly, like it's easy— who wouldn't want that?"
The confession hung between them.
The lawyer's gaze softened. "I would like that as well," he said. Just an honest feeling.
Idia glanced back at him, and for a moment the red decorations didn't feel quite as intrusive. "Guess that makes us hypocrites," he said lightly. "Trashing the holiday but secretly wanting the deluxe package."
"Me? a hypocrite?" Malleus replied, a playful smile on his lips. "I believe you are projecting, Idia."
The programmer rolled his eyes. "You are annoying," then he smiled at his companion anyways.
Idia then looked down at the half-eaten heart cookie, and cut it in half with his hands. Without comment, he slid the other half across the table towards Malleus.
The man looked at it, then at him.
"It's just— seasonal capitalism," the programmer muttered defensively.
It was too sweet. Malleus broke off a piece anyway.
When Valentine's Day was only a few days away, the decorations at café had escalated.
More hearts. More pink. A small glass jar labeled 'Leave a note for someone you love' sat on the counter. Someone had attempted to draw roses along the window with chalk markers. They looked vaguely like cabbages— Idia laughed at them for a whole five minutes.
He then stopped in the doorway, stared at the decorations, and sighed. "We're in the final boss phase," he muttered.
But he was smiling when he said it.
He spotted Malleus immediately. Of course he did. The dark vest, the straight posture, his always tidy raven black hair— it was impossible to miss it. He was already seated— but this time, he wasn't reading.
His book lay closed on the table. Waiting.
Idia's steps slowed just slightly. He ordered out of habit, took his cup, and approached. He set his laptop down in its usual place.
And then— He didn't open it. He just sat down instead.
Malleus noticed, his eyes turning soft. "Are you not working or gaming tonight?"
"Yeah," Idia said, fiddling with his sleeve. "Decided to, uh. Take a break. Shocking, I know. Revolutionary character development."
"I am honored," the man replied lightly.
The programmer felt his face getting warmer, it was not the heat this time. "And you?" he countered quickly. "No demon-contract summoning? No deeply philosophical book?"
Malleus glanced down at the closed book. "I find myself sufficiently occupied."
Their eyes met.
Something in the air felt different tonight. They started talking without prompting. Not about work, but about the small, mundane things of life: about the worst candies sold for Valentine's Day, about how neither of them understood the appeal of chalky conversation hearts.
"They taste like sweetened regret," Idia declared.
Malleus nodded. "A most accurate description."
They talked about Ortho— how he'd insisted on helping decorate their parents house with paper cutouts even though 'they don't celebrate this marketable farce.'
"He made one with glitter," the programmer said. "It's aggressively shiny."
"Well, he does sound like quite the cheerful character," Malleus said, fondness clear in his tone.
"He is," his voice turned fond too.
They talked about Silver falling asleep in inconvenient places. About Lilia's questionable cooking experiments. At some point— neither of them quite aware of when— their chairs had shifted closer.
The table was small, their knees brushed.
Idia froze. Malleus did too. They both glanced down briefly— then back up at each other.
Neither moved away.
Instead, a faint flush crept up Idia's neck. Malleus remained composed, but there was a subtle nervousness in the way his fingers curled around his cup.
The contact was light, but warm.
The programmer cleared his throat softly. "Uh."
"Yes?" Malleus replied, calm.
Their knees were still touching.
"…No, it's nothing."
"Very well."
They kept talking.
The programmer found himself leaning forwards, elbows on the table. Malleus mirrored him unconsciously, closing the distance further.
Their knees pressed more firmly now. Neither acknowledged it.
Idia's heart had started beating faster, as if it would burst out of his chest. It felt louder than the café's music. He wondered— irrationally— if his companion could hear it.
Would it be so bad if he did?
Across from him, Malleus felt painfully aware of the point of contact— It was astonishing how something so small could command so much attention.
Idia laughed at something he'd just said— a soft, unguarded sound. Not the weird, self-deprecating one. A real laugh.
The lawyer's gaze softened.
He looks so pretty like that, he thought, I wish I could see him smile like that more often.
"You seem lighter tonight," he said instead.
Idia hesitated. "Yeah," he admitted. "I don't feel like I have to be… on."
"On?"
"You know," He gestured vaguely. "Performing."
Malleus held his gaze. "You are not required to perform here."
The words came out in a soft whisper, like a secret spoken between the two of them.
The programmer swallowed. "Good," he replied quietly.
The lawyer looked bashful for a fleeting moment— "I find," he started carefully, "that I look forward to these nights."
Idia's fingers tightened around his cup. "Yeah," he said, voice softer than usual. "Me too."
Their knees pressed a bit closer.
Malleus regarded him quietly for a moment before speaking. "Will you be here," he asked, voice steady, "on the day itself?"
The man tilted his head. "Valentine's?"
"Yes."
Idia shrugged, a bit shy. "Yeah. Probably. I don't have—" he made a small pause, their eyes met. Oh gods, did he look too hopeful? " Uh, I don't have plans or anything."
A pause.
The lawyer's gaze did not waver. "I would like to," he began carefully, "if you agree— to spend that evening with you."
The blue-haired man's heart skipped a beat so violently he nearly choked on air. "W-With me? I mean. You already do that. We're literally— this is—"
Yes, he's been wanting that too— but he didn't expect it to actually happen.
"I mean," Malleus said, a bit red at the tips of his ears, "like a date."
Oh.
He went very still. The café seemed quieter, somehow. Or maybe it was just the sound of his pulse flooding his ears.
Malleus continued, now notably nervous. "I have come to greatly enjoy your company." His fingers tightened slightly around his cup.
Idia could not look away.
"And," the man added, softer now, "I would like to try something beyond friendship. If you would allow it."
The programmer's brain short-circuited for a full five seconds. "You—" he started, then stopped. "You mean. Like— seriously?"
"Yes."
"I really like you," Idia blurted. It came out too fast, honest.
Malleus' expression softened instantly.
"But," he continued, fumbling, "I'm kind of— bad at this stuff. I overthink. I self-sabotage. I panic. I've never—" He exhaled shakily. "I'm scared of ruining what we already have."
Their knees pressed closer without either of them thinking about it.
The lawyer went quiet for a moment, then he nodded. "I am afraid as well."
The blue-haired man blinked. "You?"
"Yes." he confessed with a small smile. "I am unfamiliar with— this type of softness. I would dislike causing you discomfort. Or losing these nights."
'This type of softness'— the honesty in his voice made Idia's chest ache.
"But," the man continued, gaze steady and warm, "I wish to try," he looked bashful, eyes half-lidded, fingers slightly trembling against the table, "I truly like your company, Idia— I like hearing you laugh, the things you say. That you stay."
Oh gods, this was ridiculous.
His heart was beating so hard he was now certain Malleus could hear it. "You really mean that?" he asked, barely above a whisper, face heating up.
"I do."
Their eyes locked. Idia's face burned bright red.
"That's— I hate that you have rizz," he muttered weakly.
"I— what?" Malleus tilted his head. "Was that inappropriate?"
"No," the programmer replied quickly. "No. It was— good. Very good. A critical hit," A shaky breath, "Okay," he said at last, voice trembling but determined. "Let's try."
The lawyer went very still, eyes wide. "Truly?"
"Yeah." Idia's fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, gathering courage. "I really like you—it's impossible not to, truly—. And if I don't at least attempt this, I'll regret it forever. So. Let's… try."
For a split second, Malleus looked stunned. Then he smiled. "I am glad," he said quietly.
Idia laughed under his breath, giddy and overwhelmed all at once. Their knees remained pressed together.
Neither of them looked away.
His heart felt too big for his chest. "So," the programmer said, trying and failing to sound casual, "Valentine's. Same time?"
"I was hoping we could meet earlier," the lawyer replied, shy once again, " to spend more time together."
"Yes, I'd love that," A beat. Then, quieter, he added, "I'm really glad you asked."
"So am I."
Valentine's Day arrived.
At five in the afternoon, the city was still buzzing — people coming out from work early, shop windows crowded with pink displays, a lot of chocolate and flowery motifs everywhere.
Idia walked slower than usual.
He had changed twice before leaving his flat. The clothes he wore now were newer, less 'I haven't slept in 36 hours' and more "' tried.' His hair was freshly dyed, the blue vibrant beneath the lowering sun, and he actually tried doing his make-up this time. Well— Ortho helped.
He told himself to be calm. He wasn't.
Halfway down the street, he spotted a small flower kiosk set up near the corner of the block. Buckets of roses, tulips, carnations. Red, white, pink. A handwritten sign that said: 'Last minute? We've got you.'
He stopped walking and stared.
Flowers were— dangerous. What if it was too much? What if Malleus thought he was going too fast? What if it screamed desperate romantic?
He took two steps past it, then stopped and turned back.
"Just— a small detail," he muttered to himself. "Low-key. Casual. Not trying too hard. Very chill."
Five minutes later, he was holding a modest bouquet of red roses wrapped in simple paper. Nothing extravagant. Just enough to say 'I thought of you', and not 'I wrote poetry about you at 3AM'.
Not that he actually wrote poetry.
Okay, he might have drawn a bunch of hearts using the desmos graphing calculator but— that was totally different.
As he resumed walking, his mind spiraled.
Were roses too cliché? What if Malleus hates them? What if he prefers— I don't know— ethically sourced moon lilies harvested under starlight? Is that even a thing?
By the time he reached the café, his palms were slightly damp around the paper wrapping.
Through the window, he saw him. He was already there. Seated at their usual table, hands folded neatly atop the table. And resting beside his hands, was a small bouquet of yellow flowers.
Idia froze outside the door.
Oh my gods.
He pushed the door open before he could overthink it further. The bell chimed softly. The lawyer looked up immediately, their eyes met.
And for just a second, both of them looked equally startled.
The programmer stepped closer, raising the bouquet awkwardly. "Uh, hi."
Malleus stood up, "Good evening, Idia."
They both glanced down at each other's hands.
Yellow flowers.
Red roses.
Idia let out a nervous laugh, then he lifted the roses slightly. "I, uh. I panicked at a kiosk."
"A relatable experience," Malleus replied gently.
The programmer's eyes dropped on the bouquet. Bright. Cheerful. Soft petals catching the café light. He snorted suddenly.
"You know," he said, trying to regain his composure, "Yellow flowers are supposed to be given on the twenty-first of September. When spring starts."
Malleus tilted his head. "Is that so?"
"Yes! Like Floricienta!" Idia exclaimed quickly, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. "There's like— a whole song about it."
"I see," the lawyer murmured, "I was unaware of this tradition."
"So, like, you're a few months early," the blue-haired man smiled.
Malleus considered his words for a moment, "Or a few months late."
"I prefer to think you're early," he replied, not really thinking about his words, "So I can pretend I'll be gifting you more flowers in spring."
The man's eyes widened, surprised. Then, before Idia's mind could spiral, he spoke gently. "I got them because they reminded me of your eyes."
Oh.
Idia's brain shut down. There was a full, visible reboot happening behind his eyes. "My—" he barely managed.
"They are bright," the lawyer continued calmly, though the tips of his ears had gone pink. "And warmer than you believe."
He stared at him. His face burned instantly. He laughed helplessly, hiding his mouth behind the bouquet. "I loved them— the flowers, I mean. I love them."
"I am glad."
They stood there for a second longer than necessary, both holding flowers like slightly flustered teenagers at a school dance. Then, the programmer stepped forward and extended the roses toward him. "Please, take them."
Malleus accepted them, offering the yellow bouquet in return. Their fingers brushed in the exchange.
They sat down at last, placing the flowers carefully beside them.
The café was fuller than usual — soft music playing, candle-like lights flickering on each table. A small handwritten card sat upright near the sugar jar: 'Happy Valentine's.'
Idia exhaled slowly. "So," he said, trying to regain some composure. "We survived the flower exchange. That's phase one."
"Indeed," Malleus chuckled. "What is phase two?"
"Food," he answered immediately. "I refuse to confess emotions on an empty stomach."
"A wise strategy."
They ordered something simple to share — a warm panini cut in half, and a slice of cake far too sweet for either of them but appropriate for the occasion. It felt natural to be like this.
When they stepped out of the café with their bouquets carefully wrapped in paper, the evening air was cool but gentle. The sky was painted in dusky oranges and yellows, the kind of sunset that made you feel all warm inside.
"So," Idia muttered, rocking slightly on his heels. "There's, uh, a place I kinda wanted to check out."
Malleus agreed, attentive. "Lead the way."
"It's dumb," the man warned immediately. "Like— Objectively childish. You can still back out."
"Why would I? I said I'd like to spend the evening with you, I don't mind," he replied.
Idia huffed a shy laugh and started walking. They stopped in front of an old arcade, the neon sign flickered faintly, and through the glass, a few machines blinked too.
The lawyer looked at it, then at his companion. "You wished to come here?"
"Yeah," Idia said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I used to go when I was a kid." He shrugged. "Figured it would be a nice place to start…"
Malleus nodded once. "I'm afraid you'll have to teach me, I've never been to one of these."
"What? Never?" the programmer asked, genuinely surprised.
"Ah," the man managed, looking a bit ashamed, "No, never."
"You," Idia started, voice serious, "are missing out on a lot."
Inside, it smelled faintly of plastic. A handful of children clustered around a racing game in the far corner, but otherwise it was quiet— these places weren't as crowded these days.
Idia drifted towards a rhythm game machine, fingers hovering over the buttons like muscle memory was waking up. "Oh my god, they still have this one," he breathed.
Malleus stood slightly behind him, watching with quiet fondness. "Will you demonstrate your skills?"
"Prepare to witness peak gamer excellence," the man declared and immediately fumbled the first few beats, flushing. "Okay, warm-up round. That one didn't count."
The lawyer's low laughter felt warm in the small space.
They moved from machine to machine after that: air hockey —Malleus was surprisingly good at it—, a claw machine clearly rigged, and a shooting game where Idia grew intensely competitive.
At one point, they both reached for the joystick at the same time.
Their hands overlapped. They both paused.
The arcade lights blinked around them, some game's music looping in the background.
Malleus didn't pull away, instead, he adjusted his grip slightly so their fingers fit together more naturally. "Shall we attempt this together?" he asked quietly.
Idia swallowed. "Y-Yeah. Co-op mode."
They played like that— shoulders brushing, hands intertwined, laughing when they inevitably failed due to how clumsy they were. For the first time, Idia didn't mind losing.
At the end, they stood in front of the prize counter with a small handful of tickets. Not enough for anything impressive.
Idia squinted at the options. "We can get— a tiny stuffed dragon?"
Malleus raised a brow. "Sure, a tiny dragon seems appropriate."
The programmer turned it over in his hands, then hesitated before holding it out. "For you," he said, trying to sound casual, "To commemorate, uh, a successful date?"
Gods kill him, he was so cringeworthy.
Malleus accepted it without thinking twice, "I shall treasure it," he said. The sincerity in his voice made Idia's ears burn.
They stepped back outside into the cool evening air. The streetlights had come on, casting a silver glow over the sidewalk.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, tentatively, Idia's hand brushed against Malleus'. Their fingers intertwined— hesitant at first, then firmer.
The blue-haired man looked down at their joined hands, giddy. "Okay," he muttered softly. "Phase three might be— holding hands, apparently."
Malleus's thumb brushed, tenderly, over Idia's knuckles. "I find myself quite content with this phase."
They stood there for a few seconds: two bouquets, one stuffed dragon and their fingers laced together under the streetlights.
Then, like that, they wandered around for a while after leaving the arcade. The sky had turned into a darker indigo, the last streaks of orange fading behind the rooftops. A gentle breeze caressing their faces softly.
They found themselves drifting toward a nearby park, they chose a bench beneath a large tree, its leaves rustling softly over their heads.
The stuffed dragon rested between them.
"This is— really nice," Idia admitted quietly, staring at the path ahead. "Like. Suspiciously nice. I keep waiting for a plot twist."
Malleus glanced at him, faint amusement in his eyes. "I'm afraid I haven't prepared one."
They talked about small things at first, but ended up on the topic of whether the dragon needed a name.
"Absolutely not," the programmer said immediately. "Naming it would make me emotionally attached."
"And is that undesirable?" the lawyer asked.
"…No," he replied, muttering. "That's the problem."
The breeze picked up slightly, lifting a few strands of Idia's blue hair. Malleus noticed and, before he could stop himself, reached up to gently smooth one lock back into place.
The touch was brief.
Idia went completely still. His heart had been beating fast all evening, but now it felt louder.
Malleus seemed to feel it too, now looking soft, careful not to ruin the moment.
The park lamps flickered on fully as the last daylight slipped away.
The programmer swallowed. He stared at his own hands for a long second, then at the dragon, then at literally anything other than Malleus.
"So," he started, voice slightly higher. "Hypothetical question."
"Yes?" the lawyer asked, careful.
Idia inhaled, exhaled, then inhaled again. "Is it, um— too early," he mumbled, words rushing together, "to ask for a kiss?"
For a heartbeat, the night seemed to hold its breath with him.
Malleus did not laugh nor tease, he simply looked at the man before him, at the way his fingers twisted nervously in the fabric of his own sleeve, at the faint tremble of his shoulders, his slightly rosy cheeks and gorgeous heliodor eyes.
"No," he replied softly. "It is not too early."
"Oh." the man smiled, and chuckled all giddily.
The lawyer shifted slightly closer on the bench, slowly, giving Idia every chance to retreat if he wished. His hand hovered for a moment, before gently cupping the side of Idia's face.
His palm was warm.
"I'm glad you asked," he added in a low whisper. "Especially when it is something I wish for as well."
The man's brain short-circuited for a full three seconds. "Y-You—?" he managed, then gave up entirely.
Malleus was so close— and oh, how pretty he truly was.
The breeze stirred again, rustling the leaves above them.
Malleus leaned in.
Their kiss was gentle, careful. Soft lips brushing against his, a slightly nervous, but sweet, thing.
It lasted only a few seconds.
And when they parted, it was slow and reluctant. Idia stared at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
"…Oh," he breathed again, tenderly this time.
Malleus' thumb caressed, absent-minded, along Idia's cheekbone. "Was that acceptable?" he asked gently, though the faint smile on his lips suggested he already knew the answer.
The man let out a shaky laugh. "Acceptable?" he echoed. "That was—" He hid his face in his hands for a moment, mortified yet shamelessly happy. "That was really nice," he finally admitted, peeking through his fingers.
"Good," the lawyer murmured. "I am glad."
Idia laughed, it was a small thing, then he shifted closer without overthinking, shoulder pressing fully against his companion's side. After a brief second, Malleus wrapped an arm around him — careful and gentle.
He melted against him immediately. "This is— dangerously nice," he murmured.
"Dangerous?" he echoed.
"Yeah. I could get used to this."
Malleus' hold tightened just slightly, "I would like that outcome."
Idia's heart did that stupid, fluttery thing again. He leaned his head against his shoulder, the stuffed dragon slid slightly between them, now a bit squished.
The park was quieter. The sky fully dark, dotted faintly with early stars. The world felt distant, as if time had stopped for a merciful minute.
After a moment, the programmer tilted his head up slightly. "Can I—?" he started, then stopped, embarrassed.
The lawyer looked down at him, patient.
"May I kiss you again?" Idia tried, voice barely above a whisper.
The answer came without hesitation. "Yes."
The second kiss was less startled. Still soft, still gentle. But this time, Idia knew what to expect. His hand slid carefully to rest against the man's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart — it was fast, not as composed as the lawyer's calm exterior suggested.
"Oh," he whispered against his lips, "Your heart's rushing too."
Malleus smiled, "Indeed," he murmured. "It would seem we are in similar condition."
Under the summer night, on a simple park bench, with a poorly stitched dragon as witness, they kissed once again. Their hearts content having found a place to belong.