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It happened in a blur, in a mix of car horns and traffic lights roaring along the asphalt of Tokyo's bustling streets. It wasn't supposed to be anything more than a glance, a fleeting sideways peek of nothing beyond the dual paned glass of the coffee shop, sitting beneath bead plants and multicolored begonia's.
He was only supposed to walk home from work, grab a bite to eat at the take-out just below his apartment, where he'd eat, watch a few episodes of a crime drama, and fall asleep without delay.
Instead, his eyes were fixated, unable and unwilling to peel away from the warm brown gaze beneath long lashes evenly set that beamed up at him over a latte and a sketchbook.
It wasn't supposed to be anything more than everyday, passerby eye contact, but it was so much more. A fire ignites in his stomach and every nerve in his body comes to life with each tug at his heart strings. He should walk away. He should take one large step away from the window and go home, get out of this chilly autumn air.
A bashful smile and long fingers tousling through a messy array of chocolate locks sends him wheeling on his heel and heading for the entrance.
He barely greets the waitress properly as he yanks his scarf loose from his neck and beelines from the door to the table along the window, nearer to the back.
He hasn't moved, aside from taking a sip of his latte and raking through his messy hair again.
He sets his cup down and looks up, eyes meeting again once more.
“It's cold out there, isn't it?”
“Freezing,” a smile, pearly white and full of secrets stretches across his face. The brunet studies him carefully, head to toe. Bed hair that sticks upward that hasn't even been attempted at being tamed, sharp, cat like eyes that give no hint to his emotion, soft lips molded around that untrustworthy smile.
Dangerous, is the only word that comes to mind.
“You can sit, if you like,” the brunet offers, and the taller man loosens his scarf entirely and bundles it into the corner of the booth, shrugging out of his coat. He reveals a slim fit shirt that hugs his shoulders and loosens along his arms and broad chest, concealing anything that may warrant too long of a stare.
“Why don't you tell me first, your name? Or why you came in here?” The brunet asks.
“Which do you want to know?”
“Why you came in here,” he asks, folding his sketchbook shut smoothly and taking another sip of his latte, eyes burning with curiosity.
The black haired teen flashes an impish smile just above his laced fingers that he rests on his chin. “Well, you interest me,” he says, rather blunt but vague enough for the brunet to further question why.
“I interest you?”
“Mhm,” he nods, pausing to order when a waitress makes herself known. She locks her knees together and fidgets above her notepad, cheeks blooming with scarlet and round blue eyes dancing between both men at the table.
“Is that all?”
“For now,” The mischievous one wryly smiles up at her, and she hesitates on whether she should ask him for his number or not. The air around the booth intimidates her to go scurrying back without another word.
“You're an artist,” he says, once the waitress is gone. The brunet's eyes slide along his sketchbook and back up. “It's a hobby,” he answers softly, eyes glancing out the window. “You going to tell me your name?”
The taller man's smile stretches wide. “If it's a name you'll remember.”
The brunet side glances him, mouth open in surprise. They stare at each other for what seems like longer than a few moments. The silence is interrupted when a cup of black coffee hits the table with a gentle clink, and the waitress silently excuses herself.
The brunet clears his throat and adjusts himself in his seat, pressing against the back of the booth. “Oikawa Tooru,” he says, sipping his drink once more.
When the other man looks him in question, a smirk pulls at his lips, and he adds, “you want to remember me as well, don't you?”
He chortles, “that's true. Kuroo Tetsurou.”
Fitting name.
“That's easy to remember, I would think.”
“I don't want you to remember it because it's easy,” Kuroo answers darkly, eyes twinkling with intention.
Oikawa feels something dance about deep in his belly. He's not sure on what it is, but it's enough to make him grind his heels into the floor in attempt to force himself to resist looking flustered. “Is this your way of asking me out?”
Kuroo smirks between long fingers pressed against his lips and cheek. “That's quite presumptuous of you,” he muses, “or is that an invitation?”
Well he's no beginner to flirtatious banter. Oikawa has the sense that he's an expert at provocation. It slightly irks him that someone might be as talented as he is at swooning their target. Milk chocolate eyes flutter downward to the wooden table beneath his elbows and a playful pout tugs at his pink and bitten lips. “My name” he mutters after a moment, “how do you want to remember it?”
Kuroo leans forward, proving Oikawa has asked just the right question. His voice is low, husky, laced with all sorts of mischief that is alluring and pulling at every curious nerve in Oikawa's body. “Positively. For longer than tonight. I won't let my coming in here after you be just a fluke. So...to your question... yes, I am asking you out,” Kuroo says slowly, eyes never leaving Oikawa's as he takes another slow sip of his coffee.
“What makes you think I'll say yes?”
“You can't get a read on me, and that bothers you,” Kuroo smiles, “plus...have you looked at me?”
Oikawa nearly spits out his latte. His confidence could rival that of the model worthy brunet himself. It would be an understatement to say Oikawa might have been nervous. He hasn't been nervous around anyone in a long time, so long he can't even remember. It's enthralling, meeting someone he can't read within the five minutes he's been at this table. It's terrifying, that after years of disappointment, his heart yearns for a trial run with this unbeknown, beautiful man before him, prancing about the idea that they should take their initial attraction beyond just that.
The brunet orders another latte and slides his sketchbook to the corner of the table, carding his fingers through his messy hair. “You're paying,” he breathes a cheeky grin, leaning forward and resting his chin in the palm of his hand. Although he had plans to go home and tell his grouch of a best friend about another one of his uneventful days, now he actually had a story to tell.