Chapter Text
One thing about living in rural Japan was that it was boring – and Tsurugi Okkotsu hated boredom more than anything. Life there moved like dust motes in sunlight, slow and aimless, drifting wherever the wind bothered to blow. The summer mornings smelled of wet earth and distant rice fields, the afternoons were all cicada hum and the faint hiss of summer heat off the asphalt. Even the sky seemed to stretch itself thin, without a single cloud daring to break the monotony. The hills rolled lazily into the distance, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or gnarled tree, and the air carried a gentle warmth that made everything feel as if it were moving in slow motion. Nothing ever changed. The same farmers passed on their bicycles. The same delivery truck rattled by twice a week, always five minutes late. It was all constant, a rhythm, a rule.
Boring.
Too boring and too slow for someone like Tsurugi. He’d tried counting the cars that passed the main road – once, twice – but it was so incredibly underwhelming and not fun at all that he quickly abandoned the idea. He’d already finished his summer assignments a week after the break started, just to get them out of the way. His friends were stuck at cram school, melting under fluorescent lights while he sat in a house that was too quiet, too clean – the faint smell of tatami and polished wood filling every empty corner and he had nothing left to do.
Well, he was actually supposed to be at the cram school too. He’d argued his way out of that one, insisting to his parents that he didn’t need it – that he was perfectly capable of managing on his own. Which was true, for the record. He was good at studying, disciplined enough to keep his grades up without someone hovering over him. But as it turned out, being right didn’t make his decision any less miserable.
To be fair, Tokyo life wasn’t quite appealing to Tsurugi either. He was fed up with the amounts of people he had to pass on the streets, with the crowded trains and restaurants too. He wished for something in between, somewhere where he wouldn’t have to figure out how to pass the time with reception way to poor for the Wi-Fi to work properly – somewhere where he wouldn’t bump into strangers on the sidewalk as well. But he didn’t get to have that choice, at least not yet.
The first week after finishing his assignments felt like freedom. He woke up whenever he wanted, made himself lazy breakfasts, took long showers, even walked down to the small convenience store just to kill time and buy iced drinks he didn’t really need. He read a few chapters of his textbooks, practiced math problems until his hand cramped, then rewarded himself with naps that stretched a little too long to be called that. By the second week, the novelty had evaporated and everything began to blur and melt together – mornings with afternoons, afternoons with evenings, and suddenly it seemed like twenty-four hours became forty-eight.
Swallowing his pride and admitting that maybe cram school wouldn’t have been so bad was not an option, though – so he bore the consequences of his choices and stayed put, pacing between the same rooms, the same thoughts, the same small irritations, and he sat in that damn house.
Studying was easy – almost too easy. Studying didn’t challenge him anymore. What challenged him was staying still while studying. Sitting in one place, repeating the same lessons over and over, going through the same textbooks, doing the same exercises. He could do that, but it was boring and repetitive, and he was sick of it. How could he not be, when that was all he would do most of the time?
Sometimes he would help Yuka with whatever she was struggling with, pointing out her mistakes a little too smugly, just to make her groan and throw the closest thing at him. Other times he would annoy her purely for his own entertainment – lean against her doorframe and bug her while she tried to read, or he’d laugh about her hair. She’d tell him to go to hell because his somehow looked worse than Uncle Megumi’s back when he was younger. That only happened once and Tsurugi just scoffed at the comment then – though he did lock himself in the bathroom later that day and tried different hairstyles for an hour straight.
Their bickering, too, was the unchanging part of the house’s rhythm and one could say that it should’ve become boring after some time, but having another human being in there with you actually made it much less lonely and manageable.
During the third week, Tsurugi kept up his study routine. He woke early, reviewed his notes, checked off to-do lists. He was trying really hard to prepare for his exams, keeping up the discipline he knew would matter in the long run. It felt kind of good, productive to a certain level. But no matter how neatly he filled his planner or how many pages he memorized, he always ended up with too much free time and too much buzzing in his head – a restlessness that refused to quiet down, no matter how much he tried to bury it under the hum of ceiling fans.
Again, boring.
The buzzing seemed to escape his head at some point – spilling into the warm air and taking the shape of a lone fly, or maybe a bee. A soft glow was slanting through the shoji and painting slow, shifting rectangles across the floor. Tsurugi sat cross-legged by the low table, his chin resting in his hand, watching the light crawl across the floorboards as if it might reveal something new. It didn’t. The light just dimmed, inch by inch, until the corners of the room went soft and shadowed.
He didn’t even notice when his grandma joined him. She moved quietly, her presence more of a feeling than a sound. The cushion dipped slightly as she sat down beside him, and just for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“You look awful, it’s painful for me to watch.”
Tsurugi shifted slightly, feeling the last bits of heat from the fading sunlight on his shoulders and the cool wood beneath his palm. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, though the buzzing in his head insisted otherwise.
Maki didn’t press him, just gave a small sigh and set her hands on her knees, the faint creak of her kimono as she shifted reminding him that she was really there.
“It’s too quiet,” he admitted after a long pause. “Everything’s the same every day. I’ve finished my assignments, I’m studying every day, I’ve– I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do, and it’s just–” a sigh. “It’s just boring.”
He wasn’t really sure why, but it was always his grandma who he would turn to whenever things got hard for him. Maybe because she never treated him like a kid who needed comforting. She never cooed or fussed, never offered the kind of soft sympathy that made things feel worse. Maybe it was the way she listened to him – not with immediate questions or advice, but with silence that somehow made space for him to breathe.
Over the years they managed to form a connection not even his parents – who he, too, loved very deeply – were able to surpass. It was Maki whom he would put on a pedestal ever since he was a little kid. There was something unshakable about her, something that made her feel like a mountain standing steady no matter how strong the wind blew. When he was younger, she’d always known what to say when he came home with scraped knees or a bruised ego, but sometimes she didn't need to say anything at all – just hand him a glass of barley tea, pat the seat beside her, and give him time. She’d been the constant in every stage of his life – from being the one who taught him how to hold chopsticks properly, to showing him how to throw a punch, and, more importantly, when not to.
He knew Yuka looked up to their grandpa the same way he did to Maki. They were similar in that way – gravitating toward strength that felt safe enough to lean on. Yuta was calm in the way rivers were – quiet, but always moving, always carrying something unseen beneath the surface. There was a warmth to him that didn’t need words. It lived in the way he smiled when he poured tea, in the patient way he listened, in how he always seemed to know when to stay silent and when to speak. He was so full of love that, if you paid attention, you could almost see it shaping the space around him – softening everything it touched.
Yuka adored that about him. She followed him everywhere as a kid – to the garden, the shed, even to the corner store – her small steps trying to match his. Where he was gentle, she learned to be gentle. Where he was steady, she tried to be steady too.
Their grandparents were similar, but not the same. Maki’s love didn’t rest quietly like Yuta’s, it moved, but not like the rivers. It filled the air with her sharp voice, with the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, with the sound of her laughter that always came a little louder than necessary. Her love came from motion, yes, but not the kind that drifted – the kind that pushed, that refused to let stillness turn into weakness. She never hesitated to speak her mind, never softened her words for the sake of politeness, and yet there was something deeply comforting in her bluntness.
If Yuta was the calm that followed a storm, Maki was the strength that carried you through it – loud, certain, unyielding. And together, they made the kind of home that felt complete.
Maki reached over and tapped her finger lightly against the tabletop. The sound was small, rhythmic – like she was knocking on his thoughts rather than the wood.
“I know you’re working hard,” she said, not looking at him. “But you’re thinking too much. The break will end soon enough, and you’ll have plenty to do by then, won’t you?”
Tsurugi let out a low groan and let his head fall onto the table beside her hand. The wood was cool against his cheek. “That’s kind of the problem,” he muttered. “I have like one– no, one and a half more weeks of limbo to get through. Then, after school starts again, I’m still going to have free evenings. It’s torture.”
“Aren’t you going to have to study even more? And your book club?”
He looked up at her, watching as she adjusted her glasses. “Not really? School’s far. I’ve got plenty of time on the bus, then even more on the train. The club isn’t doing much at the moment. We study. Boring.”
Maki hummed quietly, the sound barely rising over the faint chorus of cicadas outside. “Are you lonely, then?”
“What? No, I’m just–” He sat up a little too quickly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just bored, okay? This is a boring place and I have a boring life.”
For a moment, the room went still again – only the faint clink of wind chimes outside broke the silence. Maki didn’t say anything right away, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes that made him shift under her gaze.
“Tsurugi,” she said finally, “maybe you want to help out at the cafe?”
He blinked, frowning. “But you don’t need help at the cafe.”
She smiled – a small, knowing curve of her mouth that made him instantly suspicious. “Yuka comes to study sometimes,” she said, ignoring his comment. “And the festival’s coming up soon. You know what that means – more guests visiting the village, more coffee, more dishes. More work. Your grandpa and I are getting a bit rusty too.”
Tsurugi leaned back a little, squinting at her. “First of all, you’re trying to trick me into free labor,” he said, holding up one finger. “Second of all, I don’t know anything about cafes,” he added, raising another, his eyebrows shooting skyward for dramatic effect.
Maki shook her head, letting out a quiet sigh. “You are my grandson, you are not stupid and you learn fast. Besides, you don’t have to do it, just think about it,” she said, rising from her seat. “And stop making that face. You’re going to wrinkle before you hit twenty.”
And so, Tsurugi did think about it. Right after checking his face in the mirror, that is. He squinted his eyes and raised his eyebrows in the same way he did earlier, and made sure to double check if the lines that formed on his face really did leave any wrinkles behind. Which they didn’t, but he lingered for a moment, watching how the evening light traced faint shadows across his face. Maybe his grandma was right – maybe he really was thinking too much.
That night, he lay in bed with the windows wide open, the hum of the night slipping into the room. The ceiling fan turned lazily above him, pushing the warm air around without really cooling it, and somewhere between one turn on the mattress, and the next, he decided he might as well stop by the cafe in the morning. Not because he wanted to help, of course – just because he had nothing better to do.
When he woke up, the sunlight was already spilling into the room in thin, golden stripes. The air smelled faintly of wet grass, the birds sang their songs somewhere between the trees, and the soft rustle of leaves brushed against the open window. The world outside was already awake, moving at its slow, deliberate countryside pace – a dog barking, some distant voices, the sound of that delivery truck he’d be able to recognise from his grave.
Tsurugi lay there for a moment, half-buried under the sheets, staring at the ceiling. Morning light had a way of making everything look softer, quieter – even the boredom felt less heavy, more like something he could almost ignore. He thought briefly about going back to sleep, then remembered the conversation from yesterday and groaned loudly into his pillow.
He exhaled, long and slow, and finally pushed himself upright. The floor was cool under his feet. He ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the sunlight that got into his eyes, before dragging himself to the sink to splash cold water on his face. It shocked him awake in a single, bracing second.
When Tsurugi brushed his teeth that morning, he felt irritation starting to pool low in his stomach – heavy, slow, like thick water swirling around. Maybe from the few sips he’d taken three minutes earlier? It wasn’t anger, exactly. Just something tight and unpleasant that refused to go away. He could feel it moving with him, sloshing when he bent over the sink, rising when he straightened up. There was no reason for him to feel that way, he supposed. But he did, and that fact alone was enough to irritate him.
He stared at his reflection for a long moment – toothpaste foam on his lips, hair sticking out in too many directions, eyes that looked half-awake but also vaguely annoyed at being awake at all. He rinsed his mouth, spat, rinsed again, and then once more because yesterday he only rinsed twice.
The irritation didn’t go away. If anything, it followed him, swaying under his ribs as he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was warm at first, then too hot, then too cold. He couldn’t decide what he wanted. He picked up the shampoo, squeezed too much into his hand, scrubbed too hard, rinsed too fast. The bottle slipped and clattered against the tile. The noise echoed.
By the time he reached for the conditioner, the irritation had climbed higher – up from his stomach to his lungs, pressing against the back of his throat. He coughed once, then again, then he shut his eyes and stood there under the spray, letting the water run down his face and over his shoulders.
It was dumb. So dumb. All of it – every single thing he did, every breath of it – just dumb. The same routine, the same stupid rhythm repeating itself, looping like some song he couldn’t turn off. Wake up, drink water, brush teeth, get into the shower, eat breakfast, exist. Again. Again. Again.
And it wasn’t even about the village anymore. The place could disappear off the map, swallowed up by the mountains, and he knew it wouldn’t matter. He could dig a hole straight through the earth, keep digging until the air turned thick and hot, until his hands bled – and even there, at the planet’s burning heart, he’d still have to wake up, eat, breathe, do something just to stay alive. The same things. Always the same things.
He could soar the other way, too – climb up past the clouds, drift through the cold hush of the sky, maybe even sit on the edge of the moon and let his legs dangle into the void – and it would still feel the same. No matter how far he went, no matter how much the scenery changed, the pattern would remain. Things might evolve, shift, look different on the surface – but underneath, it was always the same pulse, the same loop. The same motions, the same air, the same him.
Tsurugi opened his eyes again, water dripping from his lashes, and let the irritation out with a sigh. He turned the water off and ran a hand through his hair, watching the drops fall from his fingers. For a moment, it almost felt like all that noise in his head was washing down the drain with it. Almost.
He found himself standing in front of the cafe’s front door almost an hour later. The place was older than him – older than both his and Yuka’s ages combined. He’d seen it in photographs, and he’d seen it change in small, almost imperceptible ways as he grew up.
The wooden beams leaned a little more each year, the paint on the sign had faded, but the scent of roasted beans still lingered faintly in the air. Some things changed, yes, but that was fine. They were still the same things, after all. They were familiar. Tsurugi hated boredom, hated repetition – but he liked familiarity. It was warm and sweet, like tea with honey, like his grandparents.
“Good morning. Are you waiting for someone?”
Tsurugi’s head turned toward the voice. His grandpa was walking up the narrow path to the cafe, a wooden crate balanced carefully in his arms. The old man’s steps were steady, unhurried, the soft crunch of gravel marking his approach. Sunlight caught on the ring hanging from the chain around his neck, making it flash briefly before settling back against the fabric of his shirt.
Tsurugi blinked at the glint of the ring before meeting his grandpa’s eyes.
“Oh. Morning,” he muttered, stepping aside so Yuta could pass. “I came to help.”
“Is that so?” Yuta’s face lit up as he smiled softly. “Then I’m in luck.”
He shifted the crate in his arms and Tsurugi reached to take it without really thinking. Damn that was heavy. Not heavy enough to make him struggle, but if he carried it for long enough, his arms would definitely remind him of that later.
He huffed slightly and nudged the door open with his shoulder. A small bell above it swayed a little, ringing in the same way it always did. The air that met him was different from outside – thicker somehow. It smelled faintly of roasted beans and something sharper underneath, like citrus peel and metal warmed by the sun. The floor creaked beneath his shoes, and the sound folded neatly into the hush of the place.
Light pooled in through the windows in long, uneven stripes, catching on the edge of the counter and all of the jars and bottles lined behind it – each labeled with his grandma’s unmistakable handwriting. Above them, pots hung from the ceiling on thin, knotted ropes. The leaves spilled down in soft green clusters, their edges still beaded with tiny drops of water that glistened in the very light.
Tsurugi didn’t know what kind of plants those were. He never had. But he remembered helping his grandma hang it a few years ago – standing on a ladder that wobbled a little too much while she steadied it with one hand and passed him the pots with the other. The memory came back as clear as the droplets trembling on the leaves, and for a second, the irritation that had been gnawing at him all morning faded just a bit.
Yuta brushed past him once the door shut, the faint sound of his sandals against the old wood filling in the quiet. He didn’t hurry – though he always walked surprisingly fast – just crossed the room with ease. His fingers slid over the wooden counter as he passed, tracing over it as if he was greeting an old friend.
Tsurugi followed his grandpa in and bent slightly to set the crate down behind the counter – the same spot Yuta always used. The wood met the weight with a thud and he flexed his fingers to shake off the dull ache. When he straightened, his palms lingered against the counter’s surface. It was smooth but scratched in some places, worn by years of cloths and elbows and coffee spills. The delicate scent of sugar and lemon clung to it – his grandma’s doing, probably.
With one finger he traced a circle around a dent from when Yuka dropped a spoon so hard it left a mark. Well, at least that’s what they told their grandparents. Truth was, she threw it at him after he teased her, and it bounced off the counter, taking two cups with it on the way down.
The quiet in the cafe wasn’t empty – it was heavy with echoes of things that had happened here, the brush of countless hands over the doorknob, the whisper of chairs nudged aside, the hum of voices mixed with the hiss of the espresso machine. All of them settled into corners, and Tsurugi could almost feel the memory of each sound allowing the cafe to breathe.
“Sorry I’m late,” Maki’s voice called out before the door had even closed behind her. The bell above it chimed once, twice, swaying lazily as a warm breeze slipped in with her. “I stopped by the market to get the flowers.”
And then Tsurugi saw them – long stalks of sword lilies wrapped in brown paper, their petals flushed with soft pink and coral, deepening here and there into a bold red, a few of them still tipped in green from the buds that hadn’t opened yet. They looked almost too bright for the room. Almost. Because somehow, the colors fit – as if the cafe had been waiting for them, for that burst of summer to settle among all the browns and golds.
“That’s okay, love,” Yuta said, glancing up from the counter. “Are the pastries in the car, then?”
Maki looked up at him and nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting.
“Alright, I’ll go get them,” he said, brushing his hands briefly against his trousers before stepping toward the door.
Then her eyes landed on Tsurugi. “I’m happy that you’re here,” she said, already moving toward him. She held the bouquet out to her grandson. “Put these in water, will you?”
Tsurugi reached for the flowers, careful not to crush the petals. The paper was still warm from his grandma's grip, rough beneath his fingers, and the stems inside pressed cool and solid against it. A faint, green sweetness rose from them. By the time he looked up again, Maki had already slipped behind the counter, tying her apron with brisk, practiced motions.
The sound of running water joined them as Tsurugi filled a tall glass vase by the sink. The tap sputtered once before steadying, leaving wet marks on his shirt. He clicked his tongue and put the flowers in the vase, then set it on the counter.
“Actually, can you put them on that table over there?” Maki gestured with her hand, toward the couch by the glass door.
And so, Tsurugi did. He carried the vase carefully across the room, mindful of the water sloshing near the rim. When he set it down, the faint clink of glass against wood stopped him for a second. A thin, silvery scratch ran straight through the middle of the table like a scar. He’d made it years ago, dragging a toy car across the surface with too much enthusiasm. His grandma wasn’t angry about that. Apparently, the scratch gave it character.
If anyone asked Tsurugi, he thought it just made the table look more like her place – lived in, familiar, a little imperfect in the way she was. It reminded him of her own scars. But maybe it reminded her more of Yuta’s. Tsurugi didn’t know. They both had plenty, and they never spoke about them. Which was fine, he supposed. He never asked, anyway.
Tsurugi stood there for a moment, not really sure where to go and what to do next. His gaze drifted toward the door. The glass stretched to the floor, framed by a long, pale curtain that swayed any time someone walked past it. Beyond it, sunlight pressed against the glass, making the air outside shimmer faintly.
Right.
He reached for the frame and pushed. The glass door gave a soft shudder before gliding aside, and a rush of warm summer air spilled inside again. The curtain lifted with it, brushing lightly against his arm before settling, half in and half out, like it couldn’t decide which side it belonged to. Tsurugi leaned out the frame for a moment, letting the sun wash over his face.
“Alright,” Maki called softly from behind the counter, “first things first – wipe down the tables and straighten the chairs. Do you remember how to actually make coffee?”
Tsurugi hesitated for a moment, then came back to lean against the counter, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah, you go brrrr, then tap-tap, then bzzz-pshhh with the milk, and done, right?”
Maki’s eyes narrowed, and before he could react, she smacked his arm with a cloth. “Dumbass. Come here.”
With the espresso machine in front of him, Tsurugi’s fingers hovered above the portafilter, uncertain but eager. There were days – quite a few years ago – where his grandma would show him everything, one coffee at a time. He remembered the scent of the beans before they even touched the grinder, sharp but sweet. Maki’s hands would guide his, first steadying his wrist as he tamped the ground beans, then letting him lock the portafilter himself. He’d then push the button and just watch, until the rich, dark liquid hissed and poured into the shot glass.
She’d let him stir the milk in tiny circles, always watching to make sure the foam didn’t spill over. And he’d grin, proud, because even then he liked the feeling of doing something properly, of being trusted to get it right.
Now, standing here, the machine before him, Tsurugi felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement. It all seemed larger than he remembered, the smells even sharper and sweeter.
The bell above the door rang again, and Yuta stepped in, a wicker basket of pastries cradled carefully in his arms. The warm scent of buttery croissants and sweet rolls floated ahead of him, and Tsurugi’s stomach gave an involuntary twitch.
It was nice. It was all so nice and so different from his hated routine that he started wondering why he hadn’t thought of this earlier. Why did Tsurugi decide to drag himself out there today, of all days? It wasn’t like he never could, right? It wasn't an obligation – he knew what that felt like, the heavy push in his back, the silent pressure that made him grit his teeth. This wasn’t that. No one had forced him out of the house. No one had stood over him and told him to be useful. If anything, Maki asked, and the question was simple. Gentle.
Maybe he actually wasn’t thinking too much – the boredom and the repetition drilled a hole deep into his brain, and when Maki's words drifted into it, well. What the hell, sure.
Or maybe – and he didn’t want to admit this even to himself – he just wanted to be there.
There, where he would stand behind the counter, making the same coffee fifty times straight.
There, where his hand would repeat the same motion over and over again, while he wiped down the tables.
There, where opening the cafe in the morning was always the same, just like closing it in the evening.
There, where his grandparents both poured so much love and life into the place, that it felt different from everything else in his world – softer, warmer, and somehow more his than his own room ever managed to be.
There, where the familiarity won over the routine and repetition of work.
Tsurugi came the next day as well. And the day after that, too. It slipped into his routine faster than he expected – waking up, dragging himself through the mandatory morning activities, and then heading straight to the cafe without really thinking about it. His parents weren’t thrilled about the idea – especially his mother. They both gave him looks that hovered somewhere between disappointment and worry. But she was the one that asked if he was falling behind, if he was avoiding responsibilities, if he even remembered he had exams eventually.
However, he made sure to study after coming back home, shutting himself in his room with his notebook open and the window cracked just enough to let the night air in. He kept that promise – to himself and to them. And he swore he’d keep it up until the festival came around and the inevitable return to school swallowed his days again.
It wasn’t that they didn’t trust him. It was more that they didn’t understand why he suddenly wanted to spend so much time at the cafe. Tsurugi wasn’t sure he could explain it either. All he knew was that when he stepped inside, something in his chest loosened. The work tired him, sure, but it was a good kind of tired. A useful kind. Something that made the days feel a little less like dragging weights behind him and a little more like moving forward.
And so, it wasn’t long until that one-and-a-half-week limbo dissolved into just two days before the festival, and barely five days before school would drag him back. And his grandma, of course, had been right – painfully right. Visitors weren’t just drifting in – they were pouring into the village in waves. Familiar faces, unfamiliar ones, people who returned every year just to feel the festival’s glow for two single evenings.
And the cafe felt that shift immediately.
Tsurugi found himself on cleaning duty, exactly as his grandma had predicted. With so many customers coming in from outside the village, there was barely a moment the tables stayed empty. He didn’t mind, though. It kept him moving – and more importantly, it kept his grandparents from having to.
So he wove between tables with a tray balanced on one hand and a damp cloth tucked into his apron. Wipe, straighten, collect cups, bow, repeat. The cafe buzzed around him like music itself. Chairs scraping, murmured conversations blending with the clatter of dishes, door opening, the little bell ringing, door closing, espresso machine working – all of it creating a unique melody.
Tsurugi had just cleared a corner table, arranging the plates neatly onto his tray, when the melody repeated and the bell rang again. He didn’t look – he was used to the sound by now, and the sunlight spilling through the doorway made it impossible to see clearly anyway.
He turned, shifting the tray to his other hand–
“Whoa–!” he blurted, stumbling back a step. The tray lurched. A glass skidded dangerously close to the edge. Tsurugi sucked in a breath and snapped the tray upright at the last second.
“Ah, sorry! I’m so sorry!”
Tsurugi exhaled through his teeth, steadying the tray against his hip.
“No, my bad,” he muttered. “Didn’t see you there.”
Obviously. It was rather hard to see with his back turned, but he was not about to argue, so Tsurugi dropped it immediately. He stepped aside to let the customer move past him, his heartbeat thudding embarrassingly loud in his ears. But the guy in front of him didn’t budge. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his head tilted down just a little, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile. Something about him looked genuinely harmless. Puppy-like, almost, and Tsurugi couldn’t help tilting his own head.
Sunlight hugged the guy’s hair, lighting up strands of pale green that ran like brushstrokes over softer, sun-bleached blond. It wasn’t neat or perfect – just a little messy in a way that somehow seemed effortless. His eyes caught the light too, large and round, a much sharper green, that was staring right back at Tsurugi.
“No, I’m really sorry, I stood behind you like an idiot,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. As he did, the freckles on his pale nose shifted with the movement, scrunching and softening all at once.
“Dude, it’s really okay, it happens,” Tsurugi laughed nervously and looked around. “I gotta– you know.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah absolutely, I’ll just– sit down.”
And that was it.
The lunch rush started to thin out bit by bit – a few more orders before it all settled – with Tsurugi moving on instinct alone. Wipe, straighten, collect cups, bow, repeat. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed, but it clearly wasn’t that much, since the green-haired guy was still there. He was sitting near the open window that led to the patio.
Every time Tsurugi passed by, he caught a glimpse of those green eyes – either focused on his drink, stirring it absently with a straw, or locked on his phone screen, with a thumb hovering over it. Sometimes he looked up – twice to be precise – probably to look around a bit, but both of those times their eyes met and, well. Both times Tsurugi immediately looked away and pretended he didn’t notice. He didn’t count it – obviously – it was just really easy to remember and he had other things to do anyway. Important things.
“Tsurugi.”
He turned around and was met with his grandma’s gentle gaze. For a split second, he could’ve sworn he saw the green-haired guy’s head snap up too, but Tsurugi brushed the thought aside immediately. Maki stood there with a smile, a small bento wrapped neatly in furoshiki, holding it out to him.
“Here,” she said. “Do you want anything to drink with that?”
He blinked. “Ah– thank you. No, I’m fine, but it’s not my break yet, right?”
“You’re going home,” she stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been here every day, you’re going to overwork yourself.”
Tsurugi frowned and followed her behind the counter. “That’s not fair,” he muttered, lowering his voice but not enough. “I’m fine. I can handle it. It’s busy, you said so yourself.”
Maki didn’t answer. She simply reached for a glass, filled it with ice, poured tea over it, and slid it across the counter toward him. Tsurugi stared at the glass like it had personally offended him.
“You can stay if you want, but you won’t be working,” she said finally, putting a cloth in the front pocket of her apron.
Yuta passed by with a tray balanced effortlessly in his hands. “Or,” he added casually, “you could go with Yuka to her appointment, you know.”
Tsurugi clicked his tongue. “You both know she’s going with Uncle Megumi today.”
“And how is that a problem?” Maki asked without missing a beat.
Truth be told, it wasn’t. It really wasn’t, because Tsurugi liked his uncle – and he trusted him. He also knew that he didn’t want to go home yet. He didn’t have to, because clearly no one was forcing him out of the door, so there was that, but then – what exactly was he supposed to do?
He exhaled sharply and grabbed the iced tea, taking a long sip just to avoid answering. The ice clinked softly against the glass. Maki watched him for a moment longer than usual.
“Are you scared of what the doctors might say?”
Tsurugi stilled, almost choking on the goddamn tea. The question was simple, gentle, and it didn’t sound like an accusation, so he himself wasn’t really sure where that reaction came from. For a second, he focused only on the condensation sliding down the side of his glass.
“I’m not scared,” he said quickly. His jaw tightened and took another sip, though the tea didn’t taste like much anymore.
His grandma sighed quietly and nodded.
“So can I–”
“Nope,” Maki cut him off.
“Fine.”
Tsurugi decided that he won’t argue again. He just stood up, grabbed the bento box and whatever was left of his drink, and made his way toward the patio without looking back.
Outside, the air felt different – warmer, thicker, but somehow easier to breathe. The patio wrapped around the side of the cafe, shaded by a wide tree whose branches stretched lazily overhead. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in uneven patterns, dappling the wooden benches beneath.
Tsurugi chose the one furthest from the door.
He sat down heavily, setting the bento beside him and resting the iced tea between his palms. The wood of the bench was warm from the afternoon sun, rough against the back of his legs. Above him, leaves rustled softly, the sound blending with the clinks of wind chimes swaying near the patio entrance.
For a moment, he just stared ahead. At nothing. Then he leaned back and let his head tip against the tree trunk.
He wasn’t scared.
He was just–
Hungry, apparently.
He reached for the bento and unfolded the furoshiki, the fabric falling open neatly in his lap, revealing the bento arranged in tidy compartments – rice packed into one corner, grilled fish beside it, a strip of tamagoyaki, pickled vegetables tucked into the smallest space. The smell drifted up immediately, familiar and comforting.
He picked up the chopsticks and started eating slowly – a bite of rice. It was slightly warm still, clumping softly between the tips of his chopsticks. Then some fish. It flaked apart without resistance, salt lingering faintly on his tongue. One bite of the vegetables and tamagoyaki to finish it off. Then a sip of the watered-down tea. He watched a drop of condensation slide down the glass and fall onto the ground between his shoes.
Again.
Tsurugi started bouncing his leg unconsciously, but stopped rather quickly, since it made the bento box begin to slip from his knees. He pulled out his phone from one pocket and checked for any notifications. Not that he expected any, but still. Yuka sent him a meme, and that was it.
A message popped up as he was about to turn the screen off.
me, 9:32 AM
anyone coming to the festival this weekend?
xxx, 2:56 PM
nah man busy studying
zzz, 2:57 PM
same with me, sorry
me, 2:57 PM
right i should probably do the same
No reply came, so Tsurugi rolled his eyes faintly and tucked the phone back into his pocket. He shoveled another bite of rice into his mouth. Didn’t finish chewing before adding fish. Then the veggies. Then–
“Hi.”
He froze.
With a fully packed mouth, he slowly turned to the side. He knew from the second he heard the hi who he’s about to face. He’d heard that voice earlier – soft, a little hesitant. Tsurugi felt heat creep up his neck and settle in his cheeks. His stomach might’ve done a backflip or two – obviously because there was a lot of food in his mouth that he was struggling to quickly swallow. And that he probably looked like a raccoon caught mid-snack. No other reason.
He almost choked. Managed not to, so a big win.
“Hi,” he replied, voice a little rough from the emergency swallow.
“Can I sit with you?”
Wow.
Those were really pretty, green eyes.