#(COFFEESHOPPPPPP how I have been dying to write you)

[pseudofaux]

Hi pseu,

I really enjoy your writings, thank you for sharing them with us! For your last sling, if possible, I would like to request a modern-AU drabble with SLBP Shigezane:

- post-COVID (Can’t wait. I’m not sure where you are based, but while lots of others are slowly recovering, we’re still getting wrecked here Europe -.-)

- strangers that see/meet each other for the first time

- she is a grad student in the small town and becomes interested in him but has difficulties keeping eye contact

It would be great, if these bullet points could inspire you to make something with them!

SHIGE! 💕💕💕 You have given me so many good, cozy, perfect tropes in this ask, I’m gonna add coffeehouse (screeeeeeeeee!), and hope hope hope it is to your taste! Also hope you are doing okay. Big socially distant hugs from me to you. 💕 Let’s dive into a world where this is not a THING anymore…

Now that this is done I need to say OH MY GOD I can’t stand how much I love this, I definitely want to write MORE MORE MORE of these two! Thank you so so much, vyperignon! Cut is for length, this is very soft and sweet and omg it might be my favorite thing I’ve ever written brb cryinggggg

(Requests are closed, readers, but I have a lot to fill in July! Feel free to follow along or just check in and enjoy as many as you like. A masterlist will go up when they are all completed.)

Your aunt made you the scarf. It had been a half graduation, half going-away present, and she gave you several months ago. A scarf given in summer… someone in your family surely knew a bit of predictive kitchen wisdom about that.

“To keep you safe,” she said tearfully when she pressed it, folded and tied with twine, into your hands. And then she’d crushed you into a hug and whispered “Any time you feel lonely, put it on and squeeze yourself. You will never be so far from home our love can’t find you.”

And you’d both burst into tears.

Your family is small and more tightly knit than any scarf. You love them. You miss them. But you have loved being in a new place all on your own, where no one knows you or any member of your family. You have explored the curious little town and made a few friends among the other researchers who are visiting or working at the manuscript library for the term. You have been here three months now, and have another half year to go before your research/work contract is concluded.

And you’re happy. When it begins to get cold, you pull the scarf out of your tiny chest of drawers for the first time. Video chats with your family and all your research have kept your heart plenty full, too full to be lonely. But the yarn really is as soft as love around your throat as you walk to the library.

You didn’t put on gloves, though, so your fellow researchers insist you get something warm to drink on the way home. And wear gloves the next day. You tell them it’s not a long walk, you’re fine... and then Mara, the other woman there on a research assignment (she is younger than you but has the glare of an ancient queen), shoots you a look. You value your life, so you relent. She narrows her eyes at you and you insist you relent. You all go back to work, to the quiet chatter and scratching and typing of your notes on manuscripts and ephemera. You wonder for the hundredth time why this archive is here, in the middle of a pleasant nowhere, but mostly you are glad you found it and were able to get this post.

You haven’t been lonely, but you really haven’t done anything this… socially mundane in awhile. The coffeehouse your coworkers recommended, Omori, is doing slow but steady business and you spend your entire time in the line hoping for someone to come up behind you. You hate being the last person in line, it always makes you feel like you are giving a hard time to the person who has to help you or ring you up (or make your drink). And here you’re not a regular— oh no, you realize, you just saw the lights on and didn’t even check the hours on the door, and it’s ten past six now, what if you’re keeping them?

These things are swirling around in your head (with the possibility of just making a run for it and pretending to have a panicked conversation on your phone as an excuse for leaving) when you are the only person left in line.

“Hi! What’s your name?” asks a smiling baristo, ready to key your order onto a tablet mounted on the counter. This itty bitty town, where the buildings are all still stone and wood, keeps surprising you with sleek technology in unexpected places.

“Lavender latte,” you blurt out. Oh, god.

His smile (already horizon-wide) widens, and he nods at you as if you say it’s okay, try again when you’re ready. No rush. He slides a paper cup off a stack and makes some notation on the side and waits, radiating calm and patience. You don’t think you’ve known anyone so unrelentingly warm since your earliest years of school, when teachers loved their entire classes.

You’re still embarrassed when you correct yourself, but he doesn’t say a single thing about it. He asks for a few details about your drink without asking you to repeat anything you’ve already said. Any milk preference? Earl Grey, right, or did you want coffee? And then takes your card. You know you are safe, and he’s been nothing but kind, but your hand is still a little trembly when you present the plastic.

“Your scarf is nice,” he says softly. Somehow his voice is just loud enough for you to hear every word over the ambient sounds of talking, clinking, and coffeehouse music. You are both leaned a little bit forward, him over the till, you over the counter, and it sends a slow but mighty wave of intimacy over your body, safe underneath your clothes. You need to thank him but you can’t seem to make the word come out.

His nametag flashes when he hands your card back. Shige! :> with the sideways smile and all. When you look up his actual smile is a tilted but perfect curl, and he looks like he wants to say more but you just give him a quick smile of your own (the one for nice strangers), and step away, not wanting to hold anyone up. Just in case they’ve come in behind you while all this has been going on.

“What’s your name?” He calls.

You repeat it, slowly, and add on a soft “I told you,” disappointed that after all that you still didn’t manage to make yourself understood.

He opens his mouth, looks at the cup with consternation that is, okay, when you are honest with yourself, absolutely adorable. “You did! My bad!” He laughs and rubs his arm with his free hand. “Sorry,” he offers. When he ducks his head the curious mousy silver-brown of his hair goes glossy in the spotlight that’s trained on the ordering counter.

And when his face comes back up from his little bow or whatever that was, he’s ever so slightly pink, so you believe his apology. You feel embarrassed at how nice it is to be able to unsettle someone else for a change, and you keep your grin invisible by holding the back of your lip with your teeth. There are plenty of seats open, so you take one near the pickup end of the bar and wait. You scroll a few times on your phone, and send your brother a photo of the view out the coffeehouse windows. You know he’ll show it to your mom. He texts back right away and you get lost in comfy banter. This place smells nice, the chair is cozy, and your scarf really is soft. You feel really happy. Maybe you’ll dare to come here again sometime. You do have a kettle, and a surprisingly fancy stove, and a spacious minifridge where you could keep milk to make your own drinks. But a latte from a coffeehouse is always such a treat.

“Hey,” Shige! :> says softly from a few steps away. “Got your drink. Didn’t want you to miss it.”

He sort of kneels to hand you your drink, and the courtly gesture and the size of his biceps take you by surprise. Even softer, like he’s worried about frightening you, he says “Here ya go,” and only when you have a two handed grip does he pull his own hands away.

His hands match his biceps. Your heart flutters appreciatively, and you don’t meet his eyes, but you don’t manage to keep your grin hidden at all because your smile pulls your lip right out from between your teeth. You wonder what the curve of it looks like, if it’s as nice as his. Even the toothy smile he’s giving you now is charming.

And that’s the first night you’re charmed by Shigezane.

You don’t learn his name is Shigezane (:>) until your third visit to the coffeeshop, though, because when you go back for a second visit the next morning, it’s much busier. Cheery, sweet Nadeshiko~❀ takes your order and compliments your scarf. When you ask for a lavender latte, her warm brown eyes flick up at you discerningly for the quickest of looks, but if it was anything she covers it with the sunniest smile yet and asks what size you want. You order a medium. In the morning rush, you grab your drink when your name is called and get out of there. So it’s not until you’re down the street that you suspect you might have been given a large.

You plan to go back that night, even if just to put a little extra in the tip jar.

A chorus of hummed approval greets you at your desk in the library. You lift your cup for them to see, along with your gloves. Mara gives you the severest thumbs up you’ve ever seen in your life. You return it, unwilling to even think about what would happen to you if you didn’t.

You tell them it’s a nice place and there are a few happy Told you!s from the peanut gallery as you set your drink on the chair beside yours (you’d never risk the documents you work with), take off your coat and scarf and gloves, and sink into the pleasure of your research. This really is a plum gig: you like your work and you have a comfortable cohort of fellow researchers. You’re given plenty of time each day for all your tasks and ample breaks. You just forget to take them, some days.

It’s awhile before you remember to have some of your drink, and the first sip is good: spicy-sweet and deep, but mellowed. It feels just right for what you are doing. But the one from last night was better.

At 6:05 you are reading the chart on Omori’s door that says they are open until 8:00 PM every day. But when you look through the glass, there’s no one waiting at the counter. And there’s no one behind it, either. The only thing that seems worse than being the last person in line is being the first and last person in line, making someone show up just for you. So you step away from the door and sort of… lean from foot to foot, outside the window, trying to figure out what to do. You could just run in, shove a few bills in the tip jar, and go. You don’t actually have to order anything. You don’t. That’s not too weird, is it? You just want to do something nice, but what if it’s too nice, so nice it’s weird?

At 6:07 there’s a cheerful jangle of the bell over the door. Shige sticks his head out, :> and all, and says, “It’s chilly, wanna come in? We’re open! Want a muffin?”

Mortification that he might have seen you acting like a Weeble Wobble is shoved to the side in your brain by a different mortification when your stomach loudly grumbles. He flashes you a smile that makes the rest of you grumble that he’s not your boyfriend, and then you grumble at all of yourself to not be stupid and move your feet to the door.

“I brought lunch today,” you say quietly. Why are you telling him this?! You can’t stop yourself. He’s like a hummingbird feeder and your rapid heart can’t resist the allure of his bright reddy-pink apron. “I just… forgot to eat it.” You think you were probably too quiet for him to hear you.

“Well, that happens,” he says, holding the door all the way open. “You can eat it in here, if you want. What were you working on?”

His attention settles on you as warmly as the soft heat inside the coffeehouse. You give him the elevator speech about your work at the library and your research. It always makes you a little nervous to try and explain what you do, but the walk to the bakery case is the best (sort of) elevator ride you’ve ever had.

He’s still listening thoughtfully when you reach the glass in front of all the treats. It’s sparse but not totally empty. When you do a little nod and say “And that’s pretty much it,” Shige says “I bet it’s not,” and then taps on the glass and adds excitedly, “These are all my Gramps’ recipes.”

Please don’t tap (unless you really have to) says a sign on the case.

He catches you reading it. “I really had to,” he says seriously. You know you can’t handle looking at his eyes for more than a second at a time, but you chance it then and his whole face is so obviously hoping you’ll laugh that a giggle just tumbles out of you. Like the whole world is a safe landing mat for you to cartwheel on.

You can’t look at his eyes again, but his grin is so big you think it must have almost closed his eyes entirely. He slips around the side of the case and uses a pair of shiny copper tongs to pull out three muffins. He puts them carefully on a small tower of plates. Then he freezes. “Are muffins… okay?” he asks. “I just realized I didn’t actually ask.”

You did ask, you think. I just didn’t answer. You wonder if he’s phrased it that way on purpose, to be polite and make you feel un pressured. Or if he forgot. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who would forget, and he seems a lot like the type of person who would tilt his phrasing to favor another person’s comfort.

“Yes,” you say, and you murmur that they look good (because he seems so proud, and because they do). And then your stomach rumbles again.

“My feet are tired,” he blurts out. “Wanna sit?”

You look at his face and immediately move your gaze off the eagerness in his eyes. But you do nod.

Shige uses the tongs to point to the table by the window where you were standing. “That’s the best spot,” he says. “Be right there.”

He says your name very softly, like he’s testing it in his mouth and in your ears. You try to walk to the table instead of running. Or dancing. You tell your hummingbird heart to shut up.

When Shige gets to the table, he has a little tray with the muffins (on two plates) and two glasses of water. And napkins. And straws. And a fork and knife. And several packets of wet naps, the ones with blue and white packaging.

“Prepared,” you say before you can stop yourself. He’s only being very nice. He laughs, and it sounds entirely unoffended.

“Got me,” he says. The tray pops up when he shrugs and he swears under his breath, trying to keep the glasses from spilling.

You have a clumsy, good-hearted brother. You grip the tray handles with him on instinct and slowly pull it down to the table. The glasses wobble less stupidly than you did outside. Nothing spills.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You wish you could look right at him so he could see you mean it. “See? Fine. Thank you for the water. For everything.”

You let go and sit, but he’s still standing, holding the handles. Is he upset? Embarrassed?

You chance a look at he’s just staring at you, with his mouth open. He doesn’t look embarrassed or upset, he looks awed.

“I have a kid brother,” you say, hoping that is enough to explain. You shrug even though you swear you are not a shrugger.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, finally letting go of the tray. He slowly takes his apron off and folds it over the back of the chair opposite you and then sits. He’s rubbing his hands together like he’s in a daze. Then he seems to snap out of it and go all quick and bright again. “I have a cousin,” he says, plucking up a glass of water and setting it in front of you. He holds up the muffin plate. “He loves these things. Hidden sweet tooth. Have one, please. You can have them all if you want.”

You have one and a half muffins (Gramps’ recipe is good). He eats the rest. You talk about your brother and his cousin and your other family members.

Fall is a fast change here, and it’s dark before you realize it even though you’re right by a window. You don’t… want to leave. You don’t want to check your watch and see how close it is to closing time. You don’t want to keep him, but you don’t want to let him go.

One more thing. Just tell him one more thing, and then head home, you tell yourself.

You tell him you came by that morning and met Nadeshiko, and that she was nice. And that she might have given you a bigger drink than you ordered.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. You can tell when he’s grinning now without even looking at his face. It seems like he grins whenever he’s awake, to be honest. “She told me. Did you like it?”

You still can’t meet his eyes, but you grin, too. “I came back to put more money in the tip jar,” you tell him.

“It’s on the house, doll,” he says softly. “It was on purpose. Don’t worry about that.”

You tell him you’re a worrier, as a joke, and when you realize your words you nearly gasp at yourself. People know it about you once they get to know you, but you don’t… say it. Ever.

“Yeah, well, I worry about you,” he says, sunny tone ushering away all dark clouds. “Gimme just a minute!” He stands up and fetches the tip jar and sets it down in front of you, then turns his back. You pull out a big tip to cover the muffins, too, and clear your throat when you’re done.

He clears his throat and keeps his back turned. You lift the tip jar to put it back in his hands, but he’s clutching half of a pink index card and a sharpie, so there’s no room. He sort of jiggles his hands side to side and you smile and set the tip jar down and take the card and marker from him. When he sighs in obvious relief you do not manage not to giggle.

If you need a latte, or a muffin, I know a guy!

(He likes to do other stuff, too.)

-Shigezane

What you assume is his number is written underneath. It’s definitely not the number for Omori, which you spent plenty of time looking at before he opened the door.

He makes you laugh again when he gropes around for the tip jar and you push it into his hands. “You’re a lifesaver,” he declares, and whisks it away. “I’ll tell Nadeshiko, but she’s definitely going to keep making you larger drinks,” he says over his shoulder. You just squeeze the warm stiffness of the pink card and then tuck it into your wallet where you can’t forget it. He comes back with another half an index card. It’s the other half of the one he gave you, if you’re not mistaken. You notice he doesn’t sit down and you wonder why.

“New program,” he declares, tapping it with a broad fingertip you try not to stare at. “Feedback cards! You can tell us if your drink isn’t right, or draw a picture. Or, y’know. Leave something else. If you want. I’m gonna go start taking down shop but hang out as long as you want, okay? Don’t feel like you have to run off.”

You spend a few minutes at the table, finishing your glass of water and tidying things on the tray and thinking of what kind of feedback you might like to leave, exactly. When you take everything over to the counter, there’s a new, empty fishbowl beside the spot for dishes. A pink index card is taped to it with “FEEDBACK! :>” written on the card in hasty marker.

You put your dishes where they belong on a little cart, and the trash in the bin. And your half an index card in the fishbowl.

“Thanks,” Shige calls from behind the counter, audibly grinning. You grin right back, give him a nod, and turn on your heel to go gather your things and head out.

And that’s the second night you are charmed by Shigezane, and how you give him your number (and he gives you his). You hide your smile in your scarf the whole way home, and the cold air cannot touch you.