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kaeichi · 1 month

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ღ ˚⋅ coffee talk — mikage reo.

mikage reo is not addicted to caffeine.

that's what he keeps telling nagi, anyway. the latter doesn't know why he keeps reiterating that “fact” either—he doesn't even care, nor does he believe him in the first place—but even someone like nagi would suspect something is amiss solely by the way reo keeps coming back to the coffee shop that the heir deemed second-rate not too long ago.

today marks day eleven of visiting said coffee shop in a row; nagi barely steps his foot in, and he already wants to leave.

“welcome, reo! and nagi too!”

that something that nagi suspects comes in the form of a living, breathing person; one that usually takes reo’s order and makes his specialized coffee for him.

(“it tastes different somehow, nagi!” reo had explained to him the other day, justifying his countless visits and spending too much on tips—though for the pro soccer player and CEO of a business corporation, absolutely nothing is too much for him. “you should give it a try. i swear, that barista has magic hands or something. i've had so many macchiatos before, but none of them has tasted so…delectable, so lush, and so—”

“oh, i’m sure.” nagi commented offhandedly, zoning out and hoping this is just another one of reo’s many fleeting interests.)

unfortunately that is not the case this time, especially not with the way reo’s legs immediately go stiff when he advances rather awkwardly over the counter, as if he suddenly forgot how to walk just by the sound of your voice. nagi can tell how you pretend not to notice, a gentle smile on your face beckoning him closer, your eyes as warm as the yellow string lights hung on the walls around the quiet shop and the freshly ground arabica beans that you’ve been brewing in the back.

this is so…yeah, no. nagi should definitely just leave.

“the usual caramel macchiato today? or just a regular latte this time?” your eyes look up from the register when reo doesn't verbally reply, peering at him through your lashes, and he wants to smack himself for accidentally being entranced by your lips moving and taking too long to answer. he can already hear nagi’s voice taunting him: get a grip already, reo.

“yes, please.”

“…sorry, which one?”

he takes a second to breath. he has to, or else he'll end up making an even bigger fool of himself. “uh, i'll just get a latte. since i already had one this morning.”

you then focus your full attention to him, a teasing look evident in your gaze. “you should really tone down the caffeine intake, reo. i can't imagine how that'd be healthy for you.”

“haha, consider it as a compliment to your coffee-making skills.”

there is an actual growing concern that you have for him, since he has been showing up for the past eleven days and getting macchiatos or lattes; at times even twice a day, so your mild unease is valid. there is also that possibility that he's been getting those for someone else, but you discard that thought when you see him stay in the shop sometimes, leisurely drinking from his steaming mug as he types away on his laptop on nights that he's not overly busy.

nonetheless, he remains your favorite customer, and it's not just because of his generous tips and all. you do wonder what he does for a living; would it be rude to ask? though, you suppose you can reserve that question when you start to get to know him personally on some other occasion.

wait, get to know him personally? you glance towards the elegantly dressed male once again once you're done pouring the scalding liquid onto the disposable cup, taking in his lavish appearance and slicked back violet hair—you can't help but think he may be out of your league.

but something tells you that you shouldn't be afraid, not with the hint of pink dusting his cheeks and the earnest, tender smile that always adorns his face whenever he talks to you.

“my shift is ending in five minutes. if you wanna wait, then maybe we can head out together…?”

you're relieved to have taken the chance, because the purple-haired male suddenly jolts, “y-yeah, of course! let me just tell–” when reo turns around to see that his companion is nowhere to be found, he sighs. “…nevermind.”

he hears you stifle a giggle, a sweet melody falling in his ears, and he's so glad he found the time to squeeze in this quick trip tonight despite his hectic schedule. when you hand him his latte, the corners of his mouth inadvertently lifts up as he sees your handwriting on the cup in black ink:

Reo ღ ◡̈

a few minutes later, after you have changed out of your black apron and gathered your stuff, reo walks out of the coffee shop with you, the chilly autumn air breezing past his skin.

his eyes flit downward when you rub your hands in an attempt to heat them up.

it's cold tonight, coldest it has been in a week, yet reo feels warm all of a sudden, even though he barely had a sip from his drink. he wipes his free hand on his slacks, a build up of sweat coating his palm. he regrets not taking his blazer off in his car, because it now feels uncomfortably tight around him, and since when did it get so hot—

“you okay, reo?” you cast him a side glance over the shoulder, eyes raking over his restless form, “you're so fidgety.”

“sorry, yeah. it's just the coffee.”

you give a pointed look, wordlessly reminding him again that maybe he should dial it down or some. it's fine, he's not addicted to caffeine, to something else maybe, but not caffeine. reo’s gaze drifts downwards again, glancing at your empty palm again, and… oh.

that must've been why his fingers kept twitching. for now, he refrains from reaching out, hopeful that this wouldn't be his last encounter with you, and that he'll eventually find the courage someday.

slicked back hair reo.... reo i need u so bad ples

#ik theres alot of coffee shop AUs but u can never go wrong w one #this was js supposed to be a short drabble how did it end up with 1k words #pushing my third wheeler nagi agenda #hes so sick of them #blue lock x reader #mikage reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #blue lock imagines #reo mikage #mikage reo #mikage reo fluff #reo mikage fluff #reo mikage x you #mikage reo x y/n #mikage reo x you

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dollywheeler · 9 months

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October 4th, 1996

Dear diary,

We survived the night!

At first, when Mike opened the door for us, it was as awkward and uncomfortable as I’d feared. Mike was clearly nervous, which I found stranger than mom responding in kind, seemingly clutching to basic courtesy and manners as they landed on polite chatter about the weather. As if it’s ever anything other than dreadful in the beginning of fall.

I understand why mom was nervous, knew she wanted tonight to go well, but Mike was the one in control - he shouldn’t have been just as anxious, worrying about mom’s opinion. He’d already proven that he is capable of burning every bridge if he has to.

I stayed quiet as we crossed the threshold; I didn’t want to fall into the same pretense of everything being normal, and wouldn't have known what to say even if I did. Instead, I distracted myself by looking at the decor as Mike lead us further into the house. I’d never known there to be any developments in the neighborhood, but the house had clearly been a newer built than I’d expected. If I’d have to guess, I’d say late seventies, judging by the wide spaces and high ceilings. There was no divide between the entrance hall and the living room to the left, a set of stairs against the right wall climbing up to a second floor landing that overlooked the space beneath. The ceiling above the entrance and living room was made up of glass, as was visible from the street, the skylight tilting up until it meets the roof above the second floor. I had to admit it must look lovely during the day - or with the lights out at night - though I wouldn't want to be the one cleaning them.

The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the streets were partially covered by shrubbery and had tasteful white curtains that were left open for now, the glass reflecting the scene back to them and somehow making the lighting appear more cosy.

The furniture was minimalistic - clean wooden lines and modern sofas fitting the style of the house itself - and though the space was clean now, I could tell it's usually covered in clutter. The strip of wall that somewhat separated the hallway from the lounge was covered in picture frames, some holding snapshots of Mike’s time in Chicago, others showcasing Will’s artwork. I even spotted some old drawings above the fireplace that surely had to be from when they were kids. The outside wall was taken up by massive wooden shelves, covered in books and knick-knacks. It seemed empty now, but I’m pretty sure that’s due to the recent move, free surfaces they intended to fill up over the years to come.

The lounge, where Will met us with drinks and told us to sit down, was in the same room as the dining table, and in the back I could see a corner that led to the kitchen. though the kitchen itself was out of sight, I could see a small breakfast nook in the corner. Just like everything else, it was surprisingly cosy and intimate.

It seriously makes me wonder how long they intend to live there. It seemed surprisingly put together for a bachelor pad. Then again, not everything is like the movies, so I might just have to readjust my assumptions.

I didn't really tune in for most of the conversation, which was as awkward and stilted as I'd expected. Mom kept asking questions, and Mike kept answering almost reluctantly, as if he was seriously struggling to respond to to the most basic of inquiries about he and Will had been up to in Chicago. Honestly, one should rethink ever giving him an English diploma if he has this much trouble stringing a sentence together.

Will cut in a few times with updates on his family, which was a lot less awkward because mom had been keeping up with Mrs. Byers and thus could more easily contribute to the conversation. It was quite strange, even as we actually sat down at the table and they started directing more questions at me.

Surprisingly, Mike had actually cooked himself. Mom was quick to reassure him the food was good and the house was nice and all of that but it felt... weird, somehow. I didn't feel natural, even though she definitely wasn't lying, like she was afraid to say anything less. Meanwhile, Mike just looked more tense with every comment, as if he could sense it too. Will seemed to be the only one even the slightest bit relaxed, being quick to pick up conversation when either Mike or mom got stuck, trying to smoothe over the awkwardness to the best of his abilities. They kept bringing the conversation back to me, asking about school and friends and hobbies, but whenever mom and I tried to ask about them, it got weird again, dodging questions and dancing around the subject.

By the time we finished the main course I needed a break - couldn't stomach the weird energy anymore. So when Will and Mike started clearing the table, I got up and started wandering around. There were French doors made of dark wood near the kitchen that lead into a sun room, clearly used as a more informal living room. there were couches set up in the corner facing the giant floor-to-ceiling windows, tilted skylights similar to the ones at the front of the house allowing natural light to fill the space.

I would have bought the house just for this room alone - Will had set up an easel in the corner where two glass-lined walls met. In the corner away from the windows, a desk was set up cluttered with papers, and folders with white corners haphazardly sticking out, a typewriter stored on the floor next to it.

More so than the rest of the house, I could imagine them living here, sharing the space on lazy Saturdays or late Sunday mornings. Hell, I could take the images from when I was five, of Mike and his party set out around the coffee table in the basement, and implant them into this room, loud and boisterous and warm.

At least in this room the smell of teen-boy could be more easily aired out.

The one thing out of a place, which both surprised and excited me to see, was a shiny acoustic guitar standing next to the couch. It was new, clearly no more than a year or two old. I picked it up and it definitely felt smoother and more expensive than the one the Stevenson's had, and more importantly, it was actually tuned correctly.

"Do you play?" Mike asked, stepping into the room right as I had tried the first few chords, making me jump. He looked amused, though there was an edge of surprise or confusion on his face.

"Do you?" I fired back, because honestly I wouldn't have thought in a million years that Mike could play as much as the triangle, if anything. I wouldn't even have thought him capable of fine motor functions in general.

"Yeah, sort of," Mike shrugged, stepping further into the room and sinking down on the sofa. He held out his hand and I reluctantly handed the guitar to him.

He started playing, and it took me a moment to recognise it as Hey Jude from The Beatles. I raised my eyebrow at him, because as much as the song was a bit of a cliché choice, he was good. He stopped after the first chorus, and held the guitar out for me. I would have thought it a challenge, but instead he just looked genuinely curious to see me try.

I caved and sat down next to him, trying not to be nervous because last time I'd only managed to get to the first verse without making any mistakes. I was quite pleased with myself once I was done, and Mike's look was thoughtful even as he was smiling.

"I know that song, but-"

"Pixies," Will said from the doorway, and we both turned to look at him in surprise. "See, Mike, why am I not surprised your little sister has better taste in music than you?"

I couldn’t help but preen at the praise - I know it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t. Music is an opinion, and Will’s shouldn’t matter to me at all, and yet it felt nice to be complimented on it, as if I’d passed some kind of test. Interestingly, Mike didn't argue, just squinting his eyes at Will and sticking his tongue out like a child.

"To be fair, I've also been influenced by Jonathan," I reasoned, and told them about how Jonathan always makes me a Mixtape when Nancy and him visit. Where is my mind? was on the last one he brought when they visited in June, and just yesterday mom had picked up the new Oasis tape that Jonathan had pre-ordered for me as a late birthday present.

Will was immediately interested, coming over to sit next to Mike as he asked about my favorite song, so I let myself gush about how much I love Champagne Supernova - seriously, it's ridiculous. I've been listening to it on repeat ever since I got my hands on it.

I told Will I'd make a copy for him if he wanted, which he eagerly agreed to, but the conversation was interrupted as something moved in my peripheral vision, making me jump. It was just a cat, however, jumping onto the coffee table next to me. Startled, I ran a hand over her soft coat in awe, her big blue eyes uninterested even as she pushed into my touch.

Will, to my surprise, rolled his eyes when I asked for her name, but there was a smile on his face as he glanced towards Mike. “Her name is Cat.”

“You named your cat, “Cat”?” I asked, incredulous - because, seriously? - and Will shrugged and told me to blame Mike, who immediately gawked in affront.

“It’s short for ‘Catherine’!” Mike insisted as if that was a vital piece of information that somehow made it better.

“Mike sucks at naming things,” Will sighed as he reached out a hand to run over Cat's - Catherine's, because Cat is just too stupid - back, eyes cutting to Mike as if there was an older joke there, and to my surprise mom laughed. I hadn't noticed her come in, but she was sitting on the edge of the couch right next to the door, leaning back against the wall as she watched us with an adoring tilt of her head.

“He does,” mom agreed, fond smile curling at her lips, “what did you name Nancy’s stuffed horse again?”

Mike shrunk into himself, clearly embarrassed. “Neigh-nay is a perfectly acceptable name. As is Catherine!”

As if agreeing with him, Catherine jumped away from my petting and crossed the space into Mike's lap as he started scratching behind her ears. Mom laughed again, loud and deep and happy, and the sight made me smile as well.

“Honey, for someone that like those fantasy games so much you sure lacked creativity at times.”

That made Will snort, eyes filled with glee as he nudged Mike's shoulder, getting Mike to relax into a smile as well. “He was really good at coming up with the stories, though.”

Mom then went on to ramble in agreement, telling story after story about Mike’s imagination running wild from an early age. I was content to sit and listen and try not to die of boredom as we migrated back to the table for dessert. It was mostly things I already knew, Mom’s regurgitations of her favourite memories of Mike nothing new to me, but Will seemed to enjoy himself, and Mike was flustered but didn’t seem to mind either, chiming in to offer more context or correcting her at times when he remembered things differently.

The night was surprisingly pleasant after that, the initial frost finally broken as everyone got to enjoy themselves. They even relaxed enough to finish their glasses of wine and refill them, stories coming more easily after that. Mike and Will more freely talked about the classes they'd taken at UC and Northwestern respectively, and the apartment they'd shared after spending their first two years in the dorm.

There was still always that air of trepidation, of care hidden beneath each word, but it was easier to not fixate on it as we were all busy laughing at their crazy roommates and high-strung RAs. And by the end of the night I almost regretted having to go.

It was nice to have dinner like this - a proper dinner. Where the edges of the room fade away the further you're carried into the night, the deeper you sink into the conversation, when all focus shifts to the table at it's center and the people surrounding it, candlelight illuminating the sparks of joy in everyone's eyes. Everything suddenly seemed easier, the future shinier and more perfect, as if everything outside of the glow of the overhead lighting had ceased to exist.

And then we came home to a dark house, to dad asleep in his chair, and I realized none of my questions were answered.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's only the first step. I have to admit I don't want to go back, don't want to give this up. Even if it makes me feel guilty, even if I feel bad for leaving dad on his own.

Maybe I can take it one step at a time.

I'll think about it out tomorrow.

Love, Holly

#Sorry for the delay #shifted from writing into reading mode for a while and spent the last two weeks unable to tear myself away from the written word #the third wheeler #holly wheeler #mike wheeler #stranger things #fanfic #byler #karen wheeler #ttw #will byers

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