Professional Diluc Kisser

the stairwell smells like mildew and cigarettes. each step creaks like it might collapse under your weight. the air outside isn’t any better, sticky with humidity, but you’ve learnt to be grateful for anything that wasn’t your apartment.

you wait at the bus stop with your headphones on, but with no music playing, merely noise from a new podcast that’s just enough to drown out the melancholy that comes in the form of your thoughts. your body aches in that same dull, permanent way that feels older than your years. your bus groans to a stop exactly on time. you take a seat by the window when you board, letting yourself lean against the glass that rattles with each bump. you close your eyes. three stops, and then a fifteen minute train ride to your workplace. the same as always.

it’s 7:36am when you find yourself walking to the restaurant from the train station. you shove past salarymen, groups of high school students that stick closely together and tourists who walk way too slow for your comfort. you think nothing would stop your stride, until you spot a poster that catches your attention almost immediately.

taped to the side of a lamppost is a missing’s person poster. glossy, pristine, too clean for the grime of the street you’re walking. on it, a family portrait with polished smiles and designer clothes. the teenage girl in the middle beams with her parents’ hands resting on her shoulder, with bright eyes, perfect hair, and a perfect life.

“missing.” the word blares across the top in bold black letters, screaming for attention. beneath it, details about the girl, a plea and other important information you’re able to recite off the top of your head from the hundreds of times you’ve read it. you skim past every detail before landing at the bottom, reading a phone number in bright red. “please call if you have any information.”

you grit your teeth. you don’t even realise your hand’s ripped the paper from the post, the sound sharp in the morning air. you crumple the paper tight until it cuts your palm, shoving it into somewhere deep in your bag. you don’t know why you keep doing this.

the restaurant looms ahead. you continue walking despite the anger that sits heavy in your chest.

the restaurant isn’t any better. it smells of stale fryer oil and expired coffee when you’re wiping tables down before the doors open. the smell is grotesque, but it started to feel uniquely familiar in the many years you’ve worked in this god forsaken restaurant. your hand scrubs at every table until your reflection distorts on its surface. it’s normal. routine.

until your manager calls you in. he doesn’t bother disclosing what for until you shut the office door behind you. he leans back lazily in his chair, eyes skimming over the amount of infractions you’ve racked up over the last few weeks. you let your head hang in shame, eyes glued to the red carpet floor beneath you as you bite so hard on your cheek that blood draws.

“between disrespecting me, showing up looking like-” his eyes drag over you as he dissects every aspect of your appearance. it makes your skin crawl. “that. and being mediocre at your job, i have no fucking idea why i keep you around. i should’ve hired someone else months ago.”

you keep your chin down, because you know better than to talk back. you know better than to yell back and risk your job when he has every right to fire you at that very moment. every word cuts, but you don’t flinch. you can’t. you need the money.

“i’ll do better,” you croak out. “please. just… give me more shifts. i’ll prove it.”

he sneers, pretending to shuffle papers on his desk to act like he’s doing something. “fine, but you keep this shit up and i’m finding someone else. don’t think you aren’t replaceable.”

you nod, swallow whatever pride you have left, and leave. outside the office, you pause for a moment before walking back to the floor. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe as the humiliation slowly sinks in.

and when you open your eyes, you see him. suna, carrying boxes while he watches you with that same, enraging expression. the one that’s impossible for you to read.

“the fuck are you looking at?” you snap, sooner than you had expected yourself to.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even bother shrugging. he just stares at you, as if he sees right through all your anger. you decide you won’t wait for an answer, so you shove past him on your way out of that stuffy corridor.

you find yourself at the bar, slumped over the counter whilst makki and mattsun wipes down glasses. konoha joins in halfway, laughing as the three of you run your mouths.

“she’s always dumping more than what i can handle,” you complain. “i fucking hate her.”

“thanks for carrying us,” makki snickers, patting your shoulder with fake sympathy.

“what, do i need to sleep with her so i’d get some fucking leniency like all you assholes?” you bite, straightening yourself up.

they laugh. a little too loud, and a little too ugly.

“careful,” matsukawa leans towards you, bumping his shoulder against yours. “she might start crying if she hears you.”

“of course you would know,” you scoff as you throw your rag at his head. he shrugs.

inexplicably, your stomach twists. you regret the words that left your mouth, but you don’t make any sort of effort to retract your statements. you try to reason it out, try to justify your harsh words because she does get around. and yet, something sour and ugly burns at the back of your throat. it stays there, heavy and unmoving when you try to swallow it.

you know it’s wrong. so, you tell yourself that eventually you’ll talk to her about it, but your fingers can’t seem to stop trembling when she walks by, and you dont even spare her a glance.

you ignore the guilt that comes when she smiles at you. you smile back, though it never reaches your eyes. it’s not like she’d ever notice. and when you walk away, your nails dig into the flesh of your palm as you pretend to forget what you promised yourself to do. it’s not the first you’ve lied to yourself, and it certainly won’t be the last time.

…

the kitchen isn’t any better than the floor. at least, it feels that way to suna. the air is thicker, sure. it’s hotter, constantly smelling of oil and something burning. yet, suna can’t help but feel that there’s not much of a difference from dealing with cranky customers and having to hear chefs bark at each other in the sweltering heat.

it’s chaos, watching the chefs work. kyoutani’s voice booms almost immediately after lev splashes hot oil on himself, burning another portion of his forearms. semi is quick to jump between them, separating them before kyoutani loses his temper. he hisses instructions at them, never failing to give lev an easier task. and throughout all that chaos, sakusa remains unbothered and calm. he does everything with extreme precision. he doesn’t let a single movement go to waste.

it’s like a battlefield, suna thinks. it’s intriguing to him.

but what he finds even more intriguing, was you.

suna has never been the type to claim to be anything, but he’s always known that he’s one hell of an observer. suna notices the shift in your posture when you leave the kitchen, how you straighten up the moment you’re back on the floor. he notices how you snap at the cooks one moment, and make your next move with silent efficiency.

he watches your jaw clench, the way your eyes track every corner of the restaurant despite how you pretend that you couldn’t care less about your job. he thinks back to when he spotted you outside the office, when you seemed to let your facade fall momentarily. when you thought nobody was watching.

he doesn’t quite understand you, but there’s something about you that makes him want to.

he shakes his head. it’s irritating, because it feels as though every thought he’s had somehow always drifts back to you.

…

when the rush passes, the restaurant bleeds quiet. the staff lingers, too tired or lazy to move fast. you’re wiping down the bar counter when konoha slides the same missing poster across the counter.

“the hell is this?” you narrow your eyes as konoha shrugs.

“saw this poster again outside the station,” he states. “she kinda looks like you. thought it was funny.”

mattsun snatches the poster from the counter as he leans his body weight onto the broom he was holding. his eyes scan the poster carefully, and then his gaze shifts from your face to the girl in the poster again and again until he lets out an amused laugh.

“holy shit. you’re right,” he holds the poster next to your face as a comparison. “you could actually pull it off.”

you kick the broom mattsun leans on, causing him to jerk slightly as he fumbles. the poster slips out of his hands. just as you were about to grab it, makki’s hand snatches it and he doesn’t waste a single second examining the poster.

“maybe you should call the number and pretend to be the girl in this,” makki suggests. “easy ticket out of your dumpster fire of a life.”

you step on his shoe without hesitation. when he flinches, you snatch the poster out of his hand. you don’t bother looking at the poster, only giving it a light skim, because you’ve seen in a hundred times. you don’t let yourself take a proper look.

“you really think they’d believe me?” you scoff dismissively as you shove the poster back into konoha’s hands. “i wasn’t built for that high society bullshit.”

“who knows?” konoha skims over the poster once more. “i doubt the girl in the poster would come back and catch you red handed or something.”

“yeah, we all know all these ‘missing’ girls are just runaways,” makki slides into the seat next to you. “or maybe rotting in the ground somewhere the police would never think to look.”

“you can’t say that,” mattsun laughs, but he doesn’t make an effort to stop him. “he’s right though. missing people have a real low chance of being found, i bet if you showed up at their doorstep pretending to be their daughter, they wouldn’t question it and take you in.”

you freeze. the rag in your hand suddenly seems heavy. you open your mouth to say something, anything, really. but the words die on your tongue and nothing comes out. you try to ignore the ache in your throat, and for a second you just stare into your distorted reflection on the counter as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

“hey, i think she’s actually considering it,” makki nudges you, and konoha and mattsun can’t help but laugh at the thought.

“i would never stoop that low,” you continue to wipe the counter as you listen to their loud, teasing laughter.

“sure,” mattsun shrugs. “whatever you say.”

you look up. “i’m serious.”

“we believe you,” he raises his hands in mock defeat.

you scoff. they laugh again. loud, easy, teasing. the type of laughter that echoes in the empty restaurant. it’s the type of laughter that makes you feel small, small enough to be stepped on and glanced over. the same way those girls in high school made you feel. but you force yourself to ignore it, squeezing your eyes shut as your chest hammers and your pulse twists into the strange, erratic rhythm.

“lighten up,” konoha snaps you out of your daze. “we’re just messing with you. relax.”

you don’t relax. because they aren’t aware that the same missing poster sits somewhere at the bottom of your bag, crumpled and rotting along with the countless notices you’ve torn from your door. the thought gnaws at you, though. that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

“yeah, sure,” you shake your head, and you force yourself to let out a dry laugh. “i’ll consider it.”

makki slaps a hand onto your back, gripping your shoulder as he shakes you. “that’s the spirit! don’t forget to send us some money when you’re rich, okay?”

they laugh, again. you laugh with them, but it isn’t real. because your stomach twists, it twists itself into something sharp and unforgiving, something that’s impossible for you to just ignore. it churns like a storm behind your ribs, and you can’t help but tremble slightly as you shove the rag into one of their faces.

they don’t notice, though. and honestly? you’re glad they don’t, because it’s a lot safer that way.

time blurs as you continue to clean. between scrubbing each table, stacking the chairs, and arranging menus, you’re not sure how much time has passed. at this hour, everything feels dragged out, because the faint smell of burnt oil lingers like it won’t leave no matter how much you try to scrub it off you.

your hands are damp, and your arms ache from carrying trays all day. your manager’s voice still echoes in your skull, every word lodged somewhere deep into the crevices of your skin.

replaceable.

the word follows you down the corridor. it haunts you even when you’re scrubbing away at the marbled countertop. you hate how easily it bothers you, how easily it got to you. you hate how after all these years, after all the shit you’ve put up with, some bald middle-aged man in the middle of a divorce can still make you feel as if you’re sixteen all over again.

you’re carrying another load of dirty glasses to the back when a shadow blocks your path, forcing you to collide into them in your daze.

“careful,” a familiar voice warns calmly.

“watch it,” you snap, purely out of habit.

you look up, and you feel an instant surge of anger spread through you. suna, with the blank expression that makes you want to punch the hell out of him until he begs for mercy. he’s balancing a stack of produce crates against his hip, looking annoyingly unaffected by the chaos around him.

“my bad,” is all he says.

you roll your eyes. you immediately take a step to your right to try and walk around him. but the asshole shifts, still in your way.

“move,” you grit as you feel your palms begin to turn red from how hard they’re pressing into the plastic tray.

suna raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “you were the one who almost walked into me.”

“but i didn’t, did i?” you narrow your eyes at him.

“barely,” he quips back immediately. “and only because i managed to warn you in time.”

you stare at him, hoping to intimidate him a little. but he just stares right back, and it somehow irritates you more than it should. everything about him irritates you more than it should. the way he always looks so unbothered, like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. the way he somehow manages to look at you as if he’s already figured something out.

“you always this annoying?” you ask.

he shrugs, and you can feel your anger spike in real time. “only around you, probably.”

your eye twitches. suna notices. you know he notices, because he’s somehow managed to narrow his eyes at you more than he already had, and you feel as though hes scrutinising you.

“rough day?” suna asks.

your stomach drops, and you immediately hate the question. hate how casually he asked it. hate that he of all people asked.

“mind your own business,” you shove past him, purposefully bumping into his shoulder as you make your way to the counters. you dump your tray of dirty glasses into the sink and let them clatter.

“that bad, huh?” he asks again.

“i said mind your own fucking business,” you turn back to face him.

suna can only hum in response. he looks at you as if he’s already filing the response somewhere in his brain, as if you’ve just confirmed something.

for once, you feel a little threatened by someone’s mere existence. so you do the only thing you know how to do; you try to fight and ignore it. you push past him again, this time pushing harder so that your shoulder knocks into his. still, he barely reacts.

“you know,” suna starts, though your back is turned to his as you’re walking away. “for someone who pretends to be so unbothered, you sure did seem upset after your talk with the manager.”

you stop dead in your tracks, realising he’s referring back to when he saw you try and recompose yourself after the talk with your manager outside his office. slowly, you turn around and try to gauge his expression.

“the fuck is your problem?” you spat, not caring how harsh you might seem.

“don’t have one,” suna shrugs.

“then stop watching everything i do,” you roll your eyes.

“hard not to.”

you let out a short laugh, though it’s humourless. “you’re a fucking weirdo, you know that?”

“probably am,” suna agrees easily, not even sounding the least bit apologetic.

“don’t you have better things to be doing?” you ask, watching him balance the crates on his hip still.

“probably,” he agrees casually, again.

“then go do it,” you gesture at the crates. suna can only shrug for the millionth time, as if he doesn’t have any other gestures to do. “nah,” suna responds.

something ugly twists in your chest, because he’s still staring at you. or rather, he’s watching you, really watching you. not at your loud and messy hair, nor the piercings that litter your skin, not even the attitude you carry as a protective mechanism. for some odd reason, you get the horrible feeling that he’s really looking what’s underneath all of it, despite the fact you’ve had little to do with him. and you can’t explain why it bothers you so much.

“you look tired,” he observes.

your mouth opens as if to say something, but you’re genuinely dumbfounded so you just stare at him with your mouth slightly agape. the words hit harder than they should, because he’s not mocking you like mattsun and makki were, not looking down on you like how your manager was, hell he’s not even pitying you the way semi did when the two of you had gone out drinking together and you started to drunkenly cry about your troubles. suna’s just saying it, like it’s a fact and as if it’s obvious, even.

you suddenly feel exposed, for some reason.

“fuck off,” is all you manage as your jaw clenches.

suna’s gaze doesn’t falter. “okay.”

you turn back on your heel, pushing the kitchen doors open as you walk back onto the floor. you don’t look back, but you can still feel his gaze following you. following you out of the kitchen. and even as you’re performing your closing duties, the feeling doesn’t leave.

you try to convince yourself that it’s just because he’s annoying. that he’s arrogant, full of shit and probably hasn’t lifted a finger his entire life. but none of those explanations felt quite right.

and when you finally step out of the restaurant, the night air hits your face, but you swear you could still feel him. his presence. the way he seems to know exactly how to get under your skin without even touching you.

you hate it. you hate how he somehow manages to weasel his way into your thoughts even as you’re on your way home.

…

the lock sticks when you turn the key. you feel the urge to roll your eyes at how often this has happened. you shove your shoulder into the door and push it open with what little strength you have left, already bracing yourself for the inevitable in your apartment.

but when you step inside, the lights are on.

the tv murmurs from somewhere deep inside the apartment, low and fuzzy as if it’s been left on for hours. you stand at the entrance of your apartment for a second, your work bag still digging into your shoulder.

it feels quieter than usual. you know your apartment is small, but it feels unusually smaller as you process the lack of noise. almost as if the walls have crept in while you were gone. a knot forms in your chest, your mind racing with worst case scenarios.

you let out a shaky breath as you kick the door shut behind you.

it’s too quiet.

you swallow, looking around. the hum of the fridge, the buzz of the tv, the stale smell of smoke that never really leaves. you suddenly feel painfully aware of everything in your apartment with the absence of your brother.

you drop your bag on the floor, causing a pile of his dirty shirts to fall over. you call out his name once. nothing. the knot in your chest tightens. twice. nothing.

“fuck,” you breathe out, letting the panicked and racing thoughts take over.

you fumble for your phone. your mind races with everyone of his junkie friends that could’ve last seen him, his sellers, hell even the police officer who knows you by name due to the amount of times you’ve had to pick him up for the station for his antics. you let your thoughts consume you before being forcibly jolted out of your own mind by a loud slam of the bathroom door.

“you’re in your own head again,” your brother calls out, using a moldy towel to dry his hair as you stare at him.

your shoulders tense before you even realise it. you don’t dignify him with a response.

your brother sinks into the couch. he stretches his legs out, head tipped back as he lights a cigarette. he looks fine, surprisingly. his eyes are glassy, sure. but they’re alert.

“you scared me, asshole,” you finally manage, picking up your work bag.

he hums, uninterested. he merely takes a drag of the cigarette in between his fingers. you scoff, but he merely clicks his tongue.

“leftover takeout in the fridge,” he states.

you nod once. you don’t say thank you.

you search for the cigarettes in your bag, because god forbid you take one of his. in the process, something slips out with the pack, fluttering the floor near your feet. you freeze.

the missing poster.

your brother glances over, but quickly turns his attention back to the tv. you crouch and pick it up before he can see. smooth it out with your thumb without really meaning to.

the edges are crumpled, corners bent soft from being shoved too deep into your bag. the girl’s face stares back up at you, bright-eyed and smiling, framed by people who look like they belong to her. she looks clean. cared for, even. she looks like she’s never had to think twice before buying dinner.

you shove it back into your pocket.

he watches you for a second longer than usual. his smile fades just a bit, like something flickers behind his eyes.

“you still thinking about doing it, huh?” he asks casually. careless even, as if he’s asking about the weather.

your chest tightens.

“doing what?” you snap, your fingers trembling.

“you know. the posters. leaving me and going to…” he makes exaggerated gestures with his hands. “all that.”

you stare at him. at the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. at the cigarette burning low between his fingers.

“you really think i’d do that?” you ask.

he shrugs. takes another drag before answering you. “you’re not that selfless, you know.. no matter how hard you try to act like you are.”

something cold settles in your stomach at his words.

you don’t answer. you turn away before he can see your face and move toward the couch. you sit, sink into the cushions like your bones are suddenly too heavy to hold you upright. you light a cigarette with shaking fingers.

the smoke curls up toward the ceiling, slow and thick.

behind you, the tv keeps playing. your brother laughs again, louder this time, already moving on, already forgetting the question he just dropped into your lap like it didn’t matter.

you inhale, and then exhale before answering:

“you’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” the cigarette dangles between your fingers as you stare at the shitty drama that plays on the screen. ironically, it’s about a happy family that’s being torn apart by money problems.

your brother doesn’t answer. he just laughs at another dumb joke before he continues to smoke. something tells you he’s laughing at how eerily familiar it feels. you lean back into the couch as you let the exhaustion take over you. you take another drag, hence deciding to forget your brother even said anything in the first place as your gaze lingers on the missing poster that’s crumpled up at the bottom of your bag.

a/n — 🎤👈 yo is this thing still on… is anyone still interested in this…

‧₊˚✩ taglist: @wormsz , @sanzuholic , @lilolpotato , @bae-ashlynn , @meowwmisaa , @lilly-lolly , @renardiererin @lovesdwelling , @kelsrecs , @faesix

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sweat trickles down your spine under the cheap polyester uniform. you pull up your shirt every few minutes because the neckline dips too low, your boss insisting that it “draws customers”. in reality, it translates to every married middle-aged man with greasy hair and a beer gut believing its open season on you and getting death stares from jealous girlfriends or wives who think it was your choice to have it that low.

in the kitchen window, plates are already lining up. burgers bleeding grease, baskets of fries, pasta that’s practically drowning in sauce. sakusa, the head chef, moves in quick, sharp motions as he plates, jaw tight under the fluorescent lights.

you’re moving through the floor as quick as you can, balancing three plates of hot food on your arms when table seven waves you over.

“miss,” the man snaps at you. once, twice and a final third time before you finally look over. “we ordered like thirty minutes ago. where’s our food? you’ve served basically every table but ours.”

its been eight minutes actually, you think to yourself as you bite your tongue. it’s rush hour, and the restaurant is packed with tables. you can’t control how long the food takes. if eight minutes feels like thirty to that man, god knows how his wife feels in bed.

“i’ll check on that for you right after i serve this table. thank you for your patience,” you smile, teeth clenched as the plates burn into your skin.

you quickly begin to serve table nine, using the same script and apologising for the long wait before spinning on your heel and rushing towards the kitchen. you shove past one of the other waiters, the one you’re not particularly close to and the moment you walk through those swinging kitchen doors, your entire persona drops.

“table seven is breathing down my neck,” you lean over the counter, trying to hold yourself together as best as you can. “they want to know where their food is.”

sakusa raises an eyebrow. “i just got their ticket.”

“oh and you’re surprised people can’t be patient?” you snap back. “i fucking hate tables like these. don’t bother coming to a restaurant and expect me to pull all of your orders out of my ass immediately after you order.”

matsukawa leans against the counter, giving semi another ticket before joining in. “might as well go to mcdonald’s if they’re this impatient.”

“seriously,” makki adds, slumping into a chair behind you. “i’ve had enough of these tourists.”

“don’t even get me started on the tourists,” you scoff. “fuck all of them. you can’t come to japan and expect every single japanese person to know english.”

“glad im not a server,” semi murmurs, not even looking up as he plates another dish. “thats why you choose a job that doesn’t require you to deal with customers first hand.”

“yeah, i bet getting yelled at by sakusa and kyoutani is so much fun during the lunch rush,” makki drawls. “lev, how are you adjusting to your new role?”

“don’t bother him,” sakusa cuts in. “he’s barely keeping up as it is. he doesn’t need distractions.”

makki raises his hands in defeat. you lean against the counter, still counting down the seconds until the food for table twelve is ready.

“is it wrong if i spit in someone’s food if they’re assholes to me?” you ponder out loud. “table twelve is full of assholes who keep staring at my chest.”

“make it a group project,” mattsun deadpans. “i’ll spit in their food too.”

you snort, but it’s humourless. “this place is actually hell. i don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with people like this. why do i even do this to myself?”

“bills,” makki offers. “debts maybe.”

“also because you hate yourself,” mattsun adds.

you glare at mattsun, but the truth stings worse than the grease on your arms. “you’re not funny, issei.”

just as mattsun opens his mouth to respond, your manager storms in. “we’re low on cutlery. you’re not getting paid to stand around. move it!”

you want to yell back, maybe spit on his shoes for the third time this month. but another minor infraction, a significant portion of your paycheck would be gone at the end of the month. your stomach twists. you can’t have that.

and so you shove past matsukawa, muttering curses as you storm into the back to find the new busser, who apparently doubles as your dishwasher since lev had just been promoted to a line cook.

as you make your way through the hot and suffocating kitchen, your blood boils when you see the new guy. he’s half asleep against the sink as if time doesn’t apply to him. he’s slouched, movements lazy, as if he doesn’t feel the urgency that burns under your skin.

“you planning on finishing those before retirement?” you snap before you can stop yourself.

the new guy blinks at you, slow and unreadable. “…i just got here.”

“congratulations!” you exclaim sarcastically before your face drops. “pick up the pace.”

“relax. damn,” he mutters underneath his breath. “didn’t even ask for my name.”

you scoff, ignoring him. you walk back out onto the floor, looking to run more food out to tables to kill more time as you wait for him to finish up. you have better things to do.

you spend another eleven minutes having hot plates scald the skin of your arms, pacing around the dining room trying to get everyone the best service you can offer. each table asks for the same thing: more cutlery, because the tourists that discovered your workplace through the internet can’t bother learning how to use chopsticks even if their life depended on it.

so when you walk to the back after running all the food, you expect the new hire to have at least enough silverware for three tables. you definitely weren’t expecting what was practically a fifth of the tub. barely enough for more than two tables.

“are you fucking kidding me?” your voice slices through all the noise of the kitchen. “this is all you’ve managed to get done?”

“it’s my first day,” he offers the same blank, infuriating expression. “i haven’t gotten a proper grip on everything yet.”

“then keep up,” you fire back. “what, do you need me to hold your hand and teach you how to wash every single piece of cutlery you get?”

he scoffs. “you always this pleasant, or am i just lucky?”

you can hear the faint sound of matsukawa’s low whistle and makki’s little “uh oh” as you imagine shoving the new hire’s stupid, idiotic face into the dirty water until bubbles no longer appear. instead, you turn around towards the back door.

“i don’t have the energy for this bullshit,” you shove the kitchen doors open, shoving past your manager. “i’m going on a fucking smoke break.”

“it’s lunch hour, you can’t just-” your manager yells after you as you walk out the staff’s exit.

“suck my dick, you actual fucking cunt!” you spat, not bothering to look back as you slam the back door shut.

the alley behind the restaurant smells of fryer oil and mold. cigarette butts are scattered on the ground beneath you like confetti, probably left behind by you during one of your bad shifts. trash bags with large holes litter the alley, leaking liquids you don’t want to guess the origins of.

you squat, wedging yourself against the brick wall as you fish around in your pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. you pull out a pack from your apron of all places before pulling a lighter out of your bra. you light up, fingers shaking from anger more than nicotine withdrawal.

you’ve been telling yourself that you could quit if you wanted to. that you didn’t need to smoke, it was just a good way for you to calm your nerves. but sometimes, you find yourself shaking uncontrollably if you go hours without smoking. you thought nothing of it, because you still think you could quit if you wanted to. you just didn’t feel like quitting.

the first drag burns your throat. doesn’t matter, though. the ache feels good, sharp and alive. it rejuvenates you, calming your nerves almost instantly.

you squeeze your eyes shut, and for one second, the noise fades. all of it, the clinking glasses, the customers’ snapping fingers, your manager’s condescending tone.

but then the scene starts playing in your head again, looping over and over in an annoyingly persistent cycle.

cutlery. indifference. incompetence.

“its my first day,” the words echo in your head.

you grind your teeth. god, you wanted to scream. as if it’s difficult washing a few sets of cutleries. there you were, breaking your back for scraps, one paycheck away from drowning and that stupid idiot gets to stand there as if the world would wait for him.

another drag. smoke curls into the sky.

you picture your brother sprawled on the couch, high on god knows what with white powder spilled all over the couch left for you to sweep up for the millionth time. the stench of the drugs would cling to the curtains, to your clothes, to your lungs, the same way it always does when he’s out cold. you picture him laughing at nothing, high or drunk out of his mind without a single care in the world whilst the bills continue to pile in your name.

your chest tightens.

it’s not fair. he’s probably doing it at that very moment. enjoying his life, not having to worry about anything. living the good life, the one you deserved, while you wait on obnoxious assholes for a living.

you take another drag, deeper this time, until your head spins. you ignore how you’re trembling, because you’re not sure if it’s from the nicotine or from the pure rage you feel even thinking about your own life. a part of you honestly didn’t want to know.

“fucking asshole,” you curse. you’re not sure if you mean your brother, the new hire or yourself.

you crush the cigarette under your heel. the filter smears against the rough concrete like a warning sign. you stand back up, dusting off any dirt before you step through the door.

your break’s over. no apology. no explanation. you’ll just walk back in, the same fake smile plastered onto your face as you serve guests, the same dead eyes while practicing the same routine. because that’s what you need to do to survive, and you’re not going to let anyone ruin that for you.

…

the hours drag. lunch bleeds into dinner. the plates stack, glasses clatter, your voice runs hoarse from pretending to be someone you’re not whilst suppressing the urge to snap at anyone who even breathes a bit too loud in your direction. but you make it through, the same way you always have.

when closing time rolled around, your body has already been exhausted to its full capacity. yet, your manager made you stay to clean up. flip the chairs onto the tables, sweep the floors in silence, take every angry word from your manager if you didn’t want your pay to get cut.

so by the time you stalk into the kitchen, tossing your apron that was practically drenched in sweat onto the counter, you were dead set on giving that new hire a piece of your mind. you weren’t going to allow him to get to you. at least, not for the second time. he needed to learn how things worked around here, you reasoned with yourself as you spotted him.

he stood the same way you saw him hours ago. his shoulders slouched whilst he lazily leaned against the sink, still moving so slowly as if he was afraid the sink might bite him. though, his sleeves seemed to be noticeably more wet than the first time you had seen him.

you slam your palm against the counter next to him, causing him to flinch.

“don’t ever pull that shit again,” you warn him, your voice low and steady. “you’re going to slow everybody down, and i don’t get paid nearly enough to babysit.”

he blinks at you, wide eyed, then narrows them ever so slightly. and when he smirks, you feel an indescribable type of rage boil in your bones. “what, you’re not even going to ask for my name before losing it on me?”

“should i?” you mock him, trying to suppress the urge to push his face into the kyoutani’s pan. “should i also clap everytime you actually manage to do your job?”

“it’s suna, by the way,” he shrugs, casually. nonchalantly. “just saying.”

your jaw tightens.

“i don’t care,” you state, matter of factly. “i doubt you’re going to last long enough for me to remember your name.”

semi and kyoutani glance up from wiping the grill. you can tell that lev is trying his best not to eavesdrop, yet his ears twitch like how a dog’s would.

“cut it out,” sakusa’s voice slices through, steady and sharp. he doesn’t even bother looking up from wrapping his counter, probably counting the stock for the next day. “we’re all tired. go home.”

“yeah, y/n,” suna remarked, obviously trying to provoke you. “go home.”

you glare at suna one last time, your throat burning with words you have to swallow back and you storm off.

…

the walk home from your bus stop is arguably worse than your shifts. night air clings damp and heavy, every neon sign buzzes as if it’s mocking you. your legs ache, your back screams, but the dread you feel walking back to what’s supposed to be your home? that’s what manages to get under your skin, because the weight of it sits in your chest, heavy and sour.

the moment you step into your apartment, the stench hits you like a brick. the same way it always does. beer, sweat, some type of drug. it’s thick, it’s suffocating.

you kick off your shoes. you try and force yourself to not be disgusted by how sticky the floor feels underneath your feet, reminding yourself this was the ultimate result of the accumulated beer spillages that you procrastinated cleaning. you step over ashes that look like they may as well have been glued into the floor by a kindergartener for an art project, making your way over to your brother.

“at least open the fucking window when you smoke,” you snap automatically, shoving it open yourself. cold air trickles in immediately, barely making a dent in the stink but cooling down the apartment significantly.

“the window is broken, air will escape anyways,” your brother doesn’t even bother looking up from the couch.

you assume he threw his shirt into one of the many, many piles of his dirty laundry scattered across your apartment. he’s stripped to his boxers, again. his joint dangles from his fingers, his eyes still glassy. he lazily points to the kitchen counter, murmuring about new envelopes.

you look over, not even surprised. the entire pile of the envelopes seemed to be growing each time you woke up. bills, debts, final notices, all with your name screaming on the front.

you collapse, letting yourself sink into the floor covered in ashes.

maybe if you picked up a few extra shifts, you’d be able to afford to cover the rent and bills. maybe if you’d stay later at work, your manager might give you a raise. it’s a long shot, but you’ve grown desperate. you’re still ransacking your brains for ideas to cover all the expenses and yet your brother laughs at something playing on the television, not having to care about the things you worry about.

a part of you feels guilty because you acted on impulse, again, which caused your pay to be reduced significantly. you need to get a better grip on your anger issues, and to start thinking before you do something, you think. maybe it’d help in the long run when it comes to the debts you owe.

“when my next paycheck comes in,” you start, your voice significantly gentler than before. “you need to promise me that you’ll pay the rent first.”

he doesn’t answer.

“did you hear what i said?” you asked. “you can’t keep buying more drugs with what little money i have from my job, we’re barely surviving as it is.”

he snorts. and still, he doesn’t answer.

the silence grows louder between the two of you. you know he doesn’t care. you know he’s going to do the same thing when he receives your paycheck in the mail.

you press your clammy palms into your eyes, ignoring how it stings, and you start to wonder if this was the life you truly deserved.

a/n — sorry i got writers block and suddenly started to hate everything i wrote so

‧₊˚✩ taglist: @wormsz , @tenjikusstuff4 , @lilolpotato , @bae-ashlynn , @meowwmisaa , @renardiererin

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