Chapter Text
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If anyone ever tells you jet lag isn’t real, Chuuya Nakahara would like permission to personally fight them.
Yokohama hits him like a freight train the second he exits the station. Bright signs everywhere. People everywhere. Sounds everywhere. He’s pretty sure the city is vibrating. His brain, meanwhile, is operating on approximately one remaining brain cell, and it is begging for caffeine or death—preferably caffeine.
He squints at the skyline, then at his phone, then back at the skyline again.
“So this is Japan,” he mutters. “Great. Love it. Too loud.”
He drags his suitcase down the street, narrowly avoiding getting flattened by a cyclist who definitely rang the bell before zooming past him. Chuuya stumbles, regains his balance, and scowls at absolutely no one.
The harbor breeze is nice, at least. Cool, salty, sharp enough to keep him awake for another five minutes. He’s been awake for… too long. Time zones are fake. Sleep is a myth. And coffee is now a biological necessity.
Which is how he ends up doom-scrolling through a travel blog while leaning against a vending machine like it personally betrayed him.
If you’re visiting Yokohama and need the best coffee in the city, don’t go to a chain. Find the small café near the harbor. Locals swear by it.
Chuuya snorts.
“Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s coffee is the ‘best coffee,’” he says, scrolling further. Except—annoyingly—the comments are convincing.
I miss it every morning. I’d move back just for that place.
“…Okay, that’s dramatic,” Chuuya mutters, even as he straightens. He checks the map. The café is supposedly close. Of course it is. Everything on travel blogs is always “just around the corner,” which is a universal lie.
Still, his feet move.
Ten minutes later, he’s convinced he’s been lied to and mildly offended about it. Fifteen minutes later, he’s absolutely certain the café does not exist and this is an elaborate prank on tourists. Twenty minutes later, he stops dead in his tracks.
There it is.
No neon sign. No loud music. Just a narrow little storefront tucked between two older buildings, wooden sign faded but clean, windows slightly fogged like the place is exhaling warmth into the street. Compared to the chaos around it, the café looks… peaceful.
Suspiciously so.
Chuuya stares at it.
The city noise seems to dull the closer he gets, like someone turned the volume knob down just a little. He grips the door handle and hesitates—not because he’s nervous, but because he’s suddenly very aware of how exhausted he is.
“If this coffee sucks,” he murmurs, “I’m blaming the internet.”
He steps inside.
And just like that, Yokohama changes from overwhelming nightmare to potentially manageable, all thanks to caffeine and bad decisions.
The café is… quieter than Chuuya expects.
Not silent—there’s soft music humming somewhere overhead, the low clink of cups, the hiss of a coffee machine doing important coffee things—but compared to the city outside, it feels like stepping into a different dimension. One where people speak in polite murmurs and nobody is trying to run him over with a bicycle.
Bless.
Chuuya scans the room and immediately makes a strategic decision.
Far corner. Against the wall. Maximum distance from other humans.
He does not have the mental capacity to attempt conversation in a language he barely speaks. Japanese is something he can read slowly, understand vaguely, and absolutely butcher when spoken. His mother language is French, his thoughts are currently scrambled eggs, and small talk is his sworn enemy.
He drops into the chair like it personally owes him rest.
The table is small but clean, the wood worn smooth by time and countless elbows. He shrugs off his jacket, hooks it on the back of the chair, and finally allows himself to breathe. The warmth seeps into his bones, loosening the tension in his shoulders inch by inch.
Alright. Coffee soon. Survival imminent.
While he waits, Chuuya people-watches.
The café isn’t crowded, but it’s busy in that steady, comfortable way—locals with laptops, a couple quietly sharing pastries, someone reading a book with terrifying concentration. No one looks rushed. No one looks loud.
He likes that.
He taps his fingers against the table, eyes drifting around the space. There’s a chalkboard menu near the counter, handwritten and neat. He can make out words he recognizes—espresso, latte, cappuccino—and several he absolutely cannot.
He squints at it like it might explain itself out of fear.
Minutes pass.
Five of them. Then ten.
Chuuya checks his phone. No server. No waiter. No sign that anyone has noticed his existence at all.
He glances around. Surely someone should’ve come by now, right? Is this a self-order place? A psychic-order place? Did he miss a crucial cultural memo that explains why he’s being silently ignored?
Another few minutes tick by.
His good mood begins to curdle.
“…Wow,” he mutters under his breath. “So this is how I die. Alone. In a café. Uncaffeinated.”
He waits exactly thirty seconds longer out of sheer stubbornness.
Nothing.
That’s it.
Chuuya pushes his chair back and stands, irritation buzzing just under his skin. Jet lag has officially teamed up with hunger and caffeine withdrawal to form a personal vendetta against him.
“If I have to mime ‘coffee’ like an idiot,” he grumbles, “someone’s paying for it.”
He strides up to the counter, fully prepared to demand service in a mix of broken Japanese, English, and aggressive pointing—
—and then he stops.
Because behind the counter is… not a waiter.
Not in the way Chuuya expects, anyway.
There’s a man standing there, sleeves rolled up, apron tied just a little too loosely, fiddling with a cup like it personally offended him. He doesn’t look rushed. He doesn’t look stressed. In fact, he looks entirely too calm for someone apparently running the entire café by himself.
He also doesn’t look up.
Chuuya opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Tries again.
The man still doesn’t react—just finishes whatever he’s doing, sets the cup down, and finally lifts his head.
Their eyes meet.
For half a second, nothing happens.
Then the man smiles.
Not a polite customer-service smile. Not an apologetic one either. Just a quiet, curious curve of the lips, like Chuuya interrupting him is the most interesting thing that’s happened all morning.
No greeting. No question. No “How can I help you?”
Just… silence.
Chuuya blinks.
“…Am I,” he asks carefully, “supposed to already know what’s going on here?”
The barista tilts his head, still smiling, and raises an eyebrow—like that is an excellent question.
And somehow, inexplicably, Chuuya gets the sinking feeling that the reason no one came to take his order is not because the café has bad service—
—but because he was supposed to come up here all along.
He stares at the barista.
The barista stares back.
Well— stares might be generous. It’s more like a calm, attentive gaze, paired with that same gentle, apologetic smile, like Chuuya has just mildly inconvenienced him by existing.
Fantastic.
Chuuya clears his throat.
“Uh. Hi,” he starts, in English, because his brain has officially given up on Japanese. “So. I’ve been sitting over there.”
He gestures vaguely toward the far corner like it’s a crime scene.
“No one came. Which—okay, fine, maybe that’s on me. Cultural difference. Totally normal. Love that.”
The barista nods slightly.
Doesn’t say anything.
Still smiling.
Chuuya waits.
Nothing.
“…Right,” Chuuya mutters. He switches gears, slower this time. “Coffee. I would like. One coffee.”
He points at the menu. Then at himself. Then makes a vague drinking motion, because apparently this is his life now.
The barista’s smile softens further—somehow apologetic and amused at the same time. He nods again, like Chuuya has just said something very reasonable.
And then—
Still no response.
No words. No sound. Not even a hmm.
Chuuya blinks.
“…Are you,” he tries carefully, “about to say something, or should I lower my expectations now?”
Nothing.
The man tilts his head slightly, brows knitting in a way that looks like concern, and reaches for a small notepad on the counter—then pauses, hesitates, and pulls his hand back like he’s reconsidered.
Chuuya watches this internal debate with growing disbelief.
Oh no.
Oh no.
“You’re kidding,” Chuuya says flatly. He rubs a hand down his face. “You’re really not gonna talk, are you?”
The barista winces—just a little—and gives a tiny, helpless shrug.
That’s it.
That is absolutely it.
Chuuya’s patience, already hanging by a thread thanks to jet lag, travel stress, and the fact that he hasn’t had coffee in an unforgivable amount of time, finally snaps.
“You know what?” he blurts out, irritation bleeding straight through his exhaustion. “I don’t care if this is the best café in the city, or if this is some kind of artistic silence thing, or if I missed a giant sign that says ‘Order Telepathically.’ I am tired, I am running on fumes, and I just want a damn coffee.”
The words spill out faster than he can stop them, accented and rough, frustration sharpening every syllable.
“I don’t speak Japanese well, I flew halfway across the world, and I’ve been sitting there like an idiot waiting for— something. Anything. A wave. A word. A noise. A sign that I didn’t accidentally walk into the quietest place on earth.”
Silence crashes down after his outburst.
The café seems to hold its breath.
The barista doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look offended. If anything, his expression softens—eyes warm, apologetic smile fading into something more serious, more human.
Slowly, carefully, he lifts both hands.
And begins to sign.
Chuuya’s anger stalls mid-burn.
“…Oh,” he says weakly.
Because suddenly, very painfully, it clicks.
The silence wasn’t dismissal.
It wasn’t rudeness.
It was something else entirely.
And Chuuya has a sinking feeling that he just yelled at the nicest man in Yokohama—for something that was never his fault.
His soul leaves his body at the mere realization.
Just— whoosh. Gone.
“Oh—no, I—” Chuuya blurts out immediately, hands coming up like he can physically catch his words and shove them back into his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”
He drags in a breath, forces himself to slow down, because rambling clearly got him into this mess in the first place.
“I didn’t realize,” he says, quieter now. “I thought you were ignoring me. That’s on me. I’m just… tired. Jet lag. New country. Bad excuse, I know.”
The barista watches him closely—not judging, not annoyed. Just listening, in that steady, attentive way that somehow makes Chuuya feel worse.
Chuuya rubs the back of his neck.
“And, uh,” he adds, grimacing, “I don’t actually understand sign language. At all. I kind of figured that out about five seconds too late.”
The barista nods.
Just once.
No drama. No awkwardness. Like this is something he’s seen before.
He reaches for the notepad again—but this time, Chuuya notices the difference.
It’s not the order pad with neat checkboxes and prices. This one is older, softer at the edges, pages worn thin from use. The cover is creased like it’s been folded and unfolded a hundred times. Personal.
The barista flips it open, pen already in hand, and writes quickly. Confidently. Like this is second nature.
He slides the notepad across the counter toward Chuuya.
The writing is neat, rounded, and surprisingly expressive:
It’s okay. I understand. You didn’t do anything wrong. What would you like to drink?
Chuuya stares at the words.
Then he exhales—long and shaky—like someone finally cut the rope around his chest.
“Thank you,” he says softly. Then, because he apparently hasn’t embarrassed himself enough today, he adds, “And, uh… for what it’s worth, your café is very quiet. I think that part just surprised me.”
The barista’s smile returns—smaller this time, but warmer.
He taps the pen against the page once, then writes something else before Chuuya can overthink it.
Take your time. You can sit wherever you like.
Chuuya laughs under his breath, the tension finally bleeding away.
“Right,” he says. “Coffee first. Social recovery later. I would love a latté.”
The barista nods approvingly and turns back toward the counter, already setting things in motion.
As Chuuya retreats back toward his chosen corner table, he can’t help glancing over his shoulder.
The barista is still writing—adding something to that same worn notepad, completely different from the order slips stacked neatly beside the register.
And for reasons he can’t quite explain, Chuuya gets the feeling that whatever is written in that notebook matters far more than what anyone orders.
He sits back down in his corner like a man who has narrowly escaped public execution.
He folds his hands on the table. Then unfolds them. Then checks his phone, even though he checked it thirty seconds ago and nothing in his life could possibly have changed in that time frame.
Okay. Cool. He yelled at a stranger. A very nice stranger. In his place of work. In a foreign country.
If this trip is cursed, he’s officially acknowledging it.
Chuuya clears his throat quietly and forces himself to relax. The café doesn’t feel tense anymore—if anything, it feels exactly the same as before. Calm. Warm. Unbothered by his personal spiral.
He glances around again, but this time with less defensiveness.
The details stand out now. The soft lighting. The faint smell of roasted beans and sugar. The way the barista moves behind the counter—unhurried, precise, like he’s dancing to music only he can hear. No wasted motion. No rush. Just steady, practiced grace.
Chuuya watches him longer than he probably should.
The barista doesn’t look at customers the way waiters usually do. He doesn’t scan for attention or urgency. Instead, he notices. A raised hand. An empty cup. A subtle shift in posture. Somehow, everyone seems to get what they need without ever raising their voice.
“…Huh,” Chuuya murmurs. “So that’s how this works.”
He leans back in his chair, tension slowly draining from his shoulders. For the first time since landing, he doesn’t feel like he has to be on guard. No one is expecting conversation from him. No one is trying to drag him into small talk he doesn’t have the energy to survive.
It’s… nice.
A few minutes pass. Then a few more.
Chuuya’s stomach grumbles, but his irritation never comes back. Instead, there’s a strange, almost pleasant anticipation curling in his chest. Like he’s waiting for something deliberate.
When footsteps finally approach his table, they’re quiet enough that he almost misses them.
He looks up.
The barista stands there, holding a cup carefully in both hands. Steam curls lazily into the air. The coffee smells rich—deep and warm and promising immediate improvement to Chuuya’s quality of life.
The barista sets the cup down gently in front of him.
No rush. No flourish. Just care.
Beside it, he places the small worn notepad, flipped open to a new page.
I hope this helps with the jet lag.
Chuuya blinks.
Then he smiles—soft, genuine, a little crooked.
“…You have no idea,” he says.
He takes the first sip.
And immediately freezes.
“Oh,” he breathes. Then, louder, with feeling, “Oh wow.”
The barista tilts his head, watching intently.
“This is—” Chuuya stops himself, shakes his head, then laughs. “Okay. I get it now. I take back every bad thing I thought about this place. This might actually be the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
The barista’s smile spreads, slow and pleased—not proud, not smug. Just quietly happy.
He taps the notepad once, then writes:
Welcome to Yokohama.
Chuuya lifts his cup slightly in a mock toast.
“Yeah,” he says. “Something tells me I’m gonna like it here.”
The barista turns to leave.
Just—does it naturally, already drifting back toward the counter like this interaction has reached its quiet conclusion.
And that would be fine. Totally fine. Chuuya definitely doesn’t need anything else.
Except.
“—Excuse me.”
The words slip out before Chuuya can overthink them into silence. His voice is gentler now, careful, like he’s testing thin ice instead of stomping across it.
The barista pauses.
Turns back.
Up close, his smile is softer than Chuuya noticed before—less customer-service polite, more genuinely curious. Like he’s pleasantly surprised to be stopped.
Chuuya lifts a hand, suddenly aware of how informal this feels.
“Mind me asking,” he says, a little awkward, “what your name is?”
For a brief second, the barista just looks at him.
Then his expression warms—something subtle shifting behind his eyes. He nods once, reaches for the worn notepad again, and flips to a clean page.
The pen moves smoothly, confidently.
He turns the notepad around and holds it up so Chuuya can see.
Dazai Osamu
Chuuya reads it twice, like the letters might rearrange themselves.
“…Dazai,” he repeats aloud, testing the sound. It rolls easily off his tongue. He nods, satisfied. “Nice to meet you.”
Dazai’s smile widens just a fraction at that.
He taps the page once, then adds another line beneath his name before showing it again:
Thank you for being patient.
Chuuya lets out a short laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “Guess we both survived that.”
Dazai inclines his head in what might be agreement, then finally steps away, returning to the counter with that same quiet grace as before.
Chuuya watches him go, fingers curled loosely around his coffee cup.
He takes another sip, warmth spreading through his chest—and not just from the caffeine this time.
“Dazai,” he murmurs to himself.
Something about the name sticks.
It hits Chuuya halfway through his coffee.
Mid-sip. Mid-thought. Mid wow-this-is-actually-really-good.
He freezes.
Slowly lowers the cup.
“…Wait.”
Chuuya stares into the coffee like it personally holds the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His brows knit together, gears grinding audibly in his exhausted brain.
He replays the last… what, fifteen minutes?
Snapping at the counter. Rambling. Apologizing. Continuing to ramble. Asking for coffee. Asking for a name.
All of it.
“…I’ve been speaking English,” he murmurs.
Not broken Japanese. Not awkward tourist phrases. Not frantic pointing and praying.
English.
And the barista—Dazai—had understood him. Perfectly. Calmly. Without so much as a confused look.
Chuuya exhales, long and relieved, like someone just told him the exam was actually optional.
“Oh, thank god.”
He slumps back in his chair, tension he didn’t even realize he was holding finally melting out of him. No struggling for words. No rehearsing sentences in his head. No fear of accidentally insulting someone’s ancestors because he messed up a particle.
Maybe—just maybe—this trip won’t be as exhausting as he thought.
He glances back toward the counter.
Dazai is wiping down the surface, focused, humming silently to himself—or maybe not humming at all. It’s impossible to tell. He looks comfortable here. Like the café fits him in a way the rest of the city never quite managed to fit Chuuya.
The thought settles warmly in his chest.
“…Yeah,” Chuuya mutters, lifting his cup again. “I could stay here for a while.”
Yokohama still hums outside—loud, bright, relentless—but inside the café, everything feels manageable. Familiar. Almost welcoming.
He takes another sip, savoring it this time.
Maybe Yokohama isn’t so hard to exist in.
Maybe all he really needed was good coffee—and one quiet barista who understood him without needing him to say everything perfectly.
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