You Again

Zane is morbidly addicted to caffeine.

When he wakes up in the morning, blankets strewn about his firm mattress like he's been thrashing all night, the first thing he thinks of is a strong, well-brewed black coffee, as bitter as it comes. When he combs through his disheveled locks, jams a toothbrush around in his mouth, dons his black undershirt and equally dark cloak, it's the sting of a hot drink against his tongue that he's dreaming of. And when he hops in his rickety truck and pulls up to the most coveted cafe on the island, it's limited human interaction that he's hoping for.

He does not get it.

The line is long, but it shuffles along at a moderate pace, the likes of which Zane can hardly find complaint with. Each order is taken in stride, jotted down by a swift, practiced hand, and passed along to the nearest barista. The workers file about like perfect cogs to a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another and oh, pardon me, where's the whipped cream, and thank you, this order is finished now. They scramble like ants, and Zane wonders what runs through their minds as they pour and mix and blend. Each looks so fixated on their work, so brimming with energy it's almost sickening, and he finds himself captivated.

He hardly notices when it's his turn to order.

"Ahem."

Indigo irises travel slowly from the bustling workers to the cashier, who has his arms crossed in a display of impatience.

"You going to order or stare all day?" he asks, and Zane is taken aback by his petulance, though he is hesitant to show it. He clears his throat, stares the man down.

"One coffee, black as you can get it."

"Great. Name?"

"Zane."

"Kane? Okay."

"No - Zane-"

"Kane, I heard you. Jeez." The man - Aster, his nametag reads, in shiny, silver letters - jots down the mishearing and sets the cup to his right, where another barista picks it up and promptly gets to work. Zane's brows crease and his lips pull taut into a thin line, not at all amused.

"I said-"

"You're holding up the line, Kane. Pretty face but a pretty big inconvenience," Aster says, and he shakes his head disapprovingly.

Growling, Zane steps to the side.

----

It's a Tuesday morning when Zane awakes an hour too early, spooked by a harrowing dream of death.

His heart is racing in his chest, and his head is spinning; the room bends and twists around him, a threatening display of disorientation. The nightstand is warped on the ceiling - no, it's on the wall now - and the multicolor carpet seems to close in on him from every possible direction, suffocating. Can he breathe?

He can't.

He springs from the bed, nearly stumbling into the nightstand, and fumbles desperately for his jacket. He doesn't even bother to change out of his sleepwear, merely slides into his coat and books it for the front door.

He needs caffeine.

----

Zane doesn't know why he's surprised to see Aster manning the register.

The silver-haired man scribbles away at cups, lips moving as if in slow motion as he speaks to each customer, asking them the usual, would you like whipped cream with that, or, no, we're out of soy, but can I suggest something else? Only, it's snappy - 'sure, artificial sweetener it is,' or, 'weird choice but okay, three pumps of espresso for one small coffee.' It's odd behavior, but no one seems to question it. Perhaps it has something to do with his elevated status as a professional duelist. He scoffs.