In his many years of writing, fyodor found that he got the best work done in the quaint cafe down the street from his apartment. The place was small and rather quiet, and unlike his own apartment, there were no loud neighbors to distract him from his work.

It held the constant scent of fresh baked pastries and coffee, and the only distraction to be seen was the oddly dressed barista who always seemed ecstatic that fyodor had come back once again.

The man had long white hair, tied into a braid behind him. With some shorter pieces in the front to frame his face.

One eye was bright green, the other a pale gray, with a scar across it. Fyodor found himself wondering how exactly that scar was created. And his clothing, despite being mostly black and white, had red accents mixed in which fyodor took to be his favorite color.

From time to time, fyodor felt the man’s eyes on him. The place never seemed to have many customers, so he assumed there wasn’t much else to do besides check up on whoever came in.

The interesting thing about the barista, was that he never seemed to mind being caught staring.

Fyodor would occasionally feel those eyes burning into him. He'd look up, expecting to see the man’s mismatched eyes darting away, for him to pretend to be working instead of watching.

Rather, the small, oblivious smile that always seemed to rest on his face just widened and he kept those eyes trained on fyodor.

Most might find this behavior disconcerting, but fyodor found it interesting. He couldn’t help but smile to himself at the eccentricity of the man behind the counter. The Baristas stare was in no way creepy or uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like the gaze of a person undressing another with their eyes.

Rather, it was that of someone who found the actions of the other interesting, it was simply observation in its purest form. And that burning gaze that followed him so often served as a comfort in some sense. Like no matter how much changed in fyodor's own life, he would still have that one constant of those pretty eyes observing his every move.

The barista of course, had his own reasons for this watching.

Nikolai had worked in this coffee shop for quite a while, generally with little to no care about the patrons of the place

It was just a good way to make some money.

That is, until the reserved author he now knew to be named Fyodor began visiting regularly.

The man had a peculiar air about him, which was only partly on account of his appearance. He had shoulder length black hair which fell into his face, clearly often enough he didn’t care much to fix it. His eyes were an enchantingly deep shade of purple, one that Nikolai got quite lost in. And he wore simple clothing, black slacks and a white button down which draped over his thin frame.

He seemed tense simply being around other people, and always made sure to sit in the furthest corner of the cafe. Despite the fact that the cafe had more than enough seating everywhere else, and rarely had other patrons to take them up.

Nikolai figured he chose that seat specifically, because it had the windows, doors, and barista all in sight. And he was sure to never sit in the seat directly against the wall, but one over, as it made getting in and out quicker.

The barista never could help himself when it came to socializing with the unsocial. It was, more than anything, the need to know what it would take to win them over. Unfortunately, fyodor had made this exceptionally difficult for him.

He had no interest in small talk, usually ignoring Nikolai’s feeble attempts to ask about his day. He sat far from Nikolai, and occasionally looked up at him from behind his laptop with those sharp eyes, like he could see right through Nikolai’s schemes, like he could read his thoughts. Maybe he could, maybe that’s why after all this time coming to the cafe, fyodor never once looked at the cup in front of him.

The cup that every day, Nikolai wrote his phone number on. Often along with a small doodle of some sort, Todays was of a small cat, with a Cheshire grin, drawn in a bright pink marker Nikolai bought with only the hope it would draw the others eye.

Yet every day, fyodor would take the coffee from him, sit down across the room, and stare at that laptop of his.

He only ever drank about half of it, seemingly getting too caught up in whatever he was writing to finish it.

Nikolai once tried to ask what he wrote, but the man gave him a sour look and didn’t answer.

In fact, in all this time, the only thing fyodor had ever said to him was “a small black coffee, please and thank you.”

That was it.

Yet Nikolai felt, for the most part, content with this routine of theirs. Fyodor would come in, and order a small black coffee. Nikolai would try his best to start a conversation, or even make a stupid joke in hopes that fyodor would laugh…

He never laughed.

But that was alright, Nikolai didn’t mind.

Then fyodor would take his coffee, sit far away, and spare Nikolai an occasional glance with those heart stopping eyes.

And Nikolai would wait, in hopes that his strange new companion would finally notice what he wrote on the cup.

He never noticed.

This, Nikolai did seem to mind as time went on.

So, he thought up a plan. One that he thought himself a genius for. The next time fyodor came in, he gave him the wrong drink. He figured that fyodor would take a sip, notice the difference, and finally look at the cup.

However, Nikolai miscalculated something in his plan. The slight affection that fyodor had grown to hold for the odd, foolish, barista who always tried to make him laugh, and stared at him like he was the first person he’d seen in years.

Fyodor took a sip from the overly sweet coffee he had been given in place of the bitter drink he’d become used to. He scowled slightly at the taste, and his eyes shifted off of his computer screen. Not to the cup, and instead to the barista. He noticed the oblivious smile on the man's face, and looked back down to his computer. And maybe it was just the poor cafe lighting, or the reflection of the screens light on his face.

But Nikolai could have sworn there was a small hint of pink on the pale man’s skin. A trick of the eye, he could only assume.

Fyodor didn’t look at the cup, though he did take another sip. Trying his best not to grimace at the taste. Nikolai watched on in pure confusion. As the man who had so pointedly ignored him for so long, for the first time, finished the drink he clearly disliked.

Fyodor then stood up, offered Nikolai a polite smile, and left without a word.

Nikolai let out a loud sigh as soon as the door closed, leaning against the wall and letting himself sink down onto the ground.

‘Is he oblivious or just stupid?’

Despite his frustration, Nikolai couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips, nor the heat that burned at his face, when fyodor came to mind. He couldn’t help but wonder if fyodor even bothered to learn his name, and truthfully he didn’t care all that much. Because getting even a tiny smile out of that sheltered new friend of his was an achievement.

Friend… that probably isn’t the right word.

What they had could never be described as a friendship… but there was something there.

Regardless, weeks passed and their routine has returned to normal. Nikolai decided not to change Fyodor's drink again, as fascinating as it was to watch the man drink something he hated.

But once again, Nikolai found himself getting bored of their routine. Wanting quite desperately for Fyodor to just look at the cup. At this point he didn’t care much whether fyodor completely ignored his advances, however he at least wanted some sort of attention from the man. Anything to tell him fyodor knew about the writing on his cup.

So, finally reaching his wits end, Nikolai decided on a less subtle course of action to demand a response. Nikolai walked up to the table, and placed a sticky note right onto the face of Fyodor's laptop. Receiving a confused and rather annoyed look from the man.

“I have written my number on your cup every day since you started coming here. Not once have you even glanced at it.”

Nikolai huffed, letting his frustration get the better of him to a man who he hardly knew. But as strange as this approach was, it finally seemed to all click in fyodor's mind. His eyes finally flickered to his cup, and scanned over the numbers, as well as the small drawing of a mouse which sat next to them.

Then, he looked at the note placed on a laptop which he had previously been too shocked to pay any real attention to. It read “go on a date with me.” In a large font, and chicken scratch handwriting.

Without a word, fyodor pushed his laptop in front of the seat closer to the wall, and moved to the further seat.

For a moment, Nikolai thought this was Fyodor's silent way of rejecting his offer, which in retrospect seemed more like a demand. However fyodor looked back up to the man and with the slight tilt of his head, for the first time, spoke something other than his order.