Summary: you’re a barista and Kishibe is your regular though he’s far from it
Word count: 2k
Genre: angst but like soft angst? idk, if you’ve read any of my works you can recognize it’s not explicitly angsty, more bittersweet i guess; coffeeshop au; implied age gap
Warnings: mentions of blood; description of an attack; mentions of alcohol, food, and obviously coffee
A/n: missing my coffee shop job it seems; fun fact, i would write the monthly newsletter for my coffee shop to promote community and it was chock full of stupid coffee puns. my favorite month was febrewary
It starts with doing your job. You greet at every ding of the door, him no different.
“Good morning,” you chirp effortlessly. The words are meaningless along your tongue, palaver in the form of customer service. “Thank you for choosing our store. What can I get started for you?”
Regardless of your height, he peers down at you from a place above. A diminutive feeling that makes it hard to keep your cheery composure. It might be a trick of the light, but you swear you watch his tongue run down the inside of his cheek, tracing the inner of his scar. What story is associated with an injury like that? You wonder, but force your gaze back to his eyes, doing your best not to be impolite.
You’re caught, you realize, when he smirks at you. A small tilt on the scarred side of his lips, he runs a weathered hand, deep wrinkles indenting his knuckles, across his jaw. You hear the minute schwick as he scratches at the prickles of facial hair there.
“Coffee,” you suck your teeth between your lips at the answer, take one extra long blink with it to restrain yourself, because obviously he wants a coffee if he’s in a coffee shop.
“Large,” he finishes and tosses down an exceptionally grand bill, “black.”
Then he walks away. A small brisk in his step, he places his hands in his pockets, and stands near the exit. He watches you from where he is. Not a single word is spoken and he leaves without one glance back.
You don’t see him until months later. He’s forgettable until he isn’t. The same low cost, back alley haircut, same stitched scar that makes something constrict in your chest, but his movement falters. His overcoat whips against his thigh as he limps his way to you. You glare down at the uneven tempo of his dress shoes, a rich suede splattered with something even darker.
He looks at you, waits for you to say something outside of your regular greeting.
“Coffee,” he finally states when you don’t, “large. Black.”
You already know from just the uniform he wears, the scars and hollow look in his eye, that this is something he is accustomed to, something that you’ll never understand. When your greatest horrors are cleaning the bathroom of a lactose intolerant customer who’d basically just consumed a very dairy beverage, his must be actual torment. He must be plagued by devils and not only of the ones of his own creation.
“You look like you need a little more than that,” you point at his injured leg with your sharpie.
He doesn’t laugh, but he does smile. The distorted kind that makes you feel bitter and sweet and angry and forgiving, “you’ve got rum?”
“No.”
“Then that’s all I need.”
He ruffles through his overcoat pockets. The sleeve of his button down peaks out and you witness faded blots of iron, as if they’ve been scrubbed to remove saturation but not stain, taint white.
“You need a doctor.”
“Alcohol’s my medicine.” He drops the same denomination from last. The man makes a move to walk away again, but stops at the sight of your expression. You’re intently glaring at him, unexceptionally pleased with the interaction. It doesn’t matter who he is or what he does, he’s still only human.
“Don’t make such a pretty face like that,” a hand covers his mouth, traces the line of scruff along his jaw, and when he removes it, you swear you see an edge of amusement. “The ones that get mad at me are the ones I like best.”
You make it a point not to think of him, not to look up at every jingle of the door, not to frequently check the cambro if you need to brew more. He’s despicable, purposely enigmatic just for the opportunity to be annoying.
But it’s been months again and as you wipe the crumbs off a table with an overused sanitizing cloth, your thoughts go in a direction you’d rather avoid.
What if he’s dead?
Checking the news hadn’t been a habit before but curiosity does often get the best of you. You don’t even know his name, but occasionally on your break, you’ll watch anyways. Hopefully the next time you see him, it won’t be on a screen.
The sword devil is apparently running rampant in the streets of Japan. You listen to the crisp vowels of the reporter, spoken straight from the diaphragm as you bask in the peace your coffeeshop porch has to offer.
The bumble of the morning is drowned by the sound coming from your earbuds. There’s no reason for you to look up, but you know the heat of that stare anywhere.
“You,” the man says with one foot in the door and out the other.
Your index finger traces the edge of your ear, removing one of the devices. It prompts the newscast to pause, “you.”
He raises a brow, “that’s not very welcoming.”
You pinch your lips, doing your best not to look irritated at him with the memory of his last words replaying in your mind.
It’s like him to say something stupid.
You glance down at your imaginary watch, “I’m not on the clock.”
He nods and there’s this strained silence as he obstructs the entryway to your shop. He opens the door wider, presses his frame against it so people can move in and out but it still makes for awkward movement.
There’s something about him that upsets you, the distance that he keeps. Interacting with customers is seamless and people for the most part are easy to read. You have the same exact conversations with regulars over and over again.
(How are you? Oh, you know. Yeah, I know. On your way to work? As always. Have a good day at work. You too. See you tomorrow! See you tomorrow.)
Even the ones who aren’t even looking for a conversation, the ones strictly there for caffeine, you speak to in familiar head nods.
But this guy? It feels like he’s always one step away from disappearing. At least the Pollock painting has been wiped free from the suede of his shoes.
“You’re back.”
I’d been thinking of you. You would normally tell a regular customer. He’s beyond regular so you leave it at that.
He nods. A set of teenagers pass him onto the street and you debate putting your ear bud in. There’s little time left of your break and spending it with this alcoholic of an old man is one of the least appealing ways to end it.
“You’re still here.”
The surprise in his tone makes you respond quickly, “of course I am.”
He starts to shake his head, as if to deny the fact before his very eyes, but he stops himself, tucking his chin in for one single and sharp nod.
“Why do you–”
“Sometimes people aren’t meant to stay. Keep that in mind.”
You want to say something but his overcoat whips back. And he enters your coffeeshop, one foot in. The second foot comes after.
He comes and he goes. Waits for his door near the door. Years go by and you continue making coffee with the news playing in the background.
It’s been a while since you’ve had a proper breath and your vision goes dotted. The world is blurry and unfocused and maybe you’d been too harsh on him.
For a man to experience this, to seek devil and death so outrightly, you should have known he’d always been in a plane out of your reach. How could your experiences compare to his? When all your worries are selfish, meager things, like your apartment being too cold or the price of daikon going up?
Is this what he goes through every day? You look at the grotesque form of a human and sword, grappled by neck with dangling legs. Is this what he sees? Is this where he goes when he’s not ordering the plainest request in your coffee shop?
Your grip on the sword devil’s wrist goes limp as you resign to your fate. Closing your eyes, you don’t realize what’s going on.
In an instant, you’re falling, breathless now in flight. You land in someone’s arms and start hacking into their knee. They rub your back and from the precipices of your vision is a showdown of sword and knife. Steel, blood, metal, it is all overwhelming and it takes minutes for you to regain clarity again.
When you look up, the remains of the sword devil is splayed across the streets of Japan rampant no more and above it is him. He lingers on the sidelines while the medics check your injuries and when they look away, you rush from the scene.
“What are you doing here?” The man is quick to notice your absence.
Maybe this isn’t the right way to cope but you want to run away. You want normal. You want the smell of roasted beans and toasted pastry.
“You weren’t at work.”
Look at him, still saying the most stupid of things. “Obviously. I was busy getting close to murdered. What are you doing here?”
“My job,” but the answer is uncertain and maybe just the slightest bit scared. You turn to face him one more time. He’s close, closer than he’s ever been and without the brew of coffee, you can smell the rum that’s permanently stained on his lips.
“And I’m going to mine.”
“You need a doctor,” he’s firm with this. The muscles in his jaw dance along his papery skin, dried by so many years around the sun. Without the register separating you two, you can see the peaks, ridges, and valleys along his face, the vestiges of a handsome man. Age had done a number on him but maybe the culprit is trauma or stress.
“And why would I need that, Kishibe? When coffee is my medicine?”
He ignores your pointed statement. “How do you know my name?”
“I heard one of your coworkers say it.” If there’s one thing you want to retain from this incident, it’s that. At least now you know what to look for in the obits. “Now quit following me. I can go to work by myself.”
“I’m getting a coffee. You happen to be going in the same direction so why don’t you let me walk you?”
“So you can walk back out again?” You’re done with this elusive game he’s been forcing you to play. He only answers with silence and a defensive glare.
But you’ve spent years serving him coffee, picking up all the crumbs he likes to leave behind. There’s no way your heart can take this anymore, this vague relationship he’s begun and maybe it’s all on your end, self imposed by a sincere worry for his well-being, but then why? Why does he always come back?
“Make a deal with me.”
Kishibe ruminates, “like a contract?”
“Sure.”
“What is it?” he runs his hand along his jaw. You’ve noticed it’s a nervous tick. His fingers like to find the grooves of his scar and you think it’s because it reminds him that he’s still alive.
“I’ll stay. I’ll be there to brew your coffee. Large and black,” you point at him, “but you have to come back. You have to make sure you come back.”
“Is that it?”
“And maybe you stay.” You grow quiet at the suggestion. He gives you an amused huff when you look at him. A smile that encourages you on, “Stay and have a cup with me.”
After a moment, his overcoat ruffles as he shrugs, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can get out of you, isn’t it?” It’s not exactly what you want, but as you’ve always known, the man in front of you is far from regular.
“Some people aren’t meant to stay, but I’m still here so might as well give it a try.”
aki slides his slippers to the balcony, a lazy morning stroll. you look back at him, already steps ahead in your morning routine considering it’s just get up, draw the curtain, and walk out.
he can feel the cold numb his bones. joints that are overworked barely hold his body together but your smile fuels him. the small twist of the lips as you gaze up at first snow reminds him of a time that had once been, a moment he no longer has to fight for.
leaning against the wall, he tucks his newspaper against his chest. black coffee spills along the edge of his mug as he searches for the lighter in his pocket, cigarette already pressed between two chapped lips.
flick. flick.
two tries and it still won’t light.
“aki, aki,” you giggle at him.
flick.
the third time burns his fingers he flinches, stunned by your expression.
“look.” then you widen your mouth into an ‘o’ and exhale a slow, hot breath. frost bundles near your lips. you turn to him proud, “i look like you now.”
you do it again. this time for personal entertainment than for show, the smoke billows
aki drops his coffee and newspaper on the table. the lighter slips from his hand, cigarette gone.
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aki who calls you when he's mourning, so undeniably, heartbreakingly sad to lose more teammates. who never says anything, doesn't respond when you've said hello and called out his name so many times. who you almost hang up on until you hear a cracked out sob that's immediately muffled the moment his misery exposes itself.
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