Chapter Text
It’s a busy Wednesday morning, and Reki’s worried about the guy in their coffeeshop again.
“D’you think I should go talk to him?” he asks, tapping his fingers on the countertop, and Miya glances over at him. He’s shaking a latte, his tiny hands aggressive the way they always are when he’s making someone a drink he thinks is disgusting.
“What?”
Reki lifts his chin, gesturing to the guy as subtly as he can, which is probably not all that subtle, but hey, he tries his best. “He hasn’t moved in, like, two hours, dude. I’m getting nervous.”
Miya follows his gaze. The coffeeshop is bustling and cheerful today, full of noise and students and their manager, Oka, pinning up cheesy fall decor. Sip n’ Sketch is right next to Tohoku University’s busiest library, in the middle of the college campus, so Reki’s used to seeing students come here and bury themselves in books, but none of them manage to look as horrified by their own homework as the guy he’s been keeping an eye on. Reki knows he's supposed to be keeping an eye on the coffee machines, not the customers, but he can’t help it, ‘cause this poor guy has been sitting completely still on the coffeeshop couches for hours, staring down at his textbooks like he’s been petrified.
“Who,” asks Miya, wrinkling his nose like the words themselves disgust him. “Hot Sweater Guy?”
Reki jolts, feeling a sheepish laugh crawling up his neck. He ducks his head, scratching underneath his headband and aiming a kick at Miya underneath the counter. “Hey,” he protests. “C’mon, you know I only called him that once!”
Miya raises his eyebrows, like he’s not fooled, and after a second Reki holds up his hands, grinning shamefacedly. Okay, so maybe he’s referred to the guy as Hot Sweater Guy a couple times, maybe even three or four, but the guy is pretty handsome, objectively speaking. Plus, Reki gives all their customers goofy nicknames. Oka gave him a talking-to about it last weekend, after Reki was joking around with an elderly professor in line who he calls Witchy Cat Lady, but he could tell Oka was trying to hide his smile during the entire talk. Reki promised he would stop, and he’s trying to, it’s just, he forgets, that’s all.
“Listen, okay, Hot Sweater Guy is a compliment,” Reki says, and Miya rolls his eyes.
“He’s more of a Sad Mopey Guy,” Miya says. “Or the guy who always comes in here looking like his dog just died.”
Reki winces. “Hey, hey, that’s rude.”
“Yeah, well, it’s true.”
Reki’s about to jump to Hot Sweater Guy’s defense, but then he makes the mistake of glancing over at his table, where the guy is gazing helplessly down at his textbooks, shoulders strung up tight. Reki feels a twinge of pity in his chest. “Okay, well, it’s still rude.”
Hot Sweater Guy has been a regular at their coffeeshop for the past couple of weeks, and he always comes in looking like his dog just died. It’s a combination of his too-small sweaters, the ones that always ride up his wrists, and all the crumpled papers shoved in his backpack, and the plain black hot coffee he always orders in a barely audible mumble. In Reki’s opinion, there’s almost nothing sadder than a plain black hot coffee.
Not that he ever ends up taking Hot Sweater Guy’s order. Reki’s pretty good at his job, he’s friendly at the register and he loves talking about the menu items, but somehow Miya is always the one at the counter when Hot Sweater Guy comes.
“He hasn’t even touched his drink, dude,” Reki says, watching him. “Like, I don’t think he ever drinks it. You think he’s gonna be okay?”
“I don’t know,” says Miya. “Just go talk to him if you want to so badly. You need more friends anyway.”
Reki tries not to wince, kicking at him again. He does need more friends, but Miya doesn’t have to make it sound so stupid, like Reki’s some scrappy kid on a playground bugging other kids to hang out with him. It’s just, Reki kinda wants to cheer up this poor guy, and okay, maybe he kinda wants to be his friend, too. It’s totally understandable! Hot Sweater Guy looks cool, when he’s not stressing out over schoolwork, and every time Reki sees him around campus, he feels this spark of curiosity in his veins.
And, okay, maybe Reki can admit he’s kinda lonely, sometimes, and the way Hot Sweater Guy’s shoulders are slumped makes it seem like maybe he could use a friend, too.
“Go,” says Miya, kicking at his ankles until Reki jumps again. “You need to ask him why he keeps ordering that crap anyway. It’s no good. And it’s bad service for us to keep giving him something he hates.”
Reki’s tempted to say that Miya is absolute crap at customer service, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Hot Sweater Guy, who has his head in his hands now. Reki’s heart pangs. Lately the poor guy’s been lugging in bigger stacks of textbooks and staying later and looking generally more distraught than usual, and probably he could use a warmer coffee and a little cheering up. And Reki — Reki always likes cheering people up, so before he can second-guess himself again, he’s grabbing a pen and paper and heading over toward Hot Sweater Guy’s table.
Hot Sweater Guy doesn’t glance up as he approaches — he honestly looks like he might be lost to the world completely, with those stiff shoulders and helplessly creased eyebrows. Every inch of his table is covered with loose-leaf pages and textbooks and printed notecards. That’s how Reki does homework, too, but the difference is that Reki’s always rifling through everything, trying to find those notes he knows he took, while this guy is just staring blankly down at the stuff, kinda desperate, like he’s contemplating dropping out of school at any second.
“Hey,” says Reki, leaning casually against a chair, and his hand slips.
He catches himself, stumbling to his feet again, the sound ringing in his ears. Suddenly it feels like everyone in the coffeeshop is staring at him, including Hot Sweater Guy, and Reki’s face burns as he tries to laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Hah,” he manages, and god, his voice cracks in the middle of the word, like he really is some scrappy kid on a playground, “sorry about that.”
Hot Sweater Guy blinks up at him, looking lost. He’s wearing that one sweater today, the one with the tiny birds flying across the front, and the way the turtleneck hugs his neck makes his eyes look huge, his slightly crooked front teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Uh,” he says, awkwardly, in his very quiet voice. “Sorry.”
Sorry, like he has to apologize for something Reki did, barrelling into this poor guy’s study session, disrupting his peace and quiet with his too-loud voice and terrible balance. “Nah,” says Reki hastily, waving the pad and paper in his hand, hyperaware of the people still staring at him. “S’good! It’s not your fault. Sorry to bother you. I was just coming to check on you, ‘cause, you know, y’know, that’s my job.”
Hot Sweater Guy shifts, looking uncertain. “Oh.”
Shit. He sounds awkward, and hastily Reki clears his throat again. “How’re you liking your coffee, dude?” he asks, mustering his customer service grin, nudging carefully at the abandoned black coffee on the table. “We just started offering our new seasonal stuff, but you seem kinda set in your ways, huh? This your regular?”
Hot Sweater Guy hesitates, then admits, quietly, “It’s the only thing I’ve tried.”
Reki’s heart stumbles to a stop, and then starts beating again, kind of irregularly this time as the guy’s voice sinks into his brain.
He has an accent.
Reki wouldn’t even notice, probably, except that he has an accent too, or a dialect really — the way people speak in Sendai is different from the way they speak at home, in Okinawa. Reki moved to the Japanese mainland for university last year, and he usually feels like he’s the only person who “talks funny,” so hearing another accent makes his heart beat a little faster, sort of excited and sort of curious and sort of hopeful. Now that he has a closer look, the guy maybe looks a little foreign, too, something about the high arch of his eyebrows and his pale hair, like he comes from somewhere else, just like Reki.
Like maybe he understands.
“Dude,” Reki says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “If you want, you should totally try something else! I mean, like, I could help you pick something out. We got a whole menu to choose from, and just between you and me, like, black coffee’s definitely not the best thing on there.”
The guy shifts. He’s still staring up at Reki, holding the lingering eye contact, longer than most people would feel comfortable holding eye contact with Reki. It’s like he’s listening, like he’s paying attention, and Reki’s heart beats fast in his palms. “I thought that was what you did at coffeeshops,” Hot Sweater Guy admits. “Uh, ordered coffee?”
Reki pauses. “Do you like coffee?”
The guy hesitates again, then shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“ Dude ,” Reki says, and then he’s scrambling to stand up straighter, shoving his pad and paper into his apron pocket. Here it is, the perfect cheering-up opportunity! Reki loves explaining stuff to people, even if it’s just the menu at his minimum-wage job, and even more he loves showing people all the good stuff they’re missing out on. No wonder Hot Sweater Guy looks so miserable, if he’s been coming in here for two weeks and reluctantly choking down a plain black coffee. “Dude, you have to try some of our other stuff! C’mere — c’mere, lemme give you some recommendations.”
Hot Sweater Guy stands up immediately, looking relieved and very, very grateful to be leaving his textbooks alone for a while, and he gives Reki this — this smile, this hopeful little smile like somehow Reki can cure all of his worries and wonders with a simple cup of coffee, and Reki can feel the rush of color to his cheeks, the way nervous laughter bubbles up in his throat.
He wants — he wants to give this guy the world, geez, geez.
They’ve only just met, they don’t even know each other and Reki definitely doesn’t have the world to give to anybody but — but he can give him some good freakin’ coffee, so quickly he grabs Hot Sweater Guy by the elbow and tugs him up toward the counter.
He’s already talking before he can stop himself, tripping over his own words and sentences to tell Hot Sweater Guy about every single pastry item they sell, including his favorites — the muffins! — and his least favorites — these weird things with jelly, not worth it, dude, only Miya eats that crap ‘cause it’s low-cal, and Hot Sweater Guy is nodding along, hurrying to keep close to Reki, almost bumping shoulders with him as they walk. It makes Reki’s skin feel like it’s vibrating, in a good way, the best way, ‘cause it’s been a while since somebody watched him so attentively while he was explaining stuff — normally they watch the menu, or their phone screen.
He’s a flushed, grinning mess by the time he gets himself behind the counter again.
“Okay,” he says. Miya has disappeared mysteriously into the backroom, but that’s okay, ‘cause Reki’s on a roll, here, “so these are our teas, solid choices, but most of ‘em are decaf, and you probably want something stronger, right? ‘Cause no offense dude, but all the homework you have on that table? That’s way more homework than anybody should ever have. You go to school here?”
Hot Sweater Guy nods.
“Okay, cool!” says Reki. “Me too, it’s my second year. Okay. Okay, sorry, lemme think. Maybe a refresher? I could add an extra energy shot to one of ‘em, they taste like pure sugar but they’re actually pretty good, usually they’re more popular in the summertime but—”
“What’s your favorite?” Hot Sweater Guy interrupts.
Reki stumbles to a stop, already reaching for a sample cup. “I, uh — what?”
“What’s your favorite drink?” Hot Sweater Guy repeats, bracing his hands carefully against the counter, tilting his head as he glances at Reki. A piece of soft, pale hair falls into his face, getting caught on his eyelashes, and he doesn’t blink it away, as if he’s so focused on Reki that he doesn’t even notice.
“Ah,” says Reki, feeling a little embarrassed. “Well, it’s sorta basic. I guess I really like the pumpkin spice? You know, it’s kinda girly, and it’s seasonal, so we only have it around this time of year. But it’s got coffee in it, though, you don’t — “
“I want to try it.”
Reki pauses, looking at him. There’s something determined in the guy’s voice now, even though he’s naturally soft-spoken, and the accent makes his words a bit clumsy — but he wants to try what Reki likes best. “Okay,” Reki says, feeling kinda clumsy himself. “Okay! One pumpkin spice latte, coming right up. You’re gonna love it, dude. The cinnamon is, like, amazing.”
He grabs a cup, flipping it around in his hands, trying to ignore the warmth caught in his chest as he scribbles down the name and order. Hot Sweater Guy is still watching him, like he’s taking note of what Reki’s doing with his hands, and it’s just, it’s just been a long time since anybody’s been so interested in him and what he has to say and all his recommendations and stuff — and there’s a part of Reki’s brain already running wild, imagining being friends with him, getting way ahead of himself the way he always does. They could hang out in Reki’s dorm room and eat vending-machine snacks at two am, they could walk to class together with their backpacks bouncing against their sides, they could huddle down in the library during finals and moan about their schoolwork — and laugh together, and maybe even fistbump, ‘cause it’s been so long since Reki got to really touch somebody, and he’s all eager and distracted while he’s making the coffee, and he’s never really been that good at paying attention to what he’s doing in the first place.
So he maybe messes up.
Well, he definitely messes up.
He’s putting the finishing touches on the latte art — a couple birds, ‘cause of the guy’s sweater, and also ‘cause it’s fall and Reki’s seen so many birds out lately — and sliding the cup across the counter when he sees his mistake.
On the cup, underneath the name of the drink, he’s scribbled, Hot Sweater Guy.
Reki panics. He grabs for the cup, but Hot Sweater Guy is already picking it up, his fingers slender and a little chapped, bruised on the knuckles like he’s accidentally bumped them on things too many times. “Wait,” Reki blurts, ‘cause, god, but Hot Sweater Guy is already turning the cup around, glancing down at Reki’s lopsided kanji.
He frowns.
Shit. Reki can already feel everything crumbling away — the good conversation they had going on, the hopeful glance of those blue eyes, the warm brush of their shoulders as they hurried their way through the coffee shop — Reki had one good chance to make a new friend, and he ruined it. He clears his throat, casting around desperately for something to say, some good damage control, but for once in his life he can’t come up with the words.
Hot Sweater Guy tilts his head, still frowning as he mouths something to himself, once and then again. “Sweater,” he mutters to himself, then glances up at Reki, looking confused. “Do you — do you like my sweater?”
Reki’s so flustered he thinks he’s gonna die. Sure, it’s not the rudest nickname he could have written down, it’s nothing like the names people sometimes called Reki in high school, but Oka was right, he shouldn’t have been joking around about the customers to begin with. He feels hot with shame. Did Hot Sweater Guy not understand what Reki wrote? Or is he just being polite, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt? Face red, Reki manages, “Uh,” and then, “Yeah, I — yeah.”
God, he’s an idiot.
Hot Sweater Guy glances down at himself, tugging absently at one of his too-small sleeves, and then nods, like he’s filing that information away for later. Then he says, “Thank you,” and lifts the coffee cup to take a careful sip.
Polite. He’s so polite, and a little stiff and a little awkward, with that quiet-but-interested look on his face, his shoulders more relaxed now, like he’s forgotten about the monster of studying he’s been wrestling with all afternoon. Face hot, Reki tries to busy himself with the cash register, flipping his drawers open, even though he’s definitely not gonna charge Hot Sweater Guy for that coffee, not after writing something so embarrassing and inappropriate on his cup.
“I just forgot to ask your name,” he blurts out, ‘cause here he goes again, babbling to fill up empty space. “Usually I ask right after I take people’s orders, but I forgot this time, ‘cause I was distracted thinking about what you’d like best — I mean, ah — I mean — ”
Hot Sweater Guy lowers the cup. “I like it,” he says. He gives Reki another smile, and even though it’s small, just the corners of his mouth turning up, there’s a sort of shine in his eyes, and Reki stumbles to a stop, again.
That smile is infectious.
“I — yeah?” Reki’s heart starts beating again, somehow, and sheepishly he grins back and rubs the tattoos on his forearm, the different sketches of butterflies he got inked on a whim his freshman year. Maybe he hasn’t ruined everything, yet. “I’m glad, dude! Good. Good, I — yeah. It’s on the house! Of course.”
Hot Sweater Guy nods, glancing down at the cup, admiring what’s left of the latte art. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, and Reki feels his heart do a little kickflip against his ribcage before the guy glances up again. “And, um. My name is Langa.”
“Langa,” Reki repeats. It’s the perfect name for him, soft around the edges, a little awkward in his mouth as he tries to get his tongue around the syllables, and he wants to ask where it’s from, but instead he just grins and leans on the counter. “I’m Reki,” he says, and then, ‘cause he’s apparently a whole idiot, he sticks out his hand across the counter to shake. Langa glances down at it, and then shifts his latte so he can take Reki’s hand, his palm warm from the cup, a little sweaty in the grooves of his fingers. He hesitates like he’s not sure what to do next, and Reki grins and gives his hand a firm pump, the handshake that made Oka laugh after he interviewed him for the job.
“Reki,” Langa repeats, pronouncing the syllables carefully, like he’s trying to remember them. “Nice to meet you, Reki.”
“You too, dude. Sorry about the cup.”
Of course he had to bring it up again — of course. Classic Reki.
But Langa just shakes his head, taking his hand back and cupping the latte, taking a longer gulp this time, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Reki,” Langa repeats, and Reki tries not to grin at how cool his name sounds in Langa’s accent, ‘cause probably that would be a rude thing to bring up. “You said you go to the university?”
“Yeah!” says Reki. “I just work here part-time.”
Langa nods. He glances back at his table, looking a little forlorn like he’s dreading the thought of going back to his schoolwork. “Are you guys hiring?”
They’re not, but Reki says, “Hey, I can ask,” just to see the way Langa’s shoulders ease, the slightest bit. Langa nods again, turning back to him, both of his pale, bony hands wrapped around the cup. He meets Reki’s eyes again, directly, like he’s not afraid of the eye contact. Sometimes people avoid Reki’s eyes, probably so they can get away from him and his annoying chatter, but not Langa. Reki feels himself starting to grin again, and he can’t help asking, “You’ll come back, right?”
Langa blinks, and then he gives that tiny smile again, the one that looks a little stiff around the edges like he’s sort of forgotten how his own face works. “Tomorrow?” he asks. “Will you be here?”
“Yeah,” says Reki, and for a second they both just grin stupidly at each other across the counter, and then the door jingles open with a rush of chilly autumn air, and Reki bounces up, straightening his shoulders. “I’ll see you then,” he says, and Langa nods before he turns away, blowing on his coffee.
Reki’s brain is already circling the date in his mental calendar: tomorrow, it writes, and then, Langa.
Langa comes back.
The next day, and then the next, and Reki even sees him around on campus on Wednesday, and they wave to each other, and Reki hurries into his next class with a stupidly big grin and a pounding heart.
It’s just been a long time since he’s had somebody to wave to on campus, and Langa was wearing this white sweater with loose knitting, some of the stitches dropped like it was homemade. Reki stores that thought away in an ever-growing folder called things to ask Langa. He wants to know if Langa knitted the sweater himself, the way Reki’s started screenprinting a lot of his own clothes, just as an extra hobby in his free time. Usually he only gets to talk to Langa super briefly, snatches of conversations while he’s wiping down the tabletops at work, so as the week flies by, Reki’s cramming more and more questions into the folder until he’s practically bursting with them.
He wants to talk to Langa, really talk to him.
The leaves are drifting down from the trees by the time Thursday rolls around, and Reki’s buzzing with the sight of them as he clocks into his shift, craning his neck to look out the coffeeshop windows. It’s his second autumn in Sendai, but he still thinks falling leaves are the coolest thing. It never got cold enough for the leaves to change color in Okinawa, and he wants to ask if this happens where Langa’s from, if he lived somewhere tropical before, or maybe someplace cold and tree-less like the North Pole. Maybe it’s a rude question to ask, but Reki’s just burning to know.
And then Langa comes into the coffeeshop and sits on his usual couch, wearing a thick sweater, and Reki’s thoroughly distracted for the rest of his shift.
He tries not to stare at Langa across the coffeeshop as he cleans out the mugs. “Hey,” says Oka, from behind him, and Reki jumps a little. “Is Miya not coming in tonight?”
“Ah,” says Reki, turning around and rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I thought I told you. He has a big test to study for.”
Oka frowns, glancing out the window toward the library building next door. It’s a slow night, and Reki’s mostly been watching Oka play Words With Friends on his phone when he’s not distracted by other stuff, and Miya’s probably buried in the stacks of that very library. So, pretty typical for all of them. Miya is a kid genius, but he’s kind of a terrible employee, ‘cause he doesn’t know how to control his eye-rolls when he’s at the cash register and somebody orders a drink he doesn’t like. Reki knows that Oka only keeps Miya around because he has a soft spot for him, and because Miya’s parents shipped him off to college at sixteen so they wouldn’t have to take care of him anymore.
Oka must have a soft spot for Reki, too, which is why Reki still has a job, even though he wrote Hot Sweater Guy on the cup of some poor unsuspecting customer.
“Well, alright,” says Oka, with a sigh. “But I’ll have to have a talk with him tomorrow.”
Reki winces. “Sorry, man,” he starts, but Oka stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s not your fault, Reki,” he says, kind but a little stern, like he knows how quickly Reki’ll start to blame himself for anything that goes wrong around here. Hastily Reki shuts up, nodding and trying not to miss the warmth of his hand when Oka takes it away.
Back home Reki hugged everybody, his mom, his grandma, his sisters, even threw arms around the shoulders of his classmates on a good day. But out here in Sendai, it’s like nobody wants to get handsy with him, and Reki’s starting to feel kinda touch-starved about it. Miya hates to be touched, and it’s not like Reki can go around ruffling Manager Oka’s hair or whatever, that would just be creepy. So he tries his best to grin and sound normal when he says,
“Sure thing, boss.”
Oka rolls his eyes. “You want to go talk to your boy, don’t you?”
Reki startles. “I — huh?”
“Your friend,” Oka says, using his chin to gesture to Langa, who is hunched over the table in front of his couch. He’s got headphones in tonight, that horribly lost expression on his face, frowning as he stares down at his notes. Reki watches him, his heart softening at the sight of Langa’s shoulder-length hair clumsily pulled half-up, a lopsided little bun that Langa probably tugged into place in frustration. Loose pieces of hair are falling into his face even as he shoves them back, reaching for his coffee cup like it’s his lifeline.
It’s another pumpkin spice latte. Reki knows, ‘cause he made it. Oka was at the counter when Langa arrived, and Reki was in the back clocking in, but Langa asked for him.
Langa asked for him.
Reki feels all warm inside at the thought — he can’t help it. Langa always seems kinda grumpy when he comes into the coffeeshop, holding his backpack too close, a frown lingering around his mouth, but he lights up so much when Reki brings him his coffee and says hey to him. Everything changes — his posture straightens, his face opens up, and that smile — that smile makes him seem like another person, like somebody coming to life.
Reki wants to see that smile again.
“Can I?” he asks, his leg bouncing under the counter, and Oka gives a wry sort of grin and nods, pointing to the display case, where they keep a bunch of pastries they have to throw out at the end of the day.
“Bring him something to eat,” Oka advises. “Lord knows he probably needs it.”
“Thanks, boss man,” says Reki, gratefully, ‘cause Langa does look worryingly thin and bony underneath those thick sweaters. He snags one of the pumpkin muffins and warms it up, wrapping it in napkins, and then he hurries over to Langa’s couch, where Langa is tugging on a fistful of hair, gazing blankly at what looks like a dictionary.
Carefully Reki taps the table, setting down the muffin. “Hey, man!” he says. “I brought you something.”
Langa looks up, startled. There are bags under his eyes, and Reki’s heart thrums with pity. God, he wishes he could bring Langa a blanket or something, watch over his stuff while he takes a power nap on the coffeeshop couch, or even better drag him back to his dorm and force both him and Miya to put away their textbooks for a movie night so they can take turns tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. He nudges the muffin gently toward Langa, and Langa sits up straighter, this shiny hopeful look in his eyes.
“Reki?” he says, too loudly, over the sound of his music.
Reki feels himself flush warm, and he taps his own ear, grinning apologetically. “Uh, headphones, dude.”
It takes a minute for Langa to understand, and then he pulls the headphones out quickly, making a face. “Sorry,” he says, sounding embarrassed, his voice lower and the accent heavier, and Reki waves his hand hastily, pulling out one of the round ottoman chairs.
“No, no, don’t worry about it, dude!” He plops down, trying to ignore this ugly little voice in the back of his head whispering, you’re annoying him, you’re annoying, he doesn’t like you. This happens pretty much every time Reki tries to talk to anybody new, and he’s learned he’s just gotta power through it, so he bumps his feet against Langa’s under the table. “Thought you might wanna try our pumpkin muffin! ‘Cause you like the drink so much. And it’s my favorite, so — so. Yeah.”
He tries not to cringe at himself. Of course Langa doesn’t wanna try stuff just ‘cause it’s Reki’s favorite, that was a fluke, it was —
“Oh,” says Langa, and his eyes are wide, glancing down at the muffin. “For me?”
Reki’s nerves soften. “Yeah!” he says. “Yeah, dude, of course.”
He grins at Langa again, but Langa’s attention has zeroed in on the muffin, and it’s not until he’s wolfed half of it down that he glances up at Reki again. “Thank you, Reki,” he says, a little shamefaced, like he forgot to say it earlier, and Reki feels his mouth tugging into another smile. Langa’s hair is falling messily around his face, and he has crumbs on his cheek, right next to the dip of his mouth.
“Hang on,” Reki says, reaching out. “You got a little something.”
Langa startles a little when Reki’s thumb brushes over his cheek, but he doesn’t move away — somehow it seems like he moves closer, like he’s chasing the touch and Reki feels his hands burn as he tries to laugh again, flustered. He forgot he wasn’t supposed to touch people like this, casually, the way he did in Okinawa, but Langa’s skin is soft and now Reki’s fingertips are buzzing with the sensation, so hastily he snatches his hands away and tosses himself back onto the chair.
“Sorry,” he says. “What’re you working on, dude? You’re always in here with all this homework, it looks stressful as hell.”
“Oh,” says Langa, and his eyes drop down to his textbooks again, and everything about him seems to wilt. “I’m failing out of college.”
He sounds so miserable that Reki winces in sympathy, his heart squeezing in his chest. “Aw, shit,” he says, before he can stop himself. “That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”
It sucks especially ‘cause there’s no way for Reki to help. He’s no good at school, either, even though he’s been scraping by with B’s and C’s in his college courses so far. It helps that most of them are art, which Reki has always been good at, even if he isn’t good at turning in the assignments on time. Usually his teachers find a soft spot for him somehow. That’s something Reki is good at.
“What’re you studying?” he adds, just in case it’s art and he can help.
“Finance,” says Langa, his shoulders slumped. He glances at the muffin again, like he’s trying to decide if he’s too miserable to finish it, but he must decide he isn’t, ‘cause he practically inhales the last two bites before sagging back against the chair. “I’m no good at it. I chose it because it makes a lot of money and — and I don’t really have anything I’m, uh, passionate about? I mean…” He hesitates for a moment, eyes still lingering on the empty napkin. “I’m taking a biology class I sort of like. About...about wildlife. But it’s hard, too. Everything is hard.”
Reiki’s heart kinda aches. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Langa glances up, and his eyes are so shiny and blue and there’s that hopeful look around the edges again, almost hidden away, like he wants to believe Reki could understand but he’s also gotten his hopes up one too many times already. “Really?”
Reki nods. “I, ah — I’m supposed to be taking all these education classes, ‘cause I wanna be an art teacher, you know? Like in an elementary school, with kids and all that, maybe even really young kids in kindergarten or special-ed kids or something, I mean I’m not very good at teaching but I used to help my baby sisters when they were fingerpainting and — ” And ah, he’s rambling, so hastily he finishes, “I mean, even though I love it, I kinda suck.”
Langa nods, his shoulders still slumped. “That makes sense,” he says, quietly. “I wish I had something like that, too. Something, um. Something that I really loved.”
Reki feels another twinge in his chest. “It’s probably kinda hard for anybody to love finance, huh?”
Langa hesitates again, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I only came to Tohoku because it’s where my mom went when she was younger, and she wanted...she wanted me to be...successful.”
Ah. Reki nods. His own mom always said she wanted Reki to do whatever made him happy, even when he was a scrappy little guy who liked painting on the walls when she wasn’t looking, and who whined and groaned when she tried to scrub Elmer’s Glue out of his hair. But maybe Langa’s mom wants him to have a different kind of happiness, the kind only money can buy. “Yeah?”
Langa nods, exhaling again, looking at the desk. Softly he admits, “I just wanted to make her proud.”
And Reki can feel his heart melting, slowly, ‘cause, oh.
He has such a soft spot for family stuff.
He feels like he’s seeing Langa for the first time all over again, this too-pale, too-awkward guy with too many textbooks, who always wanders into the coffeeshop alone, blinking in confusion like he’s lost no matter how many times he shows up. Before he can stop himself, Reki’s reaching across the table, punching gently at Langa’s arm. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t get yourself so down, dude! There’s still plenty of time in the semester, right?”
Langa hesitates, then glances up at Reki with those big, blue eyes, and Reki feels himself melting even further, into something sappy and soft. “Yes,” Langa admits, and then he hesitates again, that frown creasing his face again as he tries to think to himself. “But I...I don’t know how to read any of the textbooks. That’s the problem.”
“You don’t know how to — read?”
It’s probably an offensive question, and Reki winces, but Langa doesn’t look offended, just vaguely miserable as he nods.
“In Japanese,” he says. “I never learned how to read kanji growing up, only speaking. We didn’t move to Sendai until I was eighteen.”
“Move from where?”
“Canada,” says Langa, and Reki bounces up in his seat, the answer to so many of his burning questions finally settling into place.
“Dude,” he says. “Dude, that’s so cool! Canada? What’s that like?”
Langa hesitates. “It’s, um. Easier to read menus?”
Reki stares at him for a second, and then it all clicks: Langa only ordering the simplest menu item — Langa frowning down at the kanji on his coffee cup — Langa not understanding the super embarrassing nickname Reki had given him.
Langa wasn’t being polite. He just hadn’t understood.
“Oh my god, dude,” Reki blurts. “The menu! Of course, I should’ve — I should’ve helped with that! You want me to read it to you? I mean, I don’t know any English but I’m sure we can — ”
“It’s okay,” Langa says, and Reki cuts himself off before he rambles off into oblivion. Langa touches the side of his latte cup. “I like this.”
Reki feels his face warm. “Well, yeah, but —”
“I like it.”
“O—okay, dude. Cool, cool. Uh — you sure?”
Langa nods, and then he pauses, furrowing his eyebrows again, glancing down at the crumpled napkin where the muffin had been. “The muffin was good, too,” he says. “What was that called?”
“Pumpkin and cream cheese?”
Langa nods again, his forehead smoothing out like he’s made up his mind. “I like the things you pick out,” he says. “I don’t need the menu.”
Reki’s palms feel warm now, too. Man, he’s really not used to this kind of attention — he feels almost like he’s gonna blush, just from Langa saying he likes Reki’s coffee choices, and that’s pretty embarrassing, even though it — it also feels kinda good. He shoves his hands hastily in between his thighs and gives Langa a grin. “Of course, dude,” he says. “I can help you choose stuff anytime you need!”
And then, suddenly, he has an idea.
“Hey,” he says, and Langa glances up, holding that direct eye contact that makes Reki’s heart pound. “Maybe I could help you with some of the reading, too? Like, if there’s some part you don’t understand, or — or if you needed something translated, you could always ask me and I could read it aloud for you!”
Langa blinks, eyes going wide again. For a moment Reki’s not sure how he’ll react, and his heart thumps wildly, that ugly little voice rearing its head again to remind him, you’re annoying you’re unlikeable you’re annoying annoying annoying, but he shoves the voice down, because suddenly he has a chance to become friends with Langa, his feet bouncing hopefully underneath the table. Then Langa’s eyes kind of soften at the corners, the sort of look he’s probably unaware he’s even making, and he says awkwardly, “You’d do that?”
“Of course, dude!”
Langa bites the corner of his mouth. “Why?”
It’s blunt, but not rude, more like Langa is trying to understand, like he knows he’s missing a puzzle piece that he should have, and he’s asking Reki to help him put the pieces together. Reki laughs again, bouncing his knees again kinda sheepishly, ‘cause it would sound pretty pathetic to say I’m, like, super lonely, dude, and I kinda want to be your best friend.
“Well, it’d be kinda nice to have a study buddy, y’know?” he says, instead. “Like, to hold me accountable, and stuff. I’m kinda terrible at focusing on my homework.”
Langa thinks for a moment, then nods. “I am, too.”
Reki stifles another laugh, a bit nervous for some reason, or maybe excited. It’s hard to tell with the way his heart is jumping around in his chest. “Dude, you’re always in here for, like, five hours at a time.”
“I don’t get anything done.”
Reki laughs. “Me either,” he says. “We’re probably a recipe for disaster, huh?”
Langa offers him a small smile, and his eyes are taking on that shine, again, the same way he looks at Reki when Reki brings his hot coffee and warns him, be careful, don’t spill it on your sweater! The look makes Reki’s heart bounce around his ribcage as he grins back, excited, stupidly excited at the thought of hanging out with Langa some more, maybe wandering around campus with him and exploring abandoned classrooms and looking for random college clubs to join.
Last year, in the fall, Reki did all of those things, all by himself. He hugged his family goodbye at the airport and flew to Sendai bursting with excitement over all the new friends he would make, people who would understand his interests in a way that his classmates at home never did, like art and skateboarding and making his own clothes at three in the morning. Sure, he was a little homesick, but he was convinced that feeling would go away as soon as he made friends. But it’s been a whole year, and Reki hasn’t managed to make any friends at college except for Miya, his roommate. It’s not for lack of trying, it’s just...for lack of something else.
Reki hasn’t quite figured out what that something else is, the thing he lacks, the thing that makes him so — unlikable.
The wondering keeps him up at night sometimes.
But he tries to shove those thoughts down, the way he always does, and he grins at Langa. Probably Reki will be a terrible study buddy, ‘cause usually he shoves his homework into his backpack five minutes before every single class, but at the same time maybe some distraction is exactly what they both need. “I usually try to find a quiet spot and cram some homework in after my shifts,” Reki says. “You wanna try tomorrow? I work the morning and then I’m free!”
Langa nods again. “I want to,” he says, sitting up straighter and brushing his hair out of his face. “Should I — should I give you my phone number?”
Reki feels a pleasant throb go through his heart. “Sure, dude. Of course.”
He grabs his phone from his pocket and slides it across the table to Langa. He hopes Langa thinks his sticker-covered phone case and graffiti-inspired wallpaper are cool and not stupid, which is maybe a dumb thing to hope for, but hey, maybe that’s the thing that’s turning so many people off to him. They see the phone case, they nope outta there. He clears his throat, face warm as he watches Langa’s clumsy finger tap at the screen, typing in his phone number — he only uses one finger to type, his pointer. It’s kinda adorable, in a dorky way, and Reki wants to tease him about it, but he holds that off until they know each other better.
“Thanks,” he says, when Langa pushes the phone back. now shining up at him with Langa’s contact info, and even his full name: Langa Hasegawa . Langa nods, his feet shuffling around underneath the table, and Reki offers him another lopsided grin. He’s grateful for more than just the number, but he’s not sure how to say that without sounding like a total sap.
“You too,” Langa says, and then he rubs his elbow and adds, more quietly, “Thank you. ”
Another throb goes through Reki’s chest. Langa’s hair is falling in front of his face, but there’s something in the way he tucks his hands under the sides of the textbook in front of him, like he’s excited, too. Maybe Langa’s not as good at showing his emotions on his face as Reki is, but Reki likes him anyway, and his heart gives a little jump in his chest.
Maybe Langa’ll start to like him, too.
Maybe they could study together more than once, and swap lunches sometimes, and race each other across campus when they get caught in the rain, laughing and panting on the doorstep of Reki’s dorm room, collapsing onto the middle of the carpet and breathing hard, all the sounds of college thrumming through the walls as they catch their breath and talk about the places they came from, and all the places they want to go.
Maybe they can be friends.
Reki stuffs his phone into his pocket and grins as he scrambles up, hand on the back of his chair, and he says, “Okay, it’s a date! See you then,” but what he’s thinking is, Thank you, Langa Hasegawa, thank you, thank you.