Tuesday's classes dragged like paint drying. Professor Tanaka lectured about chiaroscuro technique while I drew coffee cups in my margins—specifically, the way steam rose from them in afternoon light.
"Someone's in a better mood," Yui observed as we packed up. "You've been checking the time every five minutes, but you're actually smiling about it."
"Just eager to get coffee."
"Right. Coffee." She grinned. "Must be really good coffee to put that dopey look on your face."
I escaped before she could interrogate further, practically speed-walking to Anteiku. The nervous energy felt different from last week's dread—anticipation instead of anxiety.
The bell chimed welcomingly. Touka looked up from the register, and something in my chest unclenched when she offered a small smile.
"Renaissance essay crisis?" she asked.
"Byzantine art, actually. Even worse." I headed for the corner table, pulling out my textbook as promised. "I'm supposed to analyze religious iconography, but it all looks the same to me."
"Coffee first, then crisis." She brought my usual without being asked. "I'll take my break in twenty minutes. Try not to have an art breakdown before then."
"No promises."
The twenty minutes felt like hours, but I actually attempted reading about Byzantine mosaics. When Touka finally slid into the seat across from me, I'd covered two pages in desperate notes.
"Okay, what's the problem?" She pulled the textbook closer, frowning at the images.
"These saints all have the same face. How am I supposed to analyze artistic choices when every figure looks identical?"
"Maybe that's the point?" She studied a mosaic of golden figures against blue. "Like, they're not meant to be individuals. They're representing ideas?"
I stared at her. "That's... actually brilliant."
"Don't sound so surprised. I pay attention in literature. Symbolism over realism."
"Right. Yes. You're absolutely right." I started scribbling notes. "The uniformity is intentional, representing divine perfection rather than human individuality."
"See? Byzantine art crisis solved." She leaned back, looking pleased. "What else you got?"
We spent her break going through my notes, Touka offering surprisingly insightful comments about religious art. She had a way of cutting through academic overthinking to find the actual point.
"How do you do that?" I asked after she'd helped me untangle another paragraph of art-speak.
"Do what?"
"Make things simple. I get caught up in technical details, but you just... see what matters."
She shrugged. "Maybe because I'm not an art student. I just see what's there."
"Want to learn?" The question popped out before I could reconsider. "Drawing, I mean. The basics."
"I told you, I can only do stick figures."
"So could I once." I flipped to a clean page in my sketchbook. "Here, just try—"
The bell chimed aggressively, like someone had shoved the door open rather than pushed.
"Yo, Touka! Feed me before I die of— oh." Nishiki stopped mid-demand, taking in our table. "You have company."
"Nishiki." Touka's tone could have frosted windows. "What are you doing here?"
"It's a coffee shop. I want coffee." He adjusted his glasses, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. "You're from Kamii. Art department, right? I've seen you around campus."
"Sota Nakamura. We met at the grocery store once."
"Right, the transfer who actually cooks." He claimed a nearby chair without invitation, sprawling like he owned the place. "So you're the guy who camps out here every day."
"Not every day," I protested.
"Please. Touka complains about you taking up table space constantly." He ignored her death glare. "Though apparently not today. Today you get table service and private tutoring."
"I'm on break," Touka said through gritted teeth.
"Sure. 'Break.'" Nishiki made air quotes. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Did you actually want something, or are you just here to be annoying?"
"Coffee. Black. And whatever sandwich won't kill me." He turned back to me. "Fair warning, she pretends to be all sweet with customers, but Touka's actually violent. Once threw a sugar dispenser at my head."
"You deserved it," she muttered, standing. "I'll get your order."
"See? Violent." But his tone held odd affection. "So, Nakamura. You serious about her?"
I choked on nothing. "We're just—she's helping with my essay."
"Uh-huh." He leaned back, smirking. "Word of advice? Coffee shop girls are complicated. All that customer service smile hiding who knows what. Though Touka doesn't even bother with the smile most days."
"I can hear you," Touka called from the counter.
"Good! Maybe you'll finally admit you have feelings beyond annoyance and rage!"
She returned with his coffee, setting it down hard enough to slosh. "Your sandwich will be out when it's out."
"Charming as always." Nishiki took a sip, grimaced. "Did you burn this on purpose?"
"Yes."
He laughed, apparently delighted by her hostility. "See what I mean, Nakamura? Complicated. Though you must be something special if she's actually helping instead of ignoring you."
"Nishiki," Touka's voice carried warning.
"What? I'm being supportive. It's about time you showed interest in someone who wasn't fictional." He stood, grabbing his coffee. "I'll sit at the counter like a good customer. You kids have fun with your 'studying.'"
He moved away with exaggerated air quotes around 'studying,' leaving awkward silence in his wake.
"... Sorry about him," Touka said finally. "Nishiki has no filter."
"Friend of yours?"
"Unfortunately." But her expression softened slightly. "He's... complicated. Like most things."
"Seems to be a theme recently." I picked up my pencil again. "So, about that drawing lesson?"
"You still want to teach me after that interrogation?"
"More than before, actually. Want to see what kind of violent tendencies come out in your art."
She laughed—a real one, not just the usual almost-smile. "Fine. But if I'm terrible, blame Nishiki for disrupting my concentration."
I walked her through basic shapes, how to see objects as simple forms before adding detail. Her first attempts were indeed terrible—cramped, uncertain lines that fought the paper.
"Relax," I said, adjusting her grip on the pencil. "You're not attacking it. Just guiding."
"Easy for you to say." But she tried again, looser this time. The coffee cup she attempted actually resembled a cylinder instead of a tortured oval.
"Better. See? You just needed to stop overthinking."
"Ironic advice from you."
"I overthink art theory. Actual drawing is just..." I gestured vaguely. "Movement. Instinct."
"Like fighting," she murmured, then looked startled. "I mean—sports. Like sports."
I filed that odd comparison away. "Sure. Like sports."
We continued until her break ended, Touka progressing from tortured shapes to recognizable objects. Nothing amazing, but better than stick figures.
"Same time Thursday?" I asked as she stood.
"Don't you have other places to study?"
"None with Byzantine art consultants who burn Nishiki's coffee on purpose."
"That's a very specific requirement." She gathered our cups. "Thursday works. Bring easier homework."
"No promises."
The afternoon passed quietly. Nishiki left with his sandwich and a parting comment about "young love" that made Touka threaten him with the coffee pot. Other customers came and went. I finished my Byzantine essay with margin notes in Touka's handwriting—surprisingly neat for someone who claimed she couldn't draw.
As closing time approached, I packed up reluctantly. This felt good. Not quite back to our easy rhythm from before, but closer. Like we were finding a new pattern, careful but genuine.
"Walking to the station?" I asked as she wiped down tables.
"In ten minutes."
"I could wait. If you want company."
She paused, considering. "Yeah. Okay."
Ten minutes later, we walked through the evening crowds, not quite touching but close enough that our shoulders occasionally bumped.
"Thanks for today," she said as we reached the station. "For still wanting to teach me even though I'm hopeless."
"You're not hopeless. Just unpracticed." I adjusted my bag. "Besides, you solved my Byzantine crisis. Fair trade."
"I'll hold you to that when my stick figures still look like abstract art."
"Abstract art is totally valid. Very modern."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Thursday, then."
"Thursday."
We stood there a moment longer than necessary before she headed for the turnstiles. I waited until she'd disappeared into the station, then started my own walk home.
My phone buzzed. Nishiki had somehow gotten my number.
She's never helped anyone with homework before. Ever. Don't screw this up.
I stared at the message, then typed back: Not planning to.
Good. Also, she likes lemon tarts from the bakery on Third Street. Do with that information what you will.
The message disappeared before I could respond, leaving me standing on the sidewalk processing that unexpected alliance.
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A/N: Nishiki may not actually have that close brotherly relationship with Touka (I honestly don't remember), but don't mind it, after all its a fanfic and isn't it nice to read?
Anyway, hope ya'll enjoy it too as I did writing it.
Just quick question, do people actually pay others for fanfics? Honestly if it was neat enough I'd work for this, its pretty nice writing stories ngl. Regretfully I'm still looking for more work, though now I'm looking for remote work on coding but yeah... Anyone got recommendations on either?