Happy Birthday July-ers! 8059 Drabble
Sorry about abrupt break in Europe photos and other signs of life; I've been addicted to Star Trek fic this past week (blame Faor, okay?). However, here's an 8059 drabble inspired by amcw177 's encounter with a barista, and it's dedicated to her and EVERYONE WITH JULY BIRTHDAYS WHOM I'VE NEGLECTED TO WISH HAPPY BIRTHDAY. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. ESPECIALLY YOU, talklikeazombie . I remember promising you a drabble. There's probably another one coming soon, if I find the time to write it. ♥
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In the summer between sophomore and junior year of college, Yamamoto got this sudden urge to…to find out more about American culture, he guessed. To adjust to America, maybe even make it a home instead of a temporary residence. He found a job at a local Starbucks, the coffee establishment that had become a universal symbol of the American dedication to hard work (which could also be interpreted as an unhealthy tendency to postpone stress with caffeine instead of curing it with rest).
In any case, behind the coffee counter was a good spot to people-watch, and the job, to Yamamoto’s surprise, also relieved some of his homesickness. He couldn’t go home this summer, not unless he wanted to add the price of round-trip tickets to the huge mountain of debt he had already incurred for his father, but he found that being a barista - and trying his best to make customers happy - was soothing in itself. Reminded him of working in Take Sushi.
The Starbucks that he worked in was relatively large and offered more amenities than most; during rush hours, all Yamamoto could do was to frantically take and make orders, but on the off-times, he ventured away from the counter and personally served up orders with napkins and a bright smile. He eventually began to memorize how select people took their coffee - some straight black, some with a dash of sugar, some with enough milk to turn gritty brown to the warm tan of his skin. Most people, he discovered, did not vary their taste; familiarity was comfort, and this applied to both drink choice and drinking times. Sure, Yamamoto expected customers to make their coffee runs at similar times in the day, but there was one particular person by whom Yamamoto could set his watch.
He’d stood out to Yamamoto since the first; after all, it was hard to miss and impossible to forget silver hair in a young man about his age. Yamamoto still thought it was dyed - how could it be any other way? Surely stress couldn’t induce premature aging in just one aspect, that of grey hair? Yamamoto certainly hadn’t seen any wrinkles in the other’s face. And besides, the hair wasn’t grey. It was silver. And shoulder-length. And exquisitely cut, with wispy bangs that often fell in front of the other’s sunglasses and a back trim carefully cultivated into a rumpled mess. And when the young man came in every morning at 7:16am sharp, it never ceased to make Yamamoto’s day more enjoyable.
It was, he admitted to himself, not just because the young man wore fashion like a second skin and had beautiful, long fingers the likes of which Yamamoto could only dream. It was - and he crammed this reason into a small corner of his mind but still thought of it with barely concealed glee - because one morning, in a lull in customers, Yamamoto had seen a red convertible pull up, the silver-haired young man riding shotgun. With a nonchalance perhaps only possible in this liberal, college-student populated section of town, Yamamoto’s interest had lip-locked the driver in an unmistakably satisfactory kiss for them both before getting out to walk into Starbucks (still at exactly 7:16!). In his wake, Yamamoto had noticed this little detail: the driver was male.
The fact that the silver-haired young man was probably attached did not quench Yamamoto’s happiness; at least they were playing for the same team. It allowed…possibilities, even if Yamamoto’s crush was probably hopeless. The driver of that red convertible had been golden-haired, subtly muscled, beautiful as a model with a bewitching smile. Yamamoto really had no chance. But that didn’t stop him from hoping.
Which led him to this morning. There’s not much of a rush, most of the regulars having abandoned their schedules for Fourth of July celebrations. Even Yamamoto is excited; he doesn’t celebrate America’s birthday as a rule, but neither does he need that specific reason to enjoy the fireworks that are customary for this holiday. Even better, his boss is giving him the night off, which Yamamoto plans to spend on a long conversation on Skype with his father before the sky darkens enough for fireworks - by then, he is sure that it will be the restaurant’s opening time, so no loss on either end. He is in happy contemplation of his evening in the beginning minutes of his shift and thus the time passes by without him noticing anything amiss; it is only when he spots familiar silver and glances at the clock to see 8:38am that he’s surprised. Well, enough people have broken out of their regular schedules today; maybe the young man had just slept in. Yamamoto gives him his normal sunny smile.
The other grunts, his mouth in a jagged frown. Yamamoto notices that his pace is unusually wobbly, his path through the Starbucks uncommonly slow and precise, and it probably has to do with the sunglasses the other man hasn’t bothered to take off. And there’s something wrong, Yamamoto can sense, because there’s no logical reason to keep sunglasses on inside a building. As he comes closer, Yamamoto also notices that his clothes are not on the usual level of impeccable - his t-shirt is wrinkled, and he’d worn that black leather jacket just yesterday. And his hair is actually a mess, not just an artfully simulation of one. Something is really wrong.
The final confirmation, however, comes with the morning’s order. “Tall Java Chip Frappuccino,” the other man rasps. “Whole milk. Whipped cream.”
Yamamoto’s hands, ready to punch in the customer’s regular order (Tall Cappuccino, 2%), stills and his mind stutters. “Are you sure?” he asks and it’s a breach of manners if not his contract - there had to be a rule against questioning customers.
Across the counter, the man only raises a sardonic eyebrow.
“Right, right. Tall Java Chip Frappuccino, whole milk, whipped cream. Three dollars, seventy-eight cents.” Yamamoto waits as the young man digs out his wallet and the correct card, swiping it without prompting. He signs the electronic screen, Yamamoto gives him the receipt, and their fingers briefly touch. On any other morning, Yamamoto would cheer such contact, but right now, all he feels is confusion at the abrupt change of routine and a desire to relieve whatever is ailing the young man in front of him. His eyes glance at the stacks of empty, plastic, Starbucks cups and he makes a small decision.
When he passes the finished frappuccino over the counter, there is a pause.
“I asked for a Tall, not a Grande,” the other man says softly.
“It’s okay,” Yamamoto says easily. “Take it. You seem to need it today?”
There is a sigh, and the other slumps against the Starbucks counter. “Is it really that obvious?”
Yamamoto shrugs, not wanting to pry. “You’re not yourself today.”
The young man snorts. “Guess not. That’s what a breakup and then indulging in too much alcohol and then a vicious hangover will do to you. I need sugar.”
“You- break-up?” It doesn’t seem to be possible. Yamamoto’s brain cannot comprehend it. His cardiovascular system seems to though; his heart’s puttering on faster and faster.
“Yeah. I mean, it was going to happen anyway. Dino’s actually got a boyfriend, but he’s been overseas or something since before we met and they’re not exclusive when apart and we got all the ground rules about eventual separation set down and I was fine with it - I mean, settling down is really not my style. But then his boyfriend came back and fuck, he’s a complete asshole and I have no idea why Dino likes that type-” He suddenly quiets, as if coming to a realization. “Well, whatever. I drowned my sorrows and now I need to get to work.” He gets a straw from the sidetray, removes the paper and sips his frap for a moment. He relaxes a minuscule amount. “Thanks for listening, I guess. And the Grande.” With a nod, he turns and starts walking away.
“Um, I’m Takeshi! Takeshi Yamamoto!” Yamamoto calls, feeling like an awkward schoolboy asking someone out for the first time. To be fair, it is his first time asking someone out in English. “Want to, um, do something later?”
The other turns and regards him imperiously (or so Yamamoto thinks, but that might be the sunglasses talking). “…I’m Hayato Gokudera,” he answers. “Maybe, but you’re gonna have to be more specific than ‘something’.”
“Err, dinner and fireworks? My shift ends at five today.” Yamamoto puts on his most winning smile.
Gokudera considers. “…I’ll see you at five, then.” He turns and walks out without another word, but Yamamoto thinks today could be the best day of his life. Sure, his dad will be disappointed, but he had been telling Yamamoto that he should get out more and stop worrying about his old man. Yamamoto plans to write him an email during lunch break explaining his changed plans, and then, as the Starbucks is still empty, he allows himself to contemplate the young man’s (Gokudera’s) beautiful name, beautiful hair and beautiful…well, everything. Maybe, if he’s lucky, they’ll make some of their own fireworks tonight.
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In the summer between sophomore and junior year of college, Yamamoto got this sudden urge to…to find out more about American culture, he guessed. To adjust to America, maybe even make it a home instead of a temporary residence. He found a job at a local Starbucks, the coffee establishment that had become a universal symbol of the American dedication to hard work (which could also be interpreted as an unhealthy tendency to postpone stress with caffeine instead of curing it with rest).
In any case, behind the coffee counter was a good spot to people-watch, and the job, to Yamamoto’s surprise, also relieved some of his homesickness. He couldn’t go home this summer, not unless he wanted to add the price of round-trip tickets to the huge mountain of debt he had already incurred for his father, but he found that being a barista - and trying his best to make customers happy - was soothing in itself. Reminded him of working in Take Sushi.
The Starbucks that he worked in was relatively large and offered more amenities than most; during rush hours, all Yamamoto could do was to frantically take and make orders, but on the off-times, he ventured away from the counter and personally served up orders with napkins and a bright smile. He eventually began to memorize how select people took their coffee - some straight black, some with a dash of sugar, some with enough milk to turn gritty brown to the warm tan of his skin. Most people, he discovered, did not vary their taste; familiarity was comfort, and this applied to both drink choice and drinking times. Sure, Yamamoto expected customers to make their coffee runs at similar times in the day, but there was one particular person by whom Yamamoto could set his watch.
He’d stood out to Yamamoto since the first; after all, it was hard to miss and impossible to forget silver hair in a young man about his age. Yamamoto still thought it was dyed - how could it be any other way? Surely stress couldn’t induce premature aging in just one aspect, that of grey hair? Yamamoto certainly hadn’t seen any wrinkles in the other’s face. And besides, the hair wasn’t grey. It was silver. And shoulder-length. And exquisitely cut, with wispy bangs that often fell in front of the other’s sunglasses and a back trim carefully cultivated into a rumpled mess. And when the young man came in every morning at 7:16am sharp, it never ceased to make Yamamoto’s day more enjoyable.
It was, he admitted to himself, not just because the young man wore fashion like a second skin and had beautiful, long fingers the likes of which Yamamoto could only dream. It was - and he crammed this reason into a small corner of his mind but still thought of it with barely concealed glee - because one morning, in a lull in customers, Yamamoto had seen a red convertible pull up, the silver-haired young man riding shotgun. With a nonchalance perhaps only possible in this liberal, college-student populated section of town, Yamamoto’s interest had lip-locked the driver in an unmistakably satisfactory kiss for them both before getting out to walk into Starbucks (still at exactly 7:16!). In his wake, Yamamoto had noticed this little detail: the driver was male.
The fact that the silver-haired young man was probably attached did not quench Yamamoto’s happiness; at least they were playing for the same team. It allowed…possibilities, even if Yamamoto’s crush was probably hopeless. The driver of that red convertible had been golden-haired, subtly muscled, beautiful as a model with a bewitching smile. Yamamoto really had no chance. But that didn’t stop him from hoping.
Which led him to this morning. There’s not much of a rush, most of the regulars having abandoned their schedules for Fourth of July celebrations. Even Yamamoto is excited; he doesn’t celebrate America’s birthday as a rule, but neither does he need that specific reason to enjoy the fireworks that are customary for this holiday. Even better, his boss is giving him the night off, which Yamamoto plans to spend on a long conversation on Skype with his father before the sky darkens enough for fireworks - by then, he is sure that it will be the restaurant’s opening time, so no loss on either end. He is in happy contemplation of his evening in the beginning minutes of his shift and thus the time passes by without him noticing anything amiss; it is only when he spots familiar silver and glances at the clock to see 8:38am that he’s surprised. Well, enough people have broken out of their regular schedules today; maybe the young man had just slept in. Yamamoto gives him his normal sunny smile.
The other grunts, his mouth in a jagged frown. Yamamoto notices that his pace is unusually wobbly, his path through the Starbucks uncommonly slow and precise, and it probably has to do with the sunglasses the other man hasn’t bothered to take off. And there’s something wrong, Yamamoto can sense, because there’s no logical reason to keep sunglasses on inside a building. As he comes closer, Yamamoto also notices that his clothes are not on the usual level of impeccable - his t-shirt is wrinkled, and he’d worn that black leather jacket just yesterday. And his hair is actually a mess, not just an artfully simulation of one. Something is really wrong.
The final confirmation, however, comes with the morning’s order. “Tall Java Chip Frappuccino,” the other man rasps. “Whole milk. Whipped cream.”
Yamamoto’s hands, ready to punch in the customer’s regular order (Tall Cappuccino, 2%), stills and his mind stutters. “Are you sure?” he asks and it’s a breach of manners if not his contract - there had to be a rule against questioning customers.
Across the counter, the man only raises a sardonic eyebrow.
“Right, right. Tall Java Chip Frappuccino, whole milk, whipped cream. Three dollars, seventy-eight cents.” Yamamoto waits as the young man digs out his wallet and the correct card, swiping it without prompting. He signs the electronic screen, Yamamoto gives him the receipt, and their fingers briefly touch. On any other morning, Yamamoto would cheer such contact, but right now, all he feels is confusion at the abrupt change of routine and a desire to relieve whatever is ailing the young man in front of him. His eyes glance at the stacks of empty, plastic, Starbucks cups and he makes a small decision.
When he passes the finished frappuccino over the counter, there is a pause.
“I asked for a Tall, not a Grande,” the other man says softly.
“It’s okay,” Yamamoto says easily. “Take it. You seem to need it today?”
There is a sigh, and the other slumps against the Starbucks counter. “Is it really that obvious?”
Yamamoto shrugs, not wanting to pry. “You’re not yourself today.”
The young man snorts. “Guess not. That’s what a breakup and then indulging in too much alcohol and then a vicious hangover will do to you. I need sugar.”
“You- break-up?” It doesn’t seem to be possible. Yamamoto’s brain cannot comprehend it. His cardiovascular system seems to though; his heart’s puttering on faster and faster.
“Yeah. I mean, it was going to happen anyway. Dino’s actually got a boyfriend, but he’s been overseas or something since before we met and they’re not exclusive when apart and we got all the ground rules about eventual separation set down and I was fine with it - I mean, settling down is really not my style. But then his boyfriend came back and fuck, he’s a complete asshole and I have no idea why Dino likes that type-” He suddenly quiets, as if coming to a realization. “Well, whatever. I drowned my sorrows and now I need to get to work.” He gets a straw from the sidetray, removes the paper and sips his frap for a moment. He relaxes a minuscule amount. “Thanks for listening, I guess. And the Grande.” With a nod, he turns and starts walking away.
“Um, I’m Takeshi! Takeshi Yamamoto!” Yamamoto calls, feeling like an awkward schoolboy asking someone out for the first time. To be fair, it is his first time asking someone out in English. “Want to, um, do something later?”
The other turns and regards him imperiously (or so Yamamoto thinks, but that might be the sunglasses talking). “…I’m Hayato Gokudera,” he answers. “Maybe, but you’re gonna have to be more specific than ‘something’.”
“Err, dinner and fireworks? My shift ends at five today.” Yamamoto puts on his most winning smile.
Gokudera considers. “…I’ll see you at five, then.” He turns and walks out without another word, but Yamamoto thinks today could be the best day of his life. Sure, his dad will be disappointed, but he had been telling Yamamoto that he should get out more and stop worrying about his old man. Yamamoto plans to write him an email during lunch break explaining his changed plans, and then, as the Starbucks is still empty, he allows himself to contemplate the young man’s (Gokudera’s) beautiful name, beautiful hair and beautiful…well, everything. Maybe, if he’s lucky, they’ll make some of their own fireworks tonight.