Archive of Our Own

Suguru doesn’t hate his job, contrary to popular belief. He doesn’t necessarily like it either, considering that he’s being paid minimum wage and works the night shift most of the time, but it’s not terrible. Being a barista is far better than retail and Copa Amoris — the university’s local coffee shop, located next to his apartment — provides benefits such as free food and convenience. It’s generally a nice place to work.

Key word: Generally.

Suguru’s personal version of hell begins at exactly a minute before midnight, when the saying hell is empty and all the devils are here comes true and the bane of his existence walks through the front door.

Satoru — just Satoru, he had insisted the first time they had met, with the privilege and arrogance of a one word name, as if he was on the same level as Beyonce or Madonna — is right on time.

He saunters (yes, saunters) up to the counter wearing a vivid neon sweater seemingly made of real fur, shoes made of spray-painted gold, and a pair of circular sunglasses that somehow manage to enhance the worst aspects of the look. It’s quite possibly one of the most visually unappealing outfits that has ever existed, something that belongs halfway between a Doctor Suess book and the depths of the underworld.

Suguru likes to think that he’s not a shallow person, that he doesn’t judge people based on something as inconsequential as their fashion sense.

But what type of asshole wears sunglasses indoors? At midnight nonetheless?

Suguru closes his eyes to steady himself, giving a silent prayer in the hopes that when he opens them again, Satoru will have disappeared.

When he opens them, he finds himself unsuccessful. Satoru is there as he always is — nauseatingly cheerful and headache-inducing, like some otherworldly being brought to life from the pages of a fairytale, his vivid clothing out of place in comparison to the darkness outside.

Still, Suguru is good at his job. He puts on his patented customer service smile as Satoru approaches the counter. “The usual?”

Satoru has been coming here long enough now that Suguru knows his order by heart. Three cake slices and a hazelnut frappuccino with caramel drizzle on top is enough to make any normal person die of a heart attack, but then again, Satoru has never been normal.

“You remembered," Satoru says, grinning.

Of course he remembers. The drink takes nearly five minutes to make and is the main cause of the nightmares he has sometimes, where he’s late to class but can’t leave until he’s completed the drink order.

Before Suguru can summon a response, Satoru continues, bending to the side like a slapstick bracelet to peer at the display of pastries. “Do you have any fruit tarts?”

It’s Friday. They don’t make fruit tarts on Fridays.

Satoru has been coming here for a while now. He knows this.

“We don’t have fruit tarts on Fridays,” Suguru reminds him, punching in the usual order with a tiny bit more force than necessary and just barely managing to keep his polite tone.

“Well,” he drawls, leaning forward on the counter and widening his eyes pleadingly. “Can’t you make one just for me?”

“I don’t make them,” Suguru informs pleasantly. “The pastry chef already left.”

“But you could try, couldn’t you?” Satoru asks, in a tone that suggests everything in the world has been handed to him on a platter, smiling as if Suguru should be honored to be able to serve him. “I bet anything you make would be good, Suguru.”

“If you’re willing to pay me a million dollars, I’d be more than happy to make you something.” He reaches for a cup and purposefully misspells Satoru’s name. He doesn’t have to, there are no other customers to call for, but it’s the little acts of spite that keep Suguru sane. “I’m sure you can afford it.”

“Overcharging your favorite customer doesn’t seem like a very sound business practice,” Satoru muses, picking up a cupcake and taking a bite.

Suguru carefully crafted mask nearly crumbles under the weight of his disbelief. He replays the words in his head again to make sure he didn’t mishear. “I’m sorry?” He asks incredulously, “Did you just say that you’re my favorite customer?”

“Aren’t I?” Satoru’s grin grows wider.

There is only so much that Suguru can deal with. He’s a good person. He helps take his little sisters shopping for clothes, donates money to the local children’s hospital, and walks the old lady that lives nearby cross the street every day. He even volunteers to work at the soup kitchens on the weekends, time that could have instead be spent working on next week’s physics homework.

But this.

He is not a good enough person to be nice to Satoru. Satoru isn’t someone who deserves kindness.

“My favorite customer would not show up one minute before closing and order a drink that takes ten minutes to make,” Suguru hisses, resisting the urge to pluck out Satoru’s teeth one by one through sheer will alone. “We closed five minutes ago.”

Satoru glances at the clock, apparently just registering that it is now 12:05. He turns back, looking only slightly apologetic. “Well,” he says. “I already paid for my drink, so you can’t kick me out.”

It’s true. Suguru can’t kick him out. Store policy states that they must accept every customer that comes in before closing.

That doesn’t mean he can’t at least try.

Suguru twists his lips into something saccharine sweet, open and welcoming. He smiles radiantly as he moves to the syrup counter, “You do realize that there is nothing stopping me from poisoning your drink.”

Most poisons are inherently sweet and Satoru’s drink is latent with sugar. Suguru makes a show of adding the different syrups, beaming like a sun ray all the while, similar to how carnivorous flowers draw in their prey with honeyed nectar.

Satoru, however, doesn’t even have the decency to seem put off. Suguru’s threat sails uselessly over his head, much like how the coffee shop’s opening hours do. He laughs, a small smirk appearing at the edge of his lips. “If you wanted to poison me, you would’ve done so by now.”

Suguru can almost feel his smile shattering into pieces, gritting his teeth so that he doesn’t throw the drink in Satoru’s face. It’s as if he’s playing a game of chess where the rules keep changing; a never-ending loop that’s impossible to win.

Satoru takes another bite of his cupcake, crumbs tumbling down the edge of his shirt and onto the counter, just one more thing Suguru will have to clean before closing.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

Satoru is the last customer of the day. All Suguru has to do is wait until he leaves or until a stray meteor eradicates humanity, whichever comes first. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, carefully putting a blank expression on his face before his true emotions show.

“Can I get you anything else?”

He knows what Satoru is going to say before he says it, the same way thunder precedes lightning, the same script they’ve been playing through since Satoru first walked through the doors of Copa Amoris.

Satoru takes off his shades to reveal his eyes, glittering in delight at Suguru’s pain. “Your number?”

He’s refused every other time. He doesn’t know why today is different.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s nearly finals season. Maybe it’s because Suguru has worked nearly fifty hours this week. Maybe he wants to prove that he can be just as annoying as Satoru.

“If I give you my number, will you finally start visiting at a reasonable hour?”

The look of shock on Satoru’s face is a little bit gratifying. He recovers quickly, visibly brightening from the unexpected agreement. “Yes.”

Suguru scribbles a number on a to-go cup, keeping a poker face on all the while. It’s only after Satoru leaves, diabetes and false victory in hand, that he allows himself to daydream about all the cars across the world — just waiting for Suguru to push Satoru in front of them.

Two weeks later, Satoru shows up at a reasonable hour.

It’s the only the middle of Suguru’s night shift when he arrives; eight o clock in the evening. Satoru, for once, is not the only one here. Copa Amoris still holds a few stressed out college students inside its cozy atmosphere, the slow beating of cafe jazz interspersed with the low thrums of quiet conversation to create a bizarre dissonance.

Suguru is working on his second physics problem for the night (his first took three hours to solve), when Satoru enters.

He marches up to the counter and covers Suguru’s papers with a single hand, frowning. “You gave me the wrong number.”

Suguru does at least attempt to act surprised, but from the look on Satoru’s face, it doesn’t quite work. The slight smirk that he can feel tugging on his lips gives him away. “Did I?”

“Apparently, it’s the number for the wild animal rescue,” Satoru says dryly.

“I was hoping they would help you out,” Suguru admits. “Seems like you need it.”

Satoru snorts, a flash of amusement crossing his face. “Rude.”

“Your usual order?”

“With extra whip cream please,” Satoru asks, already handing over his credit card. It’s black. Because of course it is.

Suguru swipes across the cash register and taps the buttons on the screen. He’s not petty enough to give himself an extra tip, but it’s tempting. He deserves it for having to deal with this amount of annoyance so often.

When he hands the card back to Satoru, he finds him looking at the physics problem he had left on the counter.

“Your differentiation is wrong, by the way,” Satoru says, tapping his finger on the paper.

Suguru stares at him. “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is,” Satoru says, turning the paper around. He picks up the pencil and scribbles something onto the equation before handing it back. “You forgot a negative sign.”

Suguru plates the cake slice before glancing over it. Satoru is right; He had forgotten a negative sign. That means he’ll have to start from the beginning. He can feel a headache beginning to arise, somewhere in the back of his mind. “Are you a physics major?”

“Yup,” Satoru says, tilting his head to the side as he watches Suguru fix the problem. “Are you?”

“Philosophy, actually.”

“Ah,” Satoru grins, like he’d known it all along and had just been waiting for confirmation. “Makes sense.”

Suguru narrows his eyes as he pours out the hazelnut frappuccino into the cup. “What’s that suppose too mean?”

“You seem like the type,” Satoru says, waving in the air as if to illustrate the point. “You know — enjoys arguing with people, overthinks everything, pretentious.”

“I’m pretentious?” Suguru asks incredulously, not quite able to believe his ears. “You’re a college student with a black card.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Satoru says, holding his hands up placatingly. He seems earnest, so Suguru lets it go, just this once. “Most philosophy majors are pretty boring. You aren’t.”

Satoru shakes his head, moving to pour the blended slush of ice into the cup. Satoru follows him. “I’m not as interesting as you think I am.”

“I disagree,” Satoru says, watching him behind the two foot barrier. “Maybe we should spend more time together, so I can prove you wrong.”

“No thanks,” Suguru says. If he had to spend more time with Satoru, he thinks he’d spontaneously combust from the irritation. He swirls the whip cream on top of the frappuccino. “Some of us are busy trying to pass quantum mechanics.”

“And not doing well apparently,” Satoru snickers and ah, Suguru remembers why he finds him annoying all over again. He points back to the side of the physics paper. “But I’m sure the drawings will give you extra credit. Not too busy to go on a date?”

Suguru furrows his eyebrows in confusion, blanking until he remembers the drawings that Mimiko and Nanako had doodled on his homework. Three bunnies etched in glittery pink pen all point towards a date and the address of Jujutsu Tech University’s small art department, scribbles underneath reading 11:00am, don’t be late!

“My sisters,” he explains, then immediately regrets it. Too late, Suguru realizes that he’s fallen for the bait, has given Satoru more information about himself. “They have an art exhibition tomorrow.”

“Not a date then.” Satoru hums, crossing his arms on the counter and resting his head on top, eyes glimmering with humor. “No girlfriend?”

Satoru’s stare is a little too pleased, entertained, like he already knows the answer. Suguru is struck with the image of a white cat lounging on the counter, lazily batting a plush mouse on a string, content with the knowledge that it can catch the toy at any time.

It’s infuriating, but Suguru’s manager is in the backroom and he can’t risk losing his job, no matter how strong the urge to replace the caramel drizzle with the barbecue sauce he has in his lunch is. He has no doubt that Satoru is the type of person to complain to the manager. Suguru would bet his life that Satoru has never once had to work in customer service before.

“No,” Suguru says, as calmly as he possibly can, pressing the lid on top of the drink and sticking a straw through it. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Undeterred, Satoru presses on, the corner of his mouth angling upwards. “No boyfriend either?”

Suguru’s flashes him a polite smile as he deliberately ignores the question. “Your order is ready,” he responds, sliding the drink to the farthest edge of the counter so that there’s no possibility of physical contact. “Have a nice day.”

The bell rings and another group of students file into line.

Satoru takes far longer than necessary to pick up the drink, stalling the customers behind him and grinning all the while. This time, thankfully, he doesn’t push. “See you tomorrow then.”

It’s not as if Suguru has a choice. He’s working in the morning, though, and he doubts Satoru will be there. He nods courteously and says, “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

Suguru has always considered himself to be good at reading people. It’s easy to understand their emotions and how to work alongside them, which is why he’s been able to get straight A’s in classes where favoritism was rampant and why he’s earned the employee of the month certificate more times than he can count. People are made of patterns; straightforward in their actions and predictable in their habits.

Satoru seems to be the sole exception to Suguru’s insight, a force of chaos that reinvents the rules.

Suguru has to blink twice when Satoru enters the coffeeshop in the morning, the ringing of the clear glass doors indicating his arrival like an omen. The ticking clock on the wall reads 10:30am. He pinches the skin along his wrist to make sure that Satoru isn’t just a vision created by his sleep deprived brain.

Seeing Satoru in daylight is a a little bit like finding out that the coffee you’ve ordered has been switched to decaf: off-putting and unexpected. He looks different; brighter and softer in the morning sun, but still just as strange. Suguru is confident that last part is the same no matter what time of day it is.

But Satoru being strange is the least of Suguru’s worries. There’s another aspect of him that’s significantly worse in better lighting.

Satoru goes up to the counter and raises an eyebrow when he catches Suguru staring. “See something you like?”

All Suguru can say in response is, “What the hell are you wearing?”

The Lorax-like orange and yellow fuzzy turtleneck is a sight offset by even worse pants, stitched by Frankenstein’s doctor and full of mismatched patterned fabrics that follow the same color scheme. The bouquet of blue peonies that he’s holding is arguably the most normal part of the ensemble, but even that seems out of place when placed into context.

“Clothes,” Satoru answers smartly. The price tag hanging off the sweater is more than Suguru could make working full time for a whole month.

“It looks like you’re wearing a piñata,” he says, inspecting the outfit with a trace of nausea. “Did you steal it from a kid’s birthday party?”

“I know it’s hard to understand high fashion.” Satoru says the words gently, as if reassuring a small child. Suguru feels his eye twitch. “But you don’t have to be jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Satoru agrees easily, shrugging his shoulders. There’s a lazy smile on his face, like he’s doing Suguru a favor by compromising. “Don’t hesitate to ask for help. Your fashion sense could use some work, if I’m being honest.”

Suguru knows that he’s only following dress code so he’s uncertain why he feels mildly offended. “Sorry that I don’t meet your standards,” he responds. “Some of us have taste. Not that you’d know what that’s like.”

“You wound me Suguru,” Satoru says, sighing dramatically. He’s not slouching today so Suguru has to tilt his head to look up at him. “And after I came all this way to buy a drink.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of other coffeeshops that would appreciate your business.”

“They might,” Satoru says, nodding. “But none of them have your stellar company.”

“I’m honored,” Suguru says dryly. “My shift is ending soon, though, so I’m afraid you won’t be able to enjoy it for long.”

“A shame,” Satoru says, a lilt in his voice. “Maybe I should order everything on the menu to make you stay longer.”

Then, when he sees the expression on Suguru’s face, he snorts. “I’m joking. Before you leave though,” Satoru holds up the bouquet. “These are for you.”

There are certain occasions where Suguru would’ve expected flowers: an anniversary of some sort, a birthday, and if he manages not to drop out of college, his graduation. Not a random Wednesday afternoon near the end of his five hour shift.

“For me?” He asks, confused. Maybe it’s a set up for some elaborate prank? He wouldn’t put it past Satoru after the fake phone number he had given him.

“Well, they’re technically for your sisters, from you,” Satoru amends. “They’re having an art exhibit today right? You should probably bring them something.”

Not a prank then. He can’t believe Satoru remembered such a small detail.

“That’s,” Suguru pauses. It’s a strangely caring gesture. He’s used to the way Satoru usually presents himself — as an amalgamation of bad pick up lines and sugary compliments — but this is a gift with attention and consideration behind it, two things that Suguru didn’t know Satoru was capable of. “Surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

“Believe it or not, I can be a decent person,” Satoru says. He holds the bouquet closer with a tilt of his head and a hint of laugher on his lips, as if to say, go on. “I figured you wouldn’t have the time to go pick up flowers on the way there since the art gallery’s a pretty far walk away.”

It’s a beautiful arrangement — hydrangeas, poppies, and hyacinths bundled together and adorned with a white ribbons. All together, the collection means success, flower language that Suguru learned in his literary symbolism class. He wonders if Satoru knows or if he just chose the flowers randomly. Probably the second option.

The flower petals, he realizes distantly, are the same color as Satoru’s eyes.

Suguru curls a hand around the stems delicately. Mimiko and Nanako will love them. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Satoru smiles. It’s an awful thing, bordering on ridiculous, but Suguru lets the corners of his mouth twitch upward, just a little bit. He thinks it might be the first sincere smile he’s ever given him.

Suguru is in the back room washing mugs accumulated from the evening rush when Amanai taps his shoulder.

“There’s someone asking for you at table seven.”

He glances through the window into the shop, a familiar tuff of white hair coming into his field of vision.

On one hand, Satoru coming in during normal hours means that Suguru gets to close at a reasonable time. On the other hand, it’s a double edged sword. It also means that Satoru is free to stay inside the shop for much longer periods of time now that Suguru has no excuse for leaving.

Suguru cringes almost instinctively at the sight of his latest outfit (a jacket composed entirely of a material that looks like scales) and Amanai laughs. “Friend of yours?”

“More like a nuisance,” Suguru sighs, but it doesn’t come off as mean spirited as it usually is. He peels off the rubber gloves and dries his hands before heading to the front part of the shop.

Today, Copa Amoris is fairly busy. End of semester stress is at an all time high with approaching finals and there are only five seats available at the counter, all of which are filled with students buried in textbooks large enough to kill a man from a one story drop.

Table seven is stationed near the back of the shop. Suguru spots the line of people out the door and decides that Satoru can wait, even as Satoru attempts to get his attention by waving his arms and nearly knocking over a passerby’s cup of hot chocolate.

It takes a while before the line begins to thin, long enough for Suguru to start cleaning up the espresso machine. A girl at the counter begins packing up her things and leaves a generous tip for the mug she leaves behind.

Satoru gives a hopeful glance at the empty seat. When Suguru tilts his head to beckon him over, his face breaks into an unbridled grin, large enough to crinkle the corner of his eyes. There’s so much genuine excitement in his move that Suguru can’t help but smile a little as Satoru perches at the countertop.

As he’s opening his laptop, Suguru places a coffee cup in front of him.

Satoru glances at it with slight bewilderment. “I didn’t order anything.”

“On the house,” Suguru says pleasantly.

“What’s the occasion?” He asks, lips twisting into a dangerously pleased smile. “Finally admitting your feelings for me?”

“There is no occasion. You’re the only one who’s convinced we have something more going on.”

“I don’t see anyone else with a free drink. Other people might get the wrong idea.” Satoru curls his fingers around the cup and brings it to his face. A smug look climbs onto the edge of his grin. “They’d be right, of course, but still.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “My manager is letting us experiment with new drinks for the seasonal menu. I made this one for you.”

“Inspired by my lovely personality I see.”

“In a sense,” Suguru admits, watching as Satoru takes a long sip. Watches as his smile shatters into a million pieces and his face twist inward, eyes widening in shock as he struggles not to spit out Suguru’s lovely creation — pure espresso with salt. “Inspired by my emotional state every time you walk into Copa Amoris.”

“Ah,” Satoru says. The expression he has on is priceless, poker face nonexistent, and Suguru wishes he could’ve had the forethought to record beforehand. “It’s…good.”

Suguru tries not to laugh and doesn’t entirely succeed. He can feel it spilling through his lips, curving into a challenging smile. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Satoru says, spotting the provocation, eyes glinting in determination even as they water. He takes another sip out of spite.

Suguru doesn’t try to stop it this time. He laughs, feeling his smile open, the sound escaping from his lungs until his sides hurt. Satoru freezes, staring at him with his mouth open in shock, before delight ripples across his face and he goes to take a third sip.

“Stop,” Suguru says, calming down enough to breathe, laughter still escaping as he reaches out to take the drink away. “This much salt will kill you.”

Despite everything, he doesn’t actually want to murder Satoru. As someone with a motive, he’d probably be one of the prime suspects in the case. Better to do it when there are no witnesses, in a more barren location.

But Satoru doesn’t let go. “No,” he says, stubbornly tightening his grip. “You made it for me. I’ll drink it.”

Suguru shakes his head, handing Satoru a sugar packet and then pulling the drink away while he’s distracted, ignoring his squawk of protest and replacing it with his normal order. “You’re an idiot,” he says, more fondly than he’d like it to be.

Satoru takes the hazelnut frappuccino that Suguru gives him with noticeable relief. “Thanks. I try my best.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Felt like one.” Satoru stretches languidly, an easygoing grin on his face as he reaches for a sugar packet to add on top of the whip cream. “You like me anyways.”

“Like is a strong word for how I feel about you.” Suguru feels his stomach churn just watching him. “It’s more of a mild annoyance, really.”

“Only mild? Progress,” Satoru muses. “I’m growing on you aren’t I?”

Like mold, Suguru thinks, but he doesn’t deny it. Satoru knows he’s right regardless; He doesn’t need Suguru feeding his ego.

They spend the rest of the evening in a similar fashion; Satoru carrying the conversation while Suguru makes cappuccinos and flat whites for anxiety-ridden students. He’s only half listening, but it’s nice to have company, even if Satoru keeps trying to flick crumpled up napkins into Suguru’s hair when he isn’t looking. When he’s not purposefully trying to be annoying, Satoru can be fun to talk to.

So when Copa Amoris nears closing hours and Satoru asks for Suguru’s number yet again, he has a different answer.

“Finals are in two weeks,” Suguru reminds him, inclining his head toward the calendar. “I’m busy until then, but I’ll be free during break.”

“No fake numbers this time?”

Suguru shoots him a shark’s smile. “No promises.”

Satoru leans in close and plucks a stray piece of paper from Suguru’s hair, voice light and teasing as he says, “I’ll ask you after finals then.”

Somehow, the words sound like both a threat and a promise.

They’re close, almost close enough for their noses to be touching. Suguru doesn’t back away because he's not a coward, ignoring the way his collar suddenly feels too tight. He holds his hand out for the paper.

A spark of mirth flashes through Satoru’s eyes before he backs away, dropping it in his palm.

The napkin has been crumpled into a deformed looking heart.

“Romantic,” Suguru says, tossing it straight into the trash.

Mother Nature seems to be reflective of the university’s general mood today. Dark clouds cover the sky, painting the ground in grayscale.

It’s just beginning to rain when Satoru walks in, but it almost instantly worsens the second he steps foot through the door, almost as if announcing his arrival. Suguru’s glad he had the foresight to look at the weather forecast today.

“You didn’t bring an umbrella,” Suguru notes.

“It’s not that bad outside,” Satoru says, sliding into one of the countertop seats. He brushes a hand through his hair, light droplets of water falling from it.

The heavy pouring of rain disagrees. “I can make your drink to go if you want.”

Other students begin shuffling out the door when it becomes clear the rain is only getting worse, eager to head back to the safety of their dorms.

Satoru pulls out his laptop. “I’m perfectly happy right here.”

Suguru frowns. “It’s only going to get worse. You’ll get sick.”

It’s only the two of them left in the shop.

“Aww,” Satoru says teasingly. “Are you worried about me?”

Suguru stares at him. Everything that steps outside later today is going to be soaked through and through; it’s practically asking for a cold. Staying at the cafe in this weather is insane, even for Satoru.

There’s silence for a moment or two. Suguru waits for him. It’s strange to see Satoru hesitate over anything.

“It’s quiet at my apartment,” Satoru says finally, less joking than before. “I live alone, so it’s always quiet.”

“That sounds lonely.”

Satoru shrugs. “I had a big house growing up, so I’m used to it, but I’d rather be here.”

It’s off putting to see Satoru so sincere. Suguru doesn’t know how to deal with it. He’s used to the playful insults and irritating banter, not heart to heart conversations.

There’s an explanation in there somewhere. Something about why Satoru talks so often and wears such bright colors, to animate the empty rooms of his childhood home, but Suguru isn’t studying psychology.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind you staying,” Suguru begins cautiously. “You’re all right sometimes. It’s less boring when you’re here, at least.”

Satoru lifts his head up and meets his gaze, a soft look in his eyes. His smile’s gentler, too, the usual smirk diffused around the edges.

Suguru’s slightly uncomfortable. The last time someone had looked at him like that was in his freshman year of high school, when his two sisters had just been formally adopted into the family.

It’s almost a relief when the familiar flicker of mischief flashes through Satoru’s face and the room brightens, as it always does when he’s there.

He laughs lightly. “Careful, Suguru. That was almost a confession.”

“It wasn’t,” Suguru says, fighting a smile. “All that time alone must be making you hear things.”

He snorts. “Maybe.”

Satoru’s stare is especially unnerving today. Suguru changes topics, tilting his head towards the laptop as he begins to rearrange the pastry display. “Studying for finals?”

“Writing an essay about the trolley problem,” Satoru groans. "It's for ethics. We’re suppose to argue whether or not to pull the lever.”

A classic moral dilemma. Suguru remembers having to do the exact same thing in his introductory philosophy classes. “What’re you arguing for?”

“Authoritarianism. Pull the lever and kill one person to save the other five.”

“Fun.”

“Would you pull the lever if I were on the tracks?” Satoru asks, resting his head on his palm. “Kill me to save five people?”

“Satoru,” Suguru says charmingly. “I would pull the lever even if there was no one else on the tracks.”

He pouts. “Do all your customers get this kind of treatment?”

“No,” he says mildly. “Only my favorites.”

Satoru is cute when he’s surprised, Suguru decides. Either that or Suguru is going insane. Most likely the latter. He quickly exits to the backroom before he can get a response.

There are things to do, after all. It doesn’t have anything to do with how he’s starting to realize that he may actually like Satoru back. He feels like a teenager avoiding his high school crush.

The rain is notably worse by the time Copa Amoris closes. The mixture of raindrops and wet concrete is going to make a miserable walk home for people who aren’t prepared. Satoru isn’t dressed for the weather at all. He gives Suguru a wave before starting to head out the door.

Suguru stops him as he’s about to leave, telling him, “Wait,” and dashing to the backroom. He opens his bag and takes out the umbrella he had brought earlier.

“Here.” Suguru holds it out to Satoru. “Take this.”

“What about you?”

“You need it more than I do. I have a raincoat in the backroom.”

Satoru blinks slowly, then reaches for the umbrella. When he does, their fingers brush. It’s nothing new — Suguru has brushed hands with hundreds of people — but it makes a burst of warmth flutter through his stomach anyways.

Until Satoru wrinkles his nose and says, “Couldn’t you have chosen a better color? Black is so boring.”

“Never mind.” Suguru attempts to snatch it back and Satoru dodges out of the way. “I hope you get sick.”

“Aww. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“If you say so,” Satoru sings, bending down slightly so that they’re eye level. There’s a bit of whip cream stuck to the corner of his mouth.

Suguru wants to kiss him. Or kill him. Maybe both.

He settles for leaving him out in the rain instead.

The burnout hits the worst on the last day of finals. There’s a tightness in his chest that hasn’t unwound and his shoulders have tensed up enough that he’s sure they’ll be stuck that way forever. Suguru’s mind is so fuzzy with caffeine that he can barely read over his physics notes. He still doesn’t understand quantum coupling even though he’s spent the entire night studying.

Every so often, Amanai will shoot him a pitying glance and give him a pat on the back, which is encouraging, but not necessarily helpful.

His last final is a take home exam for physics. He gets seven days to solve three problems. The first two were fairly challenging, but the third is enough to make Suguru want to light the entire campus on fire.

He’d read that somewhere: if a university burns down and loses all their files, they hand all their students degrees. An arson charge would be the first smudge on his flawless record, and he’s not entirely sure that it’s true, but he’s willing to take the chance.

It’s 10:15. Suguru has three hours left of his shift. It’s not a great idea to try to figure out his final in the middle of his shift. He’s too overworked to care.

“You look tired,” Satoru comments as he slides into his seat.

Suguru doesn’t have the energy to fight him. “So do you.”

It’s a lie. Satoru looks infuriatingly pretty as normal.

“Not your best comeback,” he says, amused.

“I haven’t slept in the past 48 hours.” Suguru’s eyes feel heavy; the entire world is slightly blurry.

“You have circles under your eyes. Adds to the whole dark academia aesthetic you have going on, but I don’t think it’s healthy. You should rest Suguru.”

“I can’t. I have a final to finish.”

“You’ve been working all week,” Satoru stresses. “You need to take a break.”

“I’ll rest when my finals are over.”

“Have you even taken your lunch yet?”

“Yes,” Suguru lies, at the same time Amanai calls out, “Nope! He hasn’t.”

He turns and glares at her, but she only gives him a thumbs up in response, stealing his apron away so that he’s officially on break. “You can take it now. I’ll cover you.”

“I don’t have time —“

“Okay,” Satoru says, cutting him off. “You can just sit and focus on your final. We don’t have to leave or anything. It’s better than trying to multitask.”

10:20. Suguru glances at the seat longingly. There’s a chance that if he sits down, he might just pass out and he’ll have wasted valuable time.

“I’ll wake you up if you fall asleep,” Satoru promises.

Fifteen minutes, he decides. He takes the seat next to him, sliding the physics problem from the coffee bar onto the counter. Honestly, it’s a miracle it hasn’t been stained yet.

Satoru hands Suguru his sweater. “To put your head on. You can do the problem sideways can’t you?”

Suguru brushes his hands over it. Cashmere. It feels like holding a cloud. He doesn’t get to find out whether or not he can do physics sideways though, because as soon as his head touches the sweater, he falls asleep.

At 11:15, Suguru wakes up.

At 11:16, Suguru tries to strangle Satoru with the same sweater.

“You are a liar,” Suguru says, dizzy with adrenaline. He didn’t take years of martial arts for nothing. “When I fail my final I am blaming you.”

“You needed the sleep,” Satoru chokes out, actively attempting to escape. Unfortunately for him, its finals week, and no one cares enough to intervene. “I solved your final for you!”

Suguru freezes. The short pause is enough for Satoru to maneuver his way out of his hold. “What?”

Satoru gives him the now complete final problem. “It’s a bit tricky to put the theory of quantum coupling into application, but once you understand how the systems are related it’s not that bad.”

“This is cheating.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Do you care?”

Quantum physics fulfills Suguru’s last science requirement. He will never have to use it ever again.

“No,” Suguru says, a whirlwind of emotions filtering through him. He can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. He doesn’t know whether it’s from relief, stress, or something else entirely. “I don’t.”

“Then you’re done,” Satoru says, laughing. “That’s your last final. Congrats.”

Relief. It’s relief.

Suguru feels like he can breathe again. He’s smiling for the first time in weeks. “Thank you.”

“Since finals are over now,” Satoru says, innocently batting his eyelashes. “Can I have your number?”

Suguru laughs, pulling a coffee cup from the counter and writing down his number. “Don’t use it too much,” he says. “The block button exists for a reason.”

He’s smiling too much to take himself seriously and Satoru knows the truth; that he’s been given an invitation.

“I won’t,” Satoru says, grinning.

Suguru, for some reason, doesn’t believe him.

When his shift ends, Suguru glances at his phone, still smiling.

[1 text message from Gojo Satoru <3]