title: and one fandom: knb ship: susa/imayoshi word count: 1078 summary: “Stop keeping score,” says Susa, the smile disappearing. “I’m not playing your game--I don’t even know what it is.”
ao3
Susa makes a white-edged leaf with milk foam, the stem curling at the end, a sharp point against the warm brown. He lifts the cup with practiced efficiency; the design doesn’t wobble or break as he places it on top of the receipt at the edge of the bar and turns back to the machinery. Clean the foamer, turn the dial, pour the espresso, froth another creamer, repeat, repeat, repeat. It’s boring, but Imayoshi reckons he’s not one to talk if he’s watching it and not doing it--and losing money on the whole thing, what with the price of even a simple drink as high as it is here.
Susa folds his arms and leans over the bar in an exaggerated stoop, emphasizing his height. A young woman seated at a table with one of his lattes glances over and giggles before she glances away. Susa’s nose twitches; he’s noticed. The line has shortened; the person at the register is rattling off a long list of teas.
“Yes?” says Imayoshi.
“Thought you might have something to say,” says Susa. “But I can make the next batch of iced coffee if you don’t.”
Imayoshi looks at him, and Susa huffs before he turns and heads into the back in search of coffee beans. The woman at the table looks slightly disappointed. Imayoshi smudges the ink on his receipt, already damp with tea. The spine of the book on his lap is nearly splintered from use, but it had been the cheapest he could get secondhand. Not terrible, even if Imayoshi has to analyze it for a class, but worth paying more than he did. He turns the page, and it nearly peels away from the binding, distracting him for a moment from the grating screech of the experimental music playing over the speaker.
Susa returns after a few more moments, his back to the bar, more room for Imayoshi to stare at his ass as he stands on his tiptoes to pour the beans into the industrial-size grinder. Susa turns around, his gaze meeting Imayoshi. The roar of the coffee grinder drowns out the music, and if either of them were to speak they’d be too far away from each other to hear or respond. Imayoshi turns back to his book, watching Susa from the corner of his eye. The grind continues, and finally dies down to a whirr. Without turning back to look at it, Susa flips the switch on the grinder.
“Ooh, slick,” says Imayoshi.
Susa actually smiles at that, and Imayoshi counts the point as his.
“Stop keeping score,” says Susa, the smile disappearing. “I’m not playing your game--I don’t even know what it is.”
“You have the gist of it,” says Imayoshi.
Susa rolls his eyes and turns back to the coffee; he’s hiding a smile and that should count for two points, at least. Is that a field goal or a three-pointer? Was the other smile a free throw? Two free throws, maybe--or, no, the first smile is the shot, and Susa fouled Imayoshi, and the second is the and-one.
*
Imayoshi spends the last hour of Susa’s shift pretending to browse a bookstore, scanning the names of authors in the fiction section and flipping through a few new editions of classics. He doesn’t know them well enough to spot formatting differences, or anything new at all, though he’s not paying close enough attention to tell. The ticking of his watch, lost to the music and the clattering of mugs and dishes in the coffee shop, is loud here, and slow. (That’s a point for Susa, Imayoshi supposes.)
The smell of coffee is apparent before Susa himself is, standing at the end of the row. He looks exhausted, though perhaps it’s the light accentuating the rings under his eyes, or his untidy hair, or his posture in contrast with the coffee grounds beneath his fingernails. His breath is bitter when Imayoshi drags him into a corner and kisses him, one fist in Susa’s sweater.
“You’ll mess it up,” Susa mumbles into his mouth.
Imayoshi clenches his hand tighter, and Susa bites his lip, pushing him against the window. He kisses like he’s trying to say how goddamn tired he is, languid tongue and teeth duller than intended, stopping for breath sooner than Imayoshi’s used to. Susa steps back, not looking down at Imayoshi’s hand in his sweater.
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, as if he’s forgotten. Maybe he has.
*
The history classroom is hot, the windows shut and steaming, the radiators whistling. The person next to Imayoshi is doused in strong cologne, and the combined effect makes Imayoshi want to fall into a bed. Next to him, Susa is alert, cramming notes onto his paper as the professor drones on. Imayoshi could do with some of that obnoxious coffee shop music. He pokes his hand with his pen, pinches himself. His eyes flutter.
Susa kicks his ankle, hard enough to jolt him awake.
“Ow,” Imayoshi whispers. “What did you do that for?”
“So you don’t beg off me for notes,” Susa replies. “Pay attention.”
“Sweet of you,” says Imayoshi.
Somehow, over his own droning, the professor seems to have heard, and he glares in Imayoshi’s direction, like pinpricks coming out of his eyes. Imayoshi waits for the professor to look away before he elbows Susa, but Susa pretends to ignore him and concentrate on his notebook.
*
Theirs is the last stop on the train. The car empties out after they already have seats, but now Imayoshi has room to place his schoolbag next to him and stick his elbow out when he holds his book. Susa’s fingers tap away on one of his mobile games, the mechanics of which Imayoshi won’t straight-up admit to knowing (but he’s seen Susa play it too often not to know). Susa taps on his mage, dragging her to the left.
“Watch the archer.”
Susa raises an eyebrow, but drags the mage back and places a sword unit to her left. The sword unit has better physical defense; they’ll probably be fine.
Imayoshi yawns. Susa pats his knee.
Imayoshi’s going to remark on how nice Susa’s being now, not kicking him or grinding coffee at him, but it would be too much effort. It would break Susa’s concentration in his mobile game, which would be hilarious, but--he can save it for another time.
(That’s an airball, or an expiring shot clock.)
