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It's the way those callous fingers jitter against a fresh cup of coffee. How they flinch and pull away from the scalding heat, only to catch and hold the cup like a fragile snowflake, keeping it close, so close. Even if it burns. Not to his stomach that needs ease, but close to his chest. To his heart.
He said it's because the white tiles are too pristine to taint with the coffee’s ebony. He would rather scorch his skin than douse the cold floor and let it thaw.
The cup has such intricate prints of ferns unfurling and wrapping around the ceramic.
“There's still much more where it came from, Doppo,” the doctor reassures, gesturing to the little wooden shelf in his office.
But, he insists it doesn't matter that it's cheap. That anyone can find the same print anywhere, elsewhere. It's the idea that it has been cared for before it reached his hands. That before him, it has served many more. Hearts heavier than his. Minds wearier than his.
He wouldn't dare to spill even a single drop of coffee. Not on his hand. Not on his suit. Not on his shoes. Not even on a space between tiles. He'll take each drop in his mouth, even if it numbs his tongue, or wounds his gums, or sets his throat on fire.
It doesn't matter that it's instant coffee, fresh from a solo pack the doctor mindlessly snatched during a brief visit at a department store, or that he profusely refused the towel the doctor wishes to lend him. Jakurai prepared this coffee for him, heated water just for him. Water that could’ve been for another patient's parched throat. Heat that could've been for another patient shuddering to their bones.
It doesn't matter that the doctor didn't brew coffee this time around. This coffee is from Jakurai. His Sensei. That is all that matters.
Even if Jakurai would not understand.
He'll burn himself, his tongue, his hands, hold the cup firm enough to not let it go, gentle enough to not cause a crack.
And Jakurai can only melt in his seat. Left to observe and concede.
It's interesting. Fascinating.
It's how the salaryman has such an unstable gaze. A pair of teals throwing themselves to ten thousand turns, tripping, tumbling around his eyeballs, only to screech into a halt once the first syllable leaves Jakurai’s lips.
His gaze is so intent. Passionate. He won't let go. As if his ears should capture every sound. Even the faintest hums. Even the quietest breaths.
“It's okay, Doppo,” reassures Jakurai again. It's not a meeting. Not a transaction. The conversation is but a casual exchange. Not a business. Not a checkup. Maybe, something between friends? He assumes that's how humans operate, because Doppo hasn't set any appointments as of late. He just pops in, asks the receptionist if someone is in the office, asks if Jakurai is there, asks if he has an appointment anytime soon, asks to make sure Jakurai isn't eating or taking a nap. Then, he'll ask the same questions to Jakurai himself before taking a step inside. And, he'll ask again. Again. And again.
He would not ask for medication, or to be checked. Doppo would assure Jakurai he is not about to do so. That Jakurai can set his stethoscope down. That his pen does not have to meet his clipboard just yet. Even if they already did, they won't have to for too long.
If the doctor is not asked to act like a doctor, and was actively stopped from doing so, then maybe, just maybe, he's asked to be a friend?
Doppo sits on the swivel chair, as if with the fear of causing the tiniest squeak. As if he would shift a little too far, and the chair turns, and he'll miss the angle where he sees Jakurai the best.
But he isn't taking a picture.
Is anything here worth taking a picture?
Jakurai’s eyes roam the room, wanting to see if that is so. Except he found none, aside from the very same office he entered this morning and returned to this afternoon.
“Something the matter?” Jakurai tilts his head.
And, Doppo immediately says no. Nothing is wrong. Or maybe, there is. But it's his fault. It's his fault he shifted a little, or the tuck of his shirt is slightly off, or that his fringe moved a fraction and obstructed his view.
“It's a trivial query, Doppo. Fret not.”
And, Doppo would open his mouth to insist again. That is, until Jakurai catches the hint of pink tinting his soft cheeks.
Maybe, it's just the coffee.
“Is it too hot,” asks the doctor. “The coffee."
Doppo jolts in his seat and shakes his head. “U-uh no, Sensei. I-it’s perfectly fine. It's just right. Y-yeah uh… just right.”
Jakurai hums in consideration, before zeroing in on those cheeks. The slight change in shade. The way Doppo’s eyes capture the light overhead. The slant of his brows. Then, the salaryman's face. But, when Doppo averts his gaze once again, he concedes. “I see.” And that takes Doppo’s eyes back to him.
Interesting. Fascinating.
And, the conversation carries on. Their aimless, unplanned conversation. One just like any other, had they been granted the spare time and chance to slip through the gaps of their fingers. One they have without the intention to remember.
But he would. Jakurai would.