Sweet Enough
You are a late night barista at the bakery an odd blue eyed man likes to visit. He's attractive, sure, but also is very impolite, and always seems to be increasingly stressed despite his laidback personality. You find yourself beginning to enjoy his company as you spend late nights together. He seems to enjoy speaking to you as well. Not that you care. Not that he makes you heart beat faster when he leans in close.
--
“I don’t want extra shifts,” You declare. Sato sighs.
“They’re not extra. They’re your minimum for the week to be on payroll.”
“It’s exam week! With all the credits I'm taking, it's exam month!” You insist, and he shrugs, leaning against the wall. You two stand behind the counter of a relatively empty coffee shop, only the occasional student here this time of night.
“I’m sorry, but it’s company policy to have employees work at least fifteen hours per week,” he tells you, and you wrinkle your nose.
“You own this place. What company?” you snip, and the middle aged man laughs.
“Then it’s my policy. The minimum work hours keep out college students who only want an odd buck when their internships don’t pay well. Collage students like you,” he says, and you stick your tongue out.
Be more polite. You chide yourself, but you can’t help but be childish around your annoying boss and weird policies. You're busy! So what?
Eventually you conceded and decided to work the rest of the night until closing which is, unfortunately, at one in the morning. The few customers left filter out the rest of the night until you are completely alone at the counter. You immediately let out a sigh of relief. You much prefer the shop to yourself.
The cafe doesn’t have so much of a cozy atmosphere as it does a clean and pristine one, but the neat leather couch and the polished tables are familiar and bring you a sort of calm one can only find in unblemished solitude.
It’s always empty this late. You wonder silently if the costs of keeping you on payroll for the night outweigh the costs of the few odd orders you get here and there from drunk partiers. However, Sato is right. You do need these hours, and need the money even more. Law school isn't cheap, and neither is maintaining your broken down car and even more broken down apartment.
You decide, as always, to at least get some of your studying done, and pull out your large textbook and lay it down on the counter. You finish up Criminology 103 and are about to pull out your international relations essay draft.
However you’re interrupted by the bell ring from the door. You immediately straighten and glance up to find a very, very tall white haired man standing there with startling blue eyes. They’re partly covered by a pair of shades and look half lidded. He's very handsome, looking straight out of a magazine cover, but he doesn't look all there. You think there might be something brown stained on his snow white hair, like mud or dried blood.
“Welcome,” You say politely, immediately looking back down at the order machine before you can fully take in the stranger dressed in black. It’s not respectful to stare, and certainly not at customers.
You barely hear the strides he takes up to the counter, his footsteps impossibly light.
“I’ll have all the sweets you still have,” the man states and you look up at him. He seems exhausted, but you force yourself to not trace the elegant lines of his face but instead look him directly in his eyes.
“Right now we only have cake pops on hand, but I could make you a sweet drink?” You suggest, trying to remember to blink when facing the blue hues. “Something like a mocha or a chai latte?”
“Great. I’ll take a large of a chai,” he gives you a thin smile, mind evidently elsewhere.
“Iced or warm?”
“Huh?”
“Iced or warm?” You repeat, glancing down at the cash register machine. You decide to not ask him about milk choices. He seems very, very tired and doesn’t strike you as lactose intolerant.
“Iced, I guess.” He responds. You mentally add up how many cakepops you have left and let him pay.
You turn around to begin making his drink, whisking syrup at the bottom of a paper cup. You look behind you and find him sprawled on the leather couch, feet up on the side. You decide not to bother him about it because his hand went to his left when the machine asked for his tip. Twenty percent! You like this handsom fellow already, even if he is a tad spacy.
It takes about a minute to make his drink, and you pluck all the cake pops out of the container. You place the order on the takeout counter.
“It’s ready,” you say loudly. He doesn’t move. You frown. “Sir? Your order.” Before you can get concerned that perhaps this strange looking man has died on your couch, he gets up slowly to the counter
He reaches it, grabs the drink, and chugs like you’ve never seen before. You can’t but stare, mesmerized, as this man downs a large cup of chai in ten seconds or less. You think he might’ve swallowed some ice cubes too.
A droplet of the drink spills down the side of his face, slowly tracing the outlines of his jaw and then his throat.
You look down. It’s not respectful to stare.
However, you can’t help but look up again when he takes all eight cake pops between each knuckle and eats each of them in one bite, one after another. You don’t even think he chews. He does, however, pause lick a little crumb off of his bottom lip. You feel your ears begin to flush.
There’s then a silence over the shop as he finishes, with only his heavy breathing to fill it. He looks you in the eyes then, exhaustion and strain clear as day in his gaze. Your eye contact is heavy, and you almost feel ashamed, like you're looking at something you shouldn’t be seeing.
“Would you like some more?” you ask, and then curse yourself.
The man frowns.
“I thought that was all the pastries?” he says, and you nod slowly.
“Well… I didn't offer because they take so long, but I can make you another drink and we have some cinnamon dough rising. They're technically not sweets, but they are sweet,” you offer slowly.
You never, ever offer to make those stupid buns. They’re on the menu, and Sato constantly bothers you to promote them, but it’s such a pain to go into the refrigerator and unwrap them.
However, this man looks like he could maybe use them more than you hate preparing them.
“Sure,” the man responds, walking back over the cash register. You follow him on the other side of the counter. “I’ll have, well, as many as you have.” he says, and you think for a second.
“I think we have fifty.”
“Then I’ll have fifty. And two more of those chai drinks. They’re good.” he says, and it sounds oddly like praise. You enter it the order silently. He pays again, clicks left when it asks for a tip, and goes back to his comfortable position on the couch. You hear himself muttering something about grade one and planning. You try to not listen.
You begin unwrapping the sticky dough and putting them in the toaster oven. Unwrapping all fifty certainly is pain, and you're happy to get back to drink making.
You quickly shake up his two chai’s, one in each hand.
“Sir!” you call. He sits up quickly this time, and is faster when approaching you.
“It’s Gojo Satoru,” he says as he approaches, his eyes flicking up to your face, like he’s looking for something. A reaction of some sort. “My name.”
“Apologies, Gojo-San. I should have asked earlier, especially for such a generous customer,” you respond politely, hold out the drinks to him. The smell of cinnamon is starting to fill the air, you notice.
“It’s fine,” he responds, taking the drinks. Your fingers brush for a slight moment, which you promptly ignore. You are over finding this weird and tired man attractive. You have enough to worry about besides developing some workplace crush. His bone structure and effortlessly styled hair doesn’t matter.
You turn away this time to check on the cinnamon bread, determined not to stare at him this time while he drinks. You can hear him though, the hurried gulps. However, when you turn back around, you find him sipping the second one as he waits at the counter.
“Are you alone?” the man asks, looking at you over his shades that he’s still wearing, despite the cafe lights not being too bright.
“Yes, I’m the only employee here right now, and you're the only customer,” you respond slowly. He frowns.
“That doesn’t seem safe,” he remarks as you begin taking the buns out of the oven.
“We have a good amount of panic buttons. Plus, the police station is near here,” You look over your shoulder at him. “I don’t need you to worry about me.”
Oops. That definitely wasn’t respectful. You open your mouth to apologize immediately, but instead find the man looking incredibly relieved.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, smiling softly to himself. It’s a pretty smile. “Didn’t mean to push.”
“No, I’m sorry. That was not a polite comment on my part,” you say, bowing a little and turning back around to finish bagging the bread. You back it to him, so you don’t see his face when he mumbles to himself.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that in a while.” His voice is low, and you courteously pretend not to hear him. “Well, for the first time in a while it hasn’t been a lie.”
You turn back around, handing him his multiple bags of bread. He grins at you, the expression breaking through his solemn face.
You decide not to like the smile. It seems forced.
“Of course, Sir.” You say, smiling at him. He waves, walking off with many to many bags in one hand and a drink in the other. The door opens and shuts with a thud, and you realize how quiet the room is without his breathing.
What a strange man.
–
You are frowning over why the heck you would need to recall what a petal is on a polar graph when you're in law school when the silence in the empty coffee shop is broken by the bell on the door ringing. You're surprised before you even look up. It’s the first time the shop has gotten a late night customer since the strange man last week.
You feel kind of expectant when you look up, and find yourself a tad disappointed when the only person to walk through the door is an obviously drunk college girl.
She comes up to the counter, declares her need for the menu’s most expensive caffeinated beverage, and then promptly gets her card declined.
“Could I recommend a small latte instead?” you ask politely. She grumbles an agreement and this time her card goes through.
You make her the latte, which she sips on, goes to one of the leather chairs, and promptly falls asleep on.
You decide to wait until closing, which is in around forty five minutes to wake her up. Hopefully she’ll be more sober then. You'll get her to call a friend for a ride.
You rub your eyes and yawn, settling back down into your stool in front of the register. You flip through your math a little bit more, altogether bored at the thought of continuing this terrible study session.
However, for the second time that night, the bell on the door rings.
“Hello,” a voice says, speaking your last name as well. You glance up, frowning.
It’s the man. Gojo Satoru.
And his eyes are like death itself. It jolts you a little, but you blink and suddenly his gaze is no longer haunting but just weary.
You must’ve imagined it. There's no way this man, odd as he may be, could really have that kind of hateful look on him.
“Hello,” you say slowly. “Welcome in, Gojo-san.”
His steps are more steady than before. One foot in front of the other, in long strides. He looks a lot less tired, and even has a little smirk on. When he arrives at the counter, he looks at you over his glasses. However, this time, you're expecting the striking blue gaze. No staring this time, oh no. You have good damn manners if nothing else. Last time was a fluke.
“What can I get for you?” you ask. The man sighs deeply.
“I know you might not remember me past my name, but I’m the mysterious man who ordered all of your sweets,” he says, leaning on the counter with his cheek in his hand. You notice the hand has some more flecks of brown stuff and the sleeve of his dark shirt seems to be torn up. You spare a split second glance to his delicate hand before returning to his eyes.
“I remember you, Gojo-san” you respond politely. “You mumbled to yourself a lot.” Okay, so that wasn’t supposed to be said out loud.
But he just laughs.
“I guess I did. Did that make me mysterious?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows, and you just blink.
Keep a straight face, keep a straight face.
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have said that. Would you like the same order today? We have some brownies as well." You ignore his question. He taps his chin with his free hand, straightening his back to his full height to look at the menu above you.
From his full height, he has to tuck his chin to look down at you over his shades.
“Could you warm the brownies?” he asks. You nod, putting the order in, and he clicks his tongue. “I’ll have all the cake pops, all the bread, and a large chai, please. Iced.”
“Only one Chai this time?” you ask him, raising an eyebrow. He laughs again. The sound is kind of cute.
“Yeah, only one. I’m not as hungry.”
“Alright.” You ring up his order, and begin making it. You move carefully. You move swiftly. You know this coffee counter like the back of your hand, and certainly know how to make a good iced chai.
So why is your heart beating so quickly?
The man is lounging on the couch again with his feet up, across from the passed out college girl. You’re a bit confused as he takes something out of his pocket and-
Is that a sleeping mask?
You do believe it is, but unfortunately Sato pays you two yen above minimum wage. I.e.: not enough to care.
The food is done easy enough, along with his drink. Simple and easy. But your hands are shaking a little, and your ears are flushed. You've never felt attraction before that made you react so strongly. Maybe something in your instincts is telling you something dangerous is around.
You dismiss the thought of that. You're an intern at a defense attorneys office. You see criminals every day. This man with a sweet tooth and a strangely big appetite does not intimidate you. You demanded this of yourself, and therefore it is so.
You make sure to offer a large smile to him as you call his name respectfully and hand him his order.
“Thank you,” he says, and you nod. His eyes pierce into you for only a moment, and then he turns away immediately. Almost like you're nothing worth looking at. Nothing worth noticing.
You guess a beautiful man with an obviously strange occupation that keeps him up like this doesn’t really see the value in someone like you. A normal college student who works at a coffeeshop.
“Have a nice rest of your night,” you call as he exits. He doesn’t even scarf down the treats in front of you this time.
–
It’s been a month since you saw the man. Maybe a couple weeks more, even. You don’t really remember the interaction too much, nor do you spend any time thinking about him outside of your empty night shifts a few days after. Your new semester work has been weighing on your mind instead. 18 credits was decidedly too much for the trimester, but you took a gap year in between high school and your undergraduate. You hated the feeling of graduating a year later than your peers, and won’t let that happen again for law school.
You pour over your tax law textbook, hitting your thigh lightly as you do. It’s a bad habit you picked up from a music class you took when you were young. If you were stressed, you just had to get something to be a rhythm. That’s why you liked the law. There was always a beat to, always a puzzle that could be solved.
However, income tax exceptions based on family status was not something you thought there was any rhythm to.
You looked up to stretch from your textbook and saw two things through the window of the shop.
First, it was snowing. Very lightly, since it was early November. But it was snowing.
It was beautiful.
The second thing you saw was a tall man who looked like the snow had covered him completely.
As he opened the door, you realized that the snow hadn’t covered his hair, but instead blended with it. It must be blended, because he looked untouched by the snow, despite the lack of the umbrella.
“Welcome in,” you say, searching your brain for his name to greet him with.
Go- gogo? No, something…
“The finest cafe in Tokyo! I’m glad to be back!” He says cheerfully. You offer him a polite smile, and close your textbook.
“Thank you. What can I get you, Sir?” You ask, and the man pouts.
“Wow! Forgot my name already?” he points at himself with one long, slim finger. You blink.
“Um…” your voice trails off, and he laughs. It sounds more genuine than what you’ve heard from him. Less tired, too.
“I’m hurt!” He exclaims, clutching the left side of his chest. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you fold your hands in front of yourself and bow your head.
“I apologize, sir. I do, however, remember that you were very inclined to buy a lot of sweets. Would you like another order like that one?” You ask, head still lowered. You can hear him pause.
“Sure,” he says, resuming a cheerful but laid back demeanor. “It’s Gojo, by the way. My name. That you forgot.”
“I apologize again, Gojo-san,” you say. Internally, however, you’re kind of irritated he keeps bringing it up. Why the hell would you memorize his name from a month ago? He’s not your only customer.
However, you stay silent, half because, if you remember correctly, this man tips very well off his large orders and half because you have good manners. Unlike this prick.
You put in the order for him, he pays, lays down on the couch while you make it, and he picks it up and lingers to eat it and leaves.
You do the same thing the next night. Then next week for three days in a row. Then a week straight a couple days after that. He became a regular in the coffee shop, always ordering an obscene amount of sweets and a chai or two. You continued to remember his name, much to his delight, and he even remembered yours. Sometimes. Other times, you caught him looking at your nametag before addressing you.
Fair enough. You were just his barista. He didn’t seem like someone who was very polite, anyway.
That was your type in men. A very polite, studious, tall and dark haired hard worker that was no nonsense. Your type was definitely not this weird, ravenous man who didn’t know that putting your feet up on public furniture was rude.
You liked the silent type, mostly because outside of workplaces and awkward social situations, you could be loud. And very opinionated. Cheerful, even, around the right people.
However, despite the amount of jokes this man cracked at you, he never got more than a polite smile. You tried not to respond. Because he was not the right people. Why would you waste your cheerfulness on him?
He persisted, however. He showed up constantly, asking you odd questions while he was there like your favorite animal or what flavor of lollipop you were. (You told him the answers after a little bit of prodding on his part) He also began telling you about himself too when you definitely didn’t ask. Like you were more of a diary or a therapist to vent to.
“And like, is it my fault that he came to declare war?” he asks you, stuffing his mouth full of cookies, some of the crumbs getting on his pale cheeks. He stands in front of you and the takeout counter, dirt under his fingernails from wherever he was before this. “An’ I wah lik-” he swallows. “He hated us anyway, what could I do to stop this?”
“He obviously is interested in your student to become his stock broker,” You mumble, and then freeze.
Aw crap.
You just admitted you’ve been listening to his half told stories of his life as teacher at a school with ‘politically charged’ opponents. Whatever that means. This story didn’t even make sense with his old friend ‘declaring war financially.’ Although in your private opinion, you thought all the stock and financial aspects of his stories seemed like an afterthought.
Of course, the fact that you had an opinion means you where listening. Closely.
Gojo's grin widens drastically.
“Awwwww, you have thoughts about my storeis? About me?” he asks, leaning over the counter and fluttering his white lashes over his cobalt irises.
They're too long for a man. You decide.
“Of course I do, Sir." You give him a polite smile. No better way to put distance than play the 'i'm required to be polite' card. "You're a valued customer." He frowns, a hand smushing his cheek.
“That’s not faiiiirrr. You just said a real sentence to me. Now you're back to the company handbook!” He exclaims, taking a big sip from his chai.
“I apologize for my coldness Sir,” you say blankly, staring at him through his shades. You’d gotten used to this specific apology.
“Argh! So annoying!” He huffs, returning to his couch, and you begin sweeping behind the counter. However, you can feel his gaze on your back and turn to find his head hanging over the edge of the armrest to look at you upside down.
“Hey,” he calls.
“Yes sir? Can I get you anything else?”
“Why are you always saying sorry?” he asks. “Seriously. Like, you never stand up for yourself. Or really sass me that much. It’s not like you're weak in this world or anything.” Weak in this world? What an odd choice of words.
“Because it’s polite.” you answer, and he huffs.
“I hate being polite. It’s so boring,” he tells you, and you debate for a moment whether to give him a real answer or no. Well, it can't hurt.
“I used to hate it as well,” you respond while continuing your sweeping. “I always thought being direct was much more efficient."
“What changed?” he asks, sitting up from the couch.
“I got employed. And for my dream job I can’t be rude.”
“Yeah, defense lawyer right?” he asks, and you blink up at him.
“How did you…”
“Oh! I just noticed your homework is usually subjects associated with attorneys.” he says brightly, and you glance over at your books.
“Yeah…But, how did you know I wanted to be defensive?”
He smiles at you widely.
“Well, I just guessed. And I was right!” He raises his arms up in victory. “I’m pretty good, aren’t I?”
“Um,” you glance at him. “How?”
“Are you interested?” Even from across the room, you can see the light in his eyes begin to dance. “Well, I put it together after all the answers you gave me for the ‘silly questions’. I’m a pretty good judge of character. And your whole 'cremation is better than burial' spiel is such a defense attorney thing to say."
You cringe a little. You had gotten the 'how do you want to go' question from Gojo a week back, where you had insisted on cremation. It was how you treated your grandmother, and you expressed how much you thought that sprinkling ashes on a beautiful field was much more heartwarming than burning the person under it.
It was the first time you had really spoken to Gojo with more than a word or two, and the man was unnaturally excited by it. He seemed quite convinced by your argument by the end, declaring he would be cremated 'if he ever died'. Although you did wonder how this related to you being a defense attorney.
“I see. How interesting,” you say. He frowns at your blank tone, but you’re not being sarcastic. “Well, sir, I wish you a good night.”
Gojo sighs at your dismissal and begins to leave, and you watch his retreating figure. He’s halfway out the door before he pauses. You feel the mood of the room shift.
“Hey, uh,” he begins, head still facing away. You tilt your head at the tension in his tone. “As a defense lawyer, how would you defend a guy who was your close friend but wasn't… didn’t do good… or legal things? Who was going to do something really bad?”
It's an odd question. Asking moral advice from your barista wasn't most people's first instinct.
Gojo's voice sounds vulnerable. You hadn’t heard that feeling before from him.
He sounds scared.
You find yourself wanting to reach out and protect him from whatever was scaring him. You wanted to hold him close, despite him only being a strange customer who you found infinitely annoying.
Of course, you couldn’t hold him close. That wouldn’t be polite. So instead, you answer his question the best you can.
“Does he want your defense?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t respond. After a moment, he releases the door and walks out.
–
Gojo Satoru didn’t like Chai.
Now, he didn’t hate it either. It just tasted like weird coffee to him. He felt neutral on it, like he did with the barista that was painfully honest.
Satoru didn’t think honesty was a bad quality. It could be amusing. It could be boring.
She reminded him of Nanami a little. They both had the same blank face when Satoru said something dumb. Satoru guessed you learned that face when you got employed properly.
But it was odd. Around the barista, Gojo feel quite as irritated as he did normally around weak people.
And for as much as Satoru felt neutral about Chai, he found himself craving the simplicity of it in the hurried moments of his life.
Odd.
–
“Welcome in,” you greet, a formal smile on your face. You’re expecting the blue eyed menace alone. However, right now, a young boy is trailing behind him. He’s got black hair and exhausted eyes. His posture is slouched, like the world has beaten him down and he’s dressed in an odd white school uniform.
“Hi!! Did you misssss meeee?” Gojo calls out, clasping his hands together and leaning his cheek against them.
“What can I get for you all today?” you ask, ignoring his question like always.
“I don’t know…” Gojo pouts.
“Two large ice’d chai’s, twenty brownies and ten cake pops. Will that be all for you today?” you ask politely. The boy looks up at you curiously, and you give him a soft smile.
“What do you want, Okkotsu?” Gojo asks, and the boy blinks.
“Um… do you have anything salty?” He asks quietly, and Gojo laughs loudly.
“It’s a coffee shop! Of course they don’t-”
“We have spanakopita. It’s a spinach pie,” you respond, eyes flick up to Gojo’s surprised expression. “Our owner is Greek.”
The boy holds back a laugh as Gojo wrinkles his nose. “Uh, one spanakopita please.”
“Your total is twenty three thousand and two yen.” You hold back a longing sigh as the white haired man produces a beautiful, sparkling credit card.
The credit card appears in your dreams. It haunts you, your yearning for access to it. However, you suppose what you truly yearn to not be on the verge of debt 24/7.
As Gojo taps the credit card, your skin starts to tingle. Is this what being around rich people feels like?
“Hey,” Gojo calls out your name. “Are you okay?”
You blink at him.
“Why… wouldn’t I be?” You murmur, but your vision begins to blur. Ah. Maybe pounding four redbulls last night to stay up and study for your exam wasn’t the best…
You slump forward, as you knees loose all strength. Your head is about to smash against the counter, but you're pretty sure it lands on something soft instead.
However, you don't have time to think about it before the last of your strength leaves your body and your eyes flutter shut.
You think you dream. It's of a chipmunk with cheeks stuffed full of cake.
It sits in your palm, but you know if you pet it, it will run away. So you wait until the furry animal chooses to nuzzle into your hands first.
You wake up wondering where the chipmunk went. You open your eyes, and you can hear someone speaking faintly in the blur. Then, as you lift your head, you realize just where you are.
Gojo's arm is curled around you waist, a hand firmly on your hip. You're leaning into his broad chest as you two sit on what you realize is the couch. You're leaning all your weight on him, your face in the crook of his arm.
"Oh, she's up!" the dark haired boy that stands in front of you has a worried look on his face.
You passed out?
Your face flushes immediately, and you jump up. Gojo releases you easily, an small smile dancing across his face.
"I'm so sorry!" You bow deeply, your hair falling in front of you eyes. "I'm so- I'm so sorry!"
"It's all good," the man says lazily, standing up and stretching. "Gave Okkotsu over here quite a fright, though."
"I'm very sorry!" You repeat again, embarrassment making your heartbeat ring in your ears. "I'll start your order now!" You race to safety behind the counter, pressing your cool hand to your flaming cheeks.
"Maybe you should just lay down?" The boy suggests, and you shake you head.
"No sir, you both already paid. And Gojo-san is a very valued customer," You respond, shooting the disheveled boy a small smile. "I'm alright. I've just had exams lately."
"Maybe you should get some more sleep," Gojo suggests, lounging back on the couch. His voice is laced with something like concern.
"Maybe." you force a chuckle. The man tips his head back so his sunglasses slide to cover his eyes completely.
The night wraps up smoothly, and the boy seems to enjoy his spinach pie. You say goodbye to the pair, but not before Gojo reaches over the counter to flick your forehead gently.
"Go to sleep," He winks at you. "Maybe you'll even dream of me, yeah?"
You grimace at him and his lack of personal boundaries, but your heart beats just a little bit faster at his touch.
Later that night, you dream of the chipmunk again. It's different this time. More human.
You wake up with your face red-hot.
--
"My best friend is dead."
You stare over the counter at the white haired man. He stares at his hands in front of him, placed on the counter. They grip the marble tightly, knuckles white from tension. He doesn't meet your gaze. Its the first time you've seen him without that odd black uniform on.
He wears a suit instead. Like he's going to a funeral.
"I'm sorry," You murmur, and you're not just being polite. You heart does ache for him, odd as it may be.
"Last week." Gojo's voice cracks. "That's why I haven't been here," he explains, like he has to justify not visiting a coffeeshop.
"I see. That's terrible." You hesitate. "Do you.... want-" Do you want what? A hug? A free Chai latte? What do you even say to that? You're his barista.
"I don't want anything. I'll save all my wishes for them," He murmurs, spinning on his heel and stalking out of the shop. Your eyes linger on the empty doorway far longer than they should.
He comes the next day with a wide smile on his face. You greet him as sir. He drinks his chai in one gulp, and then babbles on about some teen named 'Megumi' with his mouth full of cake.
Neither of you speak of wishes or dead best friends.
--
"You know, I can't believe you don't like garlic bread," Gojo mentions, lounging on the couch. You rolls your eyes at the back of his head. Why do you care?
"I threw up one time at a collage party after eating a whole basket. Now the thought makes me sick," You mutter, although you're not completely sure why your sharing this information.
Perhaps, although you don't want to admit it to yourself, you enjoy Gojo's presence and his annoying questions. He's begun to be something like a... friend, almost. Although if you have to rely on this strange teacher mafia man for company maybe you should call up your girls for a night out soon.
"You know, just because you had a bad experience with something doesn't mean you have to leave it behind forever." Gojo stretches upwards, and you swear you hear his back crack. He spins around on the couch, grinning over at you. You snort.
"How philosophical."
"Right!" You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. He tilts his head in an oddly catlike manner, continuing. "Like, just because you broke up with a guy once doesn't mean you're going to swear off dating forever!"
"Right, and you've had a lot of experience on the dating front, have you?" You tease, and Gojo lets out an exaggerated gasp.
"I'm hurt! That's wasn't very polite!" he frowns deeply, and you let out a laugh before schooling your expression and bowing deeply.
"My sincere apologizes, Gojo-san. Would you like a complimentary free chai?" You offer, and he grins widely, his pearly white almost reflective in the bright light of the overheads.
"How generous you are!" He stands suddenly to his full stature. "How could I ever refuse?"
--
A familiar voice calls your name from outside the window.
It Gojo again, this time with a small smile from outside the coffeeshop. You raise an eyebrow. This is the third time this week he's stood outside without order anything. He seems to just appear, wave and smile, and disappears in an instant against. You think one time he was wearing a blindfold.
What an odd man.
--
Satoru craves Chai everyday now. It's like an odd addiction he can't get rid of. It helps him relax. He can't sleep anymore without it.
He hopes the machine never breaks. He'll order new parts every day if he had to, just to get that perfect high.
He wonders if he can just take the machine for himself. Then he'll always get what he wants.
It's just logical.
--
"I'm not sorry," You mutter. Gojo sticks his tongue out.
"Apologize anyways! I was stuck with a total stranger at this shop for the past week! I thought you had quit without telling me!" Gojo whines, and you raise an eyebrow at him.
"I was away for my real job," you glance down at the cash register.
"A barista is a real job," Gojo counters, and you sigh as you process his humongous order.
"Yeah, but I'm more of your personal cookie monster than a real barista," you mumble.
"The cookie monster eats cookies. You give them to me," Gojo corrects, and you look up at him slowly. There's a pause. "So I'd be the cookie monster." Gojo clarifies.
More silence.
"Because I'm eating the cookies-"
"Cash or card."
"Geez, okay. Sore spot, I guess. You can be the cookie monster," Gojo responds, pulling out his wallet. "Although I don't get why a pretty lady would want to be a furry puppet." You rolls your eyes, but you cant stop the smile that slips onto your face.
--
Shoko tells him he seems like he's getting better. Like the grief is beginning to get better.
Not only from killing, murdering, destroying his best friend, but the grief that he had been carrying around for ten years.
He agrees with her. The chai lattes had been stronger lately. They had kept him up from the nightmares that plagued him of how he killed his-
his best friend.
When he sleeps, all he can see is the dead eyes as he began to burn it up the body. All he can taste is sour. All he can feel is bitterness.
That barista was right. It felt better to sprinkle him around Jujutsu High than bury him under it. He would of wanted to be allowed to be free.
Gojo, however, is not free. He cries more than he should. He is unable to be strong for his students, and sends them away as soon as he can.
But although his friend plagues his nightmares and looms over his consciousness every waking moment, there's a space between waking up and stopping dreaming where his mind is allowed to wander.
And when it does, he finds he wants to wander to you.
Strange.
--
"We're closing in two minutes," You mention as Gojo comes through the door. He grins, holding something in his hand.
"Would you be convinced to stay open longer for this wonderful prize?" He asks, and you raise an eyebrow.
"What is it?" You question, leaning forward. He approaches the counter with the object in his open palm. You peer down, looking at the odd little fuzzy... cat?
"It's a keychain!" He exclaims, and you let out a laugh.
"Okay, fine. Your usual?" You question, and he gives you a big nod.
"Yup!" he tosses you the little white cat, which you catch and examine. You dangle it upwards, comparing it to the face of you customer.
"You know, a chipmunk would be more accurate," You joke, and Gojo gasps.
"A chipmunk?! Excuse you, but I played a bunch of those grabber games to get one that would look like me for you." he sticks his bottom lip out, and you chuckle as you clip the keychain on your beltloop of your uniform.
"I'll attach it to my bag," You promise, winking at him. "But if you every find a chipmunk you better give that to me too."
Are you talking to a customer like this?!?!? And accepting gifts?!?! What are you doing?!?! Your internal alarms are blaring, but the quiet quickly at the genuine smile you get from Gojo.
"Of course I will, my little latte!" Gojo teases, reaching over the counter to flick your shoulder. You scrunch up your face.
"Absolutely not. I will not be your 'little latte'," You declare and Gojo takes a pensive moment.
"My... pumpkin spice?"
"No."
"My chai chai?"
"No."
"My cake pop?"
"Why do I have to be your anything? Can't I just be myself?" You grumble as you ring up his order. He laughs.
"Fine. You'll just be you, then."
--
That night, Gojo had come in an ordered a small chai latte. No desserts.
First red flag.
Next, he hadn't spoken to you the whole night besides a elated greeting. Second red flag. The man never shuts up.
Third red flag was... well, he had gotten you flowers. He, a customer, had gotten you, his barista, flowers.
A bouquet of deep red camellias and lilies. The wrapping paper was the most beautiful you had ever seen, pure white and lined with glittering gold.
He simply greeted you, order, and presented you with the flowers. Casually.
You open your mouth and close it again.
"Those... are for me?" You question. Gojo smirks, looking at you over his shades. His hair falls in front of his face, obstructing your view of his glittering cerulean eyes.
"Obviously. Unless there are any other beautiful women around here?" You blink at him, feeling your face flush.
"Oh. I see. Thank you, Gojo-san. This is a very generous gift for your barista." you give a short bow as you receive the flowers and begin thinking of where a vase would be.
"Wow," Gojo pouts, and you raise an eyebrow at him. "Is that your subtle way of rejecting me?"
Your breath catches. His lips look very plush when he frowns like that.
"Sorry?" You place the flowers in front of you on the counter. Your very confused. Who was rejecting who?
"I'm asking you out." His grin is wide an easy, but you hear a tremor in his voice.
You're still confused.
"You-" you furrow your brow. "Are- oh." Gojo's expression flickers with something like panic, but your too spooked to really process the despair in his expression,
Right. Okay. The handsome vogue cover mafia/teacher/weird overeater sweet tooth guy is asking you out.
No biggie. Just play it cool.
"I would-" you blink rapidly. Your heart is beating very, very fast. Calm down. Embarrassing yourself. But you are simply too stunned to speak, and you watch Gojo's expression turn from anticipation starkly to disappointment before he quickly wears a grin again.
"I get it," he winks at you easily. "It's alright, rejecting a guy like me. I'm sure I'm simply too much fun for you to deal with." He turns away, but you lunge forward over the counter and grab the sleeve of his uniform.
"Wait!" the word slips out of you, and your heart is beating faster than you thought it ever could. You are defiantly not acting polite or respectful, but damnit! "I would love to go on a date with you."
Gojo freezes. "You would?"
"Yes." You nod fervently, releasing his sleeve. You think a smile is sneaking onto your face. "Although maybe lets not go to a bakery. I don't think I could eat if I saw you down half the restaurant."
Gojo's laugh is like church bells. It makes you giddy.
--
The first date is nice. You go to the park. He brings you coffee just the way you like. He brought chai for himself. It's very casual. He seems relax, but sometime it feels like he's imitating what he thinks normal acts like.
You don't talk that much at first, but unlike at the shop, he treats you more like a partner in the conversation. The questions he asks are open ended. He makes space for your answers. You find yourself opening up. You find yourself laughing.
The second date is better. An empty movie theater with detailed commentary during the truly awful film. Human earthworm 3? Who would even make one of those kinds of films? He asked for a third. You said yes immediately.
Being with him is normal. He's easy to be around.
He fits in nicely next to your law textbooks and friend groups. There is no gaping hole inside you he needs to fill. Instead, he slowly invades parts of your consciousness. Would Satoru like this? What would Satoru think?
Your eventual confession of love would be mundane if you had not been heartfelt. It was your sixth date.
You were cooking him dinner after a hard day at your internship as Satoru jabbered on about his students and how his ward, which you had yet to meet, was finally going to become a first year. It was cute, really, how passionate he got about his teaching, although he told you that was really just a side gig. He had yet to tell you what is main gig was, though.
Satoru was hugging you from behind as you chopped vegetables. He kissed the space under your ear, his soft lips ticking the sensitive skin there.
You blushed furiously, attempting to focus on your carrots and not the intensely built arm wrapped snuggly around your waist. He really was insanely toned, a fact you where pleased to find out during your first real kiss during your fourth date. Amazingly good with his tongue, too.
"You're so cute," He murmured against your ear. You swear your heart was beating out of your body, and you place your knife down. "Cutie pie."
"I think I'm in love with you." The words slip out before you can even process they where building up.
He freezes for a second, and you silently curse. Was it too soon? Did I rush him? He had been very forward lately but he struck you as oddly isolated. Maybe he had a problem with emotional intimacy.
He slides his hands from your waist to your hips, and spins you around. You look up to find his piercing eyes staring down at you, a large grin on his face.
"That's kind of a shame. Because I'm definitely in love with you," he leans down, lips brushing yours. You lacing your hands behind his neck and lean into his embrace. His hands go under your thighs, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You yelp against the kiss as he takes a few steps to the side, but he quickly places you down on the solid counter. He kisses you deeply, and you can faintly taste cinnamon on his tongue.
You push back a little on his chest with your palms.
"Okay. So just confirming, we are official now, right? You're my boyfriend?" You raise both eyebrows at him. You'd had trouble with 'labels' in the past, and didn't want some sort of repeat.
Satoru leans in, his breath tickling your face. "I'll be whatever you want me to be," Satoru murmurs against your lips. You smile slightly.
"I just want you to be Satoru." you give him a peck. "And my boyfriend."
"Sounds good to me," He responds, and you can't stop smiling long enough for him to really kiss you again.
--
You find out eventually. The blood and odd hours catch up to him. You think he's involved in crime, and cry real tears as you confront him about his lifestyle. You beg him to leave whatever he's caught up in. To save himself. You're almost delighted to find out he's some kind of shaman.
"So, you like, fight curses?" You sniffle. He rubs small circles around your back as you both snuggle on your couch.
"Yeah," his voice is soothing. "Yeah, and I teach kids how to fight as well."
"Are you allowed to tell me this?" You ask, looking up at him. He gives you a little smile.
"I should've told you earlier, really. No one can really stop me," he says. "I'm pretty open about the whole thing." He winks, and you let out a breathy laugh. His smile fades. "I'm not letting you near that world, by the way. You can meet my students and my friends, but I'm not letting anyone... anyone dangerous see you." You hum in agreement. You don't really mind being shielded from curses and shamans.
But who will shield Satoru?
"Are you any good? At fighting curses?" You question, taking his hand in yours. It was hard for him to tell you, you could tell. He spit it out like an annoying secret that he thought you'd resent him for. You didn't completely understand why, though.
Satoru chuckles. "I'm the best, actually. The strongest."
"The strongest," You repeat, running a thumb over his knuckles. His hand is calloused like you hadn't noticed before.
"Yeah," his voice dips. You take your free hand to cup against his face, guiding him to look at you.
"Okay. But to me, you're Satoru," you declare. He smiles softly, and you lean forward to place a kiss on his trembling lips.
You hope you're sweet enough to wash away the bitterness in his mouth.
---
cross posted on AO3 as author 'miniatureAntigonist'