Work Text:
In the morning, the first thing Noriaki does is make a cup of coffee.
The scent wafts all the way through the neighbourhood, threading through the grassy lawns and various houses that no one lives in because of the whispers that it's haunted, rich and cozy and autumn shoved into one ceramic cup with the words, 'World's Worst Reference' stamped on it proudly. Making it was hard at first without the help of someone, but now Noriaki's used to it enough that he can send out Hierophant to take care of it while he reads the morning paper.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee also serves as a reminder for his neighbour that it's time to get out of his shell and eat breakfast, and sure enough, he can see Rohan shuffling around the kitchen and pulling out some of the pre-made sandwiches and pastries he'd shoved into Rohan's fridge and pantries for the mangaka to pull out and eat ready-to-go.
"Morning, Rohan," Noriaki calls through the open window, squinting against the wind to see a pair of green eyes glaring at him. A small sting of pride goes through him at the sight; Rohan's finally eating instead of running himself dry every day working on some reference or the other.
He'd like to think he receives a grunt of acknowledgement in return, or something like that, when Rohan rips a piece of bread out of the bun he's holding in his mouth and holds up a sketchbook to cover his face, pencil tucked into his belt and ready for him to pull out and start drawing.
Hierophant slithers over by the time he flips to the next page, steam curling from the rim of the cup in little ribbons of soft, pearly gray. The surface ripples with every shake Hierophant takes, and the walls of the cup are hot to the touch when the rich scent slowly makes its way to Noriaki's mouth. The nose must be fed before the tongue, Noriaki reflects ruefully as the strong, slightly bitter sensation tickles his nostrils and extends to his throat, where is stays stubbornly as he raises the rim of the cup to his lips and takes one hesitant sip.
It explodes in flavour and heat, like a volcano pushing past layers of rock. He goes through this every day, and the heat is second nature to him at this point. Whenever he drinks it, it feels like home, and whenever he thinks of home, he thinks of a freshly brewed cup of coffee shared with Kishibe Rohan.
The door slams open just as he's taking one more sip of the coffee, savouring the taste that comes with the perfect blend of milk and cream.
Rohan tramps in, shoves a bundle of paper in his lap, takes the cup from his hands, and finishes the rest without breaking into a single expression.
"You know," Noriaki says conversationally, "people normally knock before barging into someone's house and stealing their morning drink."
Nonetheless, he scoops up the bundle of papers and squints at it, silently admiring his neighbour's dedication to deadlines and art. Across the kitchen, Rohan scoffs, running the stained cup under the sink to clean it off. "We've gone through this dance so many times, Noriaki. Don't pretend like you don't go into my studio and rifle through my art-book references every day."
"Touché," Noriaki answers lightly as Rohan slinks himself into the plush armchair opposite from him, cradling the cup he'd just been drinking from, nursing his very own blend of coffee: black, nothing else, just pure caffeine and stubborn willpower. "And how long did this batch take you? You didn't stay up the whole night figuring this out, did you?"
"Well-" Rohan starts, and cuts himself off. He raises the steaming cup of coffee to his lips, the scent heavier, thicker, and more bitter than Noriaki's usual cup. "Well," he continues after, "Koichi came over yesterday, so I was able to get some pretty good material, and-"
"And you just forgot to get sleep," Noriaki says dryly, letting a little disapproval seep into his voice. "Right."
Rohan makes a little noise of surprise when one of Hierophant's tentacles creep around his cup and snatch it away, delivering it into Noriaki's hands as Rohan's eyes grow wide in protest. "Hey-"
"No coffee until you sleep," Noriaki threatens, sniffing the coffee once before shuddering, handing it to Hierophant for it to drain away in its abyss of a stomach. The coffee drains away, but the scent remains, entangled in their skin that touched the same cup like how ink sticks to their hands from years of stains. "Go. Shoo. Sleep in the guest bedroom, for all I care. Just get some rest."
Rohan mutters some choice words, but eventually acquiesces, grumbling under his breath about annoying little neighbours who don't know their place, but snoozes off on the armchair within a minute of closing his eyes.
Eventually, Noriaki gets up to scrub the cup.
The bubbles smell of freshly brewed coffee and little sheets of paper tucked away in a ceramic shell. Outside, the scent extends, breezing through Morioh and through the small town. It wraps around an abandoned house with the windows shuttered up, it wraps around the neat house next to it where Josuke gets ready for school, it travels to the Morioh Grand Hotel when Jotaro's pen scribbles notes on a piece of paper, it wreathes Koichi's hair as he packs his textbooks away, it meets a girl combing through her silky black hair, it meets a young boy playing with a horde of little insect-like Stands, it flavours Tonio's food as he prepares it, it crowns Aya's head as she bends over a customer's face, it curls around an alien discovering the joys of Earth for the first time, it wafts to a young boy of eleven walking to school after a kiss from his mother, it spirals around a single hand held by a man of thirty-three, a killer in Morioh-
-then it returns to the two of them, wrapping around them like a blanket of rich, bitter, sweet, delicious, freshly brewed coffee.