The late afternoon sun was hitting the cafe window at a bad angle, the kind that exposes every smudge on the glass and makes the dust in the air look heavy. The espresso machine behind the counter let out a sharp, mechanical hiss, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. Elios sat by the window, chin resting in his palm. He was watching the door with the practiced stillness of a man who expects to be disappointed. He picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his teal cable-knit sweater. He’d worn it on purpose; it was soft, heavy, and acted like armor against the chill of the air conditioning. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. After a year of keeping to himself, “trying again” felt less like a fresh start and more like walking on a leg that had been asleep for too long numb and prone to buckling.
There were two cups on the table. His own was half-empty and lukewarm. The other, sitting across from him, was still steaming, but the foam was beginning to collapse.
The door chime rang.
Yann didn’t walk in so much as he invaded the space. He had platinum hair that fell into his eyes and the posture of someone who assumed the crowd would part for him.
He moved through the tables with a loose, lazy grace, finally dropping into the chair opposite Elios.
He didn’t apologize. He just sat there, leaning back, his dark eyes scanning Elios’s face with a flat, unreadable expression.
“You’re early,” Yann said.
The words fell like a verdict. Elios straightened almost imperceptibly, that old reflex of meeting challenge with composure.
“Old habit,” Elios replied. “But you’re late, so I suppose it didn’t matter.”
Yann’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, more the ghost of one. His fingers found the rim of the coffee cup Elios had bought him, tracing its circumference slowly, deliberately, like a cartographer mapping unknown territory.
“Habits are just excuses for being predictable,” Yann said. “And I don’t like being predictable.”
The words hung between them, testing the air. Elios’s gaze dropped to the untouched coffee, then back up.
“I got you coffee,” Elios said softly. “If you want it.”
He’d meant it as an offering—a small bridge across the silence. But Yann looked at the cup as if it were a contract written in a language he didn’t trust. Something glinted in those dark eyes—amusement, perhaps, or something sharper.
“You bought me coffee before we even spoke,” Yann observed. “That’s either very confident or very foolish.”
The challenge was unmistakable now. Elios felt something tighten in his chest—not quite anger, not quite interest. Something between.
“You speak like someone who knows things,” Elios said. “Yet you don’t strike me as an intellectual.”
The words came out harsher than he intended—meant as an observation rather than a real critique. Yann lifted the cup, taking a slow sip, watching Elios over the rim with those slow somber eyes. Steam curled between them like a question.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Yann murmured. “Or haven’t you noticed that yet?”
Elios recoiled—a small motion, barely visible, but there. He hadn’t expected the response to land so precisely in the soft space between his ribs. His voice, when it came, had lost some of its edge.
“Yeah,” Elios admitted. “I know that better than most.”
The café noise seemed to dim around them. Someone laughed at a distant table. The espresso machine exhaled. Yann set the cup down and leaned forward, platinum hair shifting across his forehead like curtains parting.
“Then why pretend you don’t?” Yann asked.
It was a real question. Elios could hear that now—beneath the provocation, something genuine. He met Yann’s gaze, held it.
“I’m not pretending,” Elios said. “I’m just careful. I’ve gotten good at reading people.”
Yann’s laugh was low, almost musical—dark notes in a minor key. “Reading people? You mean guessing what they are, not who they are.”
The observation cut deeper than it should have. Elios’s response came quickly, defensively. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Yann shrugged—a single, fluid motion that dismissed entire philosophies. “Doesn’t need to. It’s the truth. You saw a stranger and decided I’d like bitter coffee.”
Elios’s jaw tightened. He gestured toward the small tray beside Yann’s cup—milk, sugar, options he’d carefully provided.
“I gave you options,” Elios said. “And honestly? You’ve been acting like you’re above all this since you sat down.”
Yann’s eyes flicked to the tray—a quick, dismissive glance—then narrowed as they returned to Elios. “I didn’t pick them. And you’re the one assuming you know what I’m thinking. That’s arrogance, not insight.”
The air between them had grown taut, like a string about to snap.
“Fine,” Elios snapped. “Then next time someone buys you coffee, try ‘thanks’ instead of whatever that was.”
Another sip. Yann’s expression was coldly amused, a cat watching something struggle. “A ‘thank you’ implies gratitude. I don’t owe you gratitude... do I?”
Elios leaned back, reassembling his composure piece by piece. “It’s just polite,” he said. “It doesn’t have to mean anything deeper. Why do you keep doing this?”
Yann tilted his head, studying Elios as if he were a puzzle missing obvious pieces. “And what did you expect from politeness? A smile? A handshake? Something real, or just going through the motions?”
The question burrowed in. Elios felt the familiar urge to analyze, to categorize, to reduce this person to patterns he could predict. But something in Yann’s gaze made that feel like the wrong move.
“You keep answering questions with questions,” Elios noted. “Keeps you in control, right? I’m not falling for it. It’s a trick narcissists use.”
Yann leaned back, smirking like someone who’d just won a point in a game only he was keeping score of. “Narcissist? Interesting choice of words. Do I make you uncomfortable, Elios?”
His name in Yann’s mouth felt strange. Intimate. Elios pushed back.
“Uncomfortable? No,” Elios said. “Annoyed, maybe.”
Yann picked up the coffee again, taking a deliberate sip—unhurried, unthreatened. “Then why bother staying?”
Elios raised his own cup in response, a small act of defiance. “I haven’t finished my latte.”
He drank, maintaining eye contact. Something shifted in Yann’s expression—the flicker of intrigue replacing mere amusement.
“You’re stubborn,” Yann said. “I like that.”
The compliment landed unexpectedly, like sunlight through clouds. Elios blinked. “Finally, something nice. You’re a singer, right?”
Yann’s eyebrow rose—a sharp, defensive motion. “Sing? No. I compose. There’s a difference.”
Elios frowned, genuine confusion creasing his brow. “I saw your photos—on stage, performing. What’s the point of splitting hairs?”
Something darkened in Yann’s gaze, a shadow passing behind glass. “The point is you’re looking at the surface,” Yann said. “I perform because I have to. The compositions are mine. That’s what matters.”
Elios pressed forward, sensing he’d found a crack in the armor. “People don’t care about the composer. They care about the guy on stage. Like it or not, you’re a singer to them.”
Yann looked away—the first time he’d broken eye contact. His fingers tightened briefly on the mug, knuckles paling. “It’s not about liking it. It’s necessity. And you’re changing the subject.”
“You’re the one changing the subject,” Elios countered. “You don’t like being called a singer because that’s not how you see yourself. I get it. But it’s still what you do.”
A long, slow sip. Yann set the cup down with deliberate care, as if controlling something larger. “You’re really determined to get under my skin today.”
“That makes two of us,” Elios said. “Except I’m only doing it because you started.”
Yann’s stare gained weight, a quiet intensity pooling in those dark eyes. “And if I told you to leave?”
Elios didn’t move. The light through the window painted gold across his features. “This is my favorite café,” he said. “You could leave if you want—unless that’s too much for your pride.”
Yann laughed—low, dark, genuine for the first time. “My ego is fine. But you’re the one clinging to this argument. Why?”
“Because you walked in acting like you were better than me,” Elios said. “I’m just evening things out.”
Yann leaned in, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. “By cutting me down? Respect isn’t earned by poking holes in someone’s pride. It’s given. Or taken.”
“What about respecting me?” Elios asked. “You’ve only been thinking about yourself since you got here.”
Something flickered across Yann’s face—amusement layered over something harder to name. “And you’ve been trying to fit me into some box since I sat down. Pathetic.”
“I don’t expect you to not be an asshole,” Elios retorted. “But don’t expect me to bend myself to accommodate you. That’s equally pathetic.”
Yann tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming with something that might have been respect. “So we both know what the other is doing. And here we are. What now?”
The question hung suspended between them—a crossroads, a choice.
“Then we talk like equals,” Elios proposed. “Since every attempt at gaining the upper hand results in a draw.”
Yann’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. He swirled the coffee in his cup, watching the liquid spin. “Fine. Talk. What do you want to know?”
“Why did you come here?” Elios asked. “Outside the obvious need for validation.”
The humor faded from Yann’s face, replaced by something more careful. “Because I saw someone staring, and I decided to make it interesting.”
“You came to play with me because I stand out?” Elios asked.
Yann leaned back, considering him like a problem worth solving. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like seeing how far I can push before you break.”
“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” Elios said.
Yann’s chuckle was low and knowing, like he’d heard a secret joke. “Oh, you won’t fall. You’ll resist. Fight. Maybe even win. But the effort is the point.”
“So winning was never the point?” Elios asked. “Are you that bored?”
Yann took another sip, watching Elios over the rim with renewed interest. “You bought me coffee before we met. You expected a ‘thank you.’ You got annoyed when I didn’t play along.”
“That’s just basic decency,” Elios said.
“That’s a rulebook,” Yann corrected. “You’ve got a whole system in your head for how people should behave. I’m curious why you cling to it so hard.”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you care so little about them,” Elios offered.
Yann set the mug down, fingers tracing its edge like a meditation. “Because rules are chains. Expectations are cages. And I’ve already lost too much to stay locked in.”
The words settled into the space between them, heavy with unspoken weight.
“You talk like you’ve already fallen,” Elios murmured.
Yann held his gaze, unflinching. “Maybe I have. Maybe I’m just waiting to hit the bottom.”
The café noise seemed to recede. Somewhere, a cup clinked against a saucer. The espresso machine fell silent between cycles.
“Since you’re still in free fall anyway, why not try to make meaningful connections?” Elios asked.
Yann shrugged, but there was tension in it—something held back, held tight. “Meaning is subjective. You believe in your rules. I don’t.”
“Love and friendship aren’t bound by rules,” Elios argued. “They’re bound by expectations.”
A shadow passed across Yann’s eyes, quick as a bird’s wing. “Then why do you cling to them so hard?”
“Because even if something isn’t eternal, that doesn’t mean it’s worthless,” Elios said.
Yann paused. The smirk was gone. In its place, something raw and recognizing. “Spoken like someone who knows loss.”
The words were quiet. Not an accusation—an acknowledgment.
“You know I’m right,” Elios replied. “I’m here to maybe find someone to walk with—for a short while or a long while.”
Yann stared at him for a long moment. The light through the window had shifted, grown softer. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Fair enough. Ask me something real.”
“Real?” Elios asked. “You’ll answer truthfully?”
Yann leaned in slightly, and for the first time, his expression held no mockery. “Yes. Only truth. For once. Ask.”
“What do you want to do with me?” Elios asked.
Yann watched him closely, parsing the question. “You’re not asking what I want. You’re asking what I’ll do.”
“Exactly,” Elios confirmed. “‘Want’ is vague and subjective. ‘Want to do’ is a choice.”
Yann’s smirk returned—low, knowing. “Clever. The answer is the same either way. I want to see how far this goes.”
“Curiosity, then?” Elios asked.
Yann nodded slowly, something shifting beneath the surface. “Curiosity. And maybe something else. Something I don’t have words for yet.”
“I can respect that,” Elios said. “What type of love do you want?”
Yann held his gaze—steady, unblinking. “The kind that doesn’t ask for promises. The kind that just... exists.”
“Curiosity and freedom,” Elios summarized. “What else drives you?”
Yann paused, genuinely considering. “The music. Always the music. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Isn’t music a way to express yourself?” Elios asked.
Yann shook his head slightly, platinum hair catching the fading light. “No. It’s how I talk to ghosts. It’s how I keep them from leaving.”
The confession hung in the air between them, fragile as glass. Elios softened. He hadn’t expected that. “Someone you lost?”
Yann looked away, his voice dropping to something barely audible. “My everything. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” Elios said.
He let the silence sit. Didn’t push. Yann glanced back at him, something flickering in his expression—surprise, maybe, that Elios had actually listened.
“You’re not going to ask more questions?” Yann asked.
“You said you didn’t want to talk about it,” Elios replied.
Yann studied him for a long moment. “Most people push anyway.”
“I’m not most people,” Elios said.
Yann’s grin returned, sharp but softer now. “No. You’re not.”
The café noise seemed to fade further. Someone laughed at a distant table. The espresso machine exhaled.
“You showed me something real just now,” Elios said softly. “Getting comfortable with me already?”
Yann’s grin turned sharp and defensive. “Don’t get used to it. Comfortable is boring.”
“So that’s you? Curiosity, freedom and an allergy to comfort?” Elios asked.
Yann laughed softly—a genuine sound, warm beneath its darkness. “Now you’re getting it. And here I thought you’d be predictable. What about you?”
“Maybe you should ask the right questions and find out,” Elios challenged. “Like I did.”
Yann leaned back, studying him with something like admiration. “Maybe I will. Later. For now... I’m content to keep wondering.”
“The curiosity again,” Elios noted. “Or is it carefulness? Maybe you don’t want to show your hand too quickly.”
Yann smirked. “Or maybe I just enjoy watching you try to figure me out. Either way, you’re doing a fine job.”
“How many people have ever gotten that compliment from you?” Elios asked.
Yann raised an eyebrow. “You’re the second. And that’s saying something.”
“The first was your ghost,” Elios said.
Yann froze. The café seemed to hold its breath. When he finally exhaled, it was slow, controlled—the sound of someone forcing themselves not to break.
“That’s... not fair,” Yann whispered.
Elios’s voice softened. “Sorry. I didn’t expect that to land so hard.”
Yann rubbed his temple, something vulnerable flickering across his features. “You’re dangerous. In a very different way than I expected.”
“Still, I prefer this side of you,” Elios said.
Yann glanced at him, a flicker of something softer in those dark eyes. “Which side? The broken one?”
“No. The one that shows vulnerability.”
Yann’s smirk was faint, self-deprecating. “So you prefer me weak. Noted.”
“Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak,” Elios insisted. “It makes you real. It’s only weakness if you can’t survive without it.”
Yann leaned forward slightly, something shifting in his posture. “And if I told you I’ve been relying on it my whole life?”
“The grief?” Elios asked gently. “The inspiration for your music?”
Yann nodded slowly, the mask slipping further. “Yes. The thing that keeps me alive. The thing I hide behind everything else.”
“You don’t have to hide it from me,” Elios said.
Yann studied him, something like hesitation flickering across his features—rare, fragile. “Maybe not. But you make it hard to trust.”
“How so?” Elios asked.
Yann chuckled darkly. “You see things. Uncover things. I don’t like being uncovered.”
“You’re good at pushing people away,” Elios said. “But you’re not used to people who see through it.”
Yann raised an eyebrow. “So I’m easy to read now?”
“No,” Elios said. “But you’ve been giving me hints on purpose. Like you want me to get closer.”
Yann grinned—genuine, unguarded for a moment. “Maybe I do. And you enjoy figuring it out. We’re both getting what we want.”
“For now,” Elios said. “But how long before we drive each other crazy?”
Yann shrugged, but his eyes stayed locked on Elios’s. “Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow. Who cares?”
The light through the window had turned to gold, then amber, now something closer to honey. The café had grown quieter around them, other patrons drifting away, leaving them in their private island of conversation.
Elios stared at Yann for a long moment. Something in his chest made a decision before his mind could catch up.
His hand crossed the table slowly, deliberately, and interlaced their fingers.
Yann started slightly—a small, involuntary motion—then looked down at their linked hands, dark eyes widening before rising to meet Elios’s gaze again.
“You’re serious,” Yann murmured.
“I think so,” Elios replied. “Still figuring it out.”
Yann squeezed his hand lightly, something raw moving behind his carefully constructed walls. “You’re terrifying. And fascinating.”
“What was his name?”
The question was soft. Not demanding—offering. Yann bit his lip, and for a moment the mask fell away entirely. In his gaze, there was nothing but raw, old grief.
“Lucius,” Yann said.
“That’s a good name,” Elios whispered.
Yann pulled his hand away slowly—not rejection, just processing—and looked down at his coffee again. The cup was nearly empty now.
“Yeah,” Yann said. “It was.”
The past tense hung between them like an elegy.
“It’s getting quiet in here,” Elios noted.
Yann glanced around the café—at the amber light fading toward evening, the empty tables, the barista wiping down the counter. Then back at Elios.
“Yeah,” Yann agreed. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
“Okay,” Elios said.
Yann stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. The movement was sudden but not urgent—a decision made.
“After you,” Yann said.
Elios rose, and together they walked toward the door—two guarded people who had spent an hour trying to see through each other’s walls, and had somehow succeeded. Behind them, two empty coffee cups sat on the table, still warm.
