your eyes look pretty in the sunlight

by orphan_account

Summary:

"What's it to you?" they snapped, then winced. "Sorry, I mean—what does it matter?"

He reacted to their words as if he'd been struck. "Why would you think it wouldn't matter? What happened that's given you such a low opinion of yourself?"

Rowan shifted uncomfortably. "I came here for a cuppa, not a therapy session from a stranger."

"Nuh-uh, you're not getting out of this that easily. Wait here," he said, and walked back behind the counter.

Notes:

tw: plans for suicide, implied self harm (neither are shown or gone through with)

Golden sunlight filtered through the slats of the Jasmine Dragon's windows when Rowan walked inside one Wednesday evening. The tiny tea shop run by a soft-spoken old man was silent save for the clattering of ceramic cups from a handful of patrons, most of whom were occupied with schoolwork or reading, or just watching the sun dip below the treeline. 

 

Rowan had no such things to occupy their hands and thoughts, however, and they took a seat in the nearest corner. Isolated. Peaceful. 

 

Not a bad way to spend your last few hours alive , they thought. 

 

They rifled through their pockets for cash before a server even noticed their arrival. Rowan didn't want to waste anyone's time; better to have their money plus tip ready than to make the poor underpaid employee stand there and wait while they dug for their wallet like an idiot. It was the least that a miserable waste of oxygen like Rowan could do. 

 

"I'll be right with you!" called a young man's voice from behind the front counter. 

 

They stared blankly at the menu without really reading it. All of their options blurred together into a blob of sameness, making their eyes hurt from strain. I'll just go with the usual. Oolong, black, two sugars. 

 

A pale, wiry server strode up to their booth out of the corner of their eye. Rowan looked up from the menu and opened their mouth to speak. 

 

"One small oolong, two sugars, no milk?" the server rattled off, taking the words out of their mouth and transcribing them onto a little notepad in his hand. 

 

"Wh—um, yeah? How did you know that?" they sputtered. 

 

The man did a double take at them, his thin eyebrows furrowing as he finally made eye contact. "I… you just told me, didn't you? Your order? That was your voice, I'm sure of it." 

 

Rowan shook their head. "I didn't say anything. I thought it, though, word-for-word." 

 

"You mean to tell me I can read minds now?" He laughed awkwardly. They did not. 

 

Their mind raced. What the fuck. What the fuck? 

 

Rowan had heard the myths about people's souls splitting in half from the Beyond and going to two different people at birth. The stories say that soulmates such as these could hear each other's thoughts, and would be destined to meet one day and complete one another. Whatever the hell that meant. 

 

But that's all they were— stories. Fairytales weren't real, and Rowan especially wasn't about to be the main character of one. They were going to end it all that night, anyway, so why would their soulmate just fall out of the sky now? Why not years earlier, so they might not have had to go through all of that crap until this point? Prevented them from getting this low after their career fell through? Why couldn't they have grown up together and fallen in love like real people did?

 

The guy, who had stopped laughing long ago, abruptly sat down in the seat opposite Rowan and snapped them out of their thoughts. 

 

"Are you planning on hurting yourself today?" he exhorted, keeping his volume low but tone earnest. "Because either I'm going crazy, or I just heard you say— think , rather—that you were 'going to end it all' tonight." 

 

Their jaw hung agape. Okay, scratch that, the soulmate thing is becoming more believable by the moment. 

 

"What's it to you?" they snapped, then winced. "Sorry, I mean—what does it matter?" 

 

He reacted to their words as if he'd been struck. His countenance grew even more concerned, if that was possible.

 

"Why would you think it wouldn't matter? What happened that's given you such a low opinion of yourself?" 

 

A nagging sensation foreign to Rowan prickled in the back of their mind. It was tense, like anxiety, but they could tell it wasn't their own. This was softer, warm to the touch, and motivated by what was unmistakably compassion. Was it concern? Guilt? 

 

Well, yeah. Of course I'm worried. 

 

Rowan shifted uncomfortably. "Get out of my head, would you? I came here for a cuppa, not a therapy session from a stranger." 

 

"Nuh-uh, you're not getting out of this one that easily. Wait here," he said, and walked back behind the counter. 

 

Dumbfounded, Rowan watched him prepare their drink with practiced hands. He moved between the kettle and the cabinets and drawers lining the kitchen gracefully, selecting their tea bag with one hand and tearing two sugar packets open with the other. Blowing a stray blond bang out of his face, he set a little timer for it to steep properly. He swayed a little where he stood waiting, as though a slow melody were playing in his head. After all was done he returned to their booth with a delicate tea cup, the orange sunlight reflecting in his icy blue eyes. He set the drink before them on the table with a soft smile. 

 

Oh no, they thought. He's hot. 

 

"Why, thank you," the server chuckled, bemused. Rowan's face burned and they reached for their tea, now burning themself for real on the just-boiling liquid. 

 

"Shut up," they coughed when his laughter only grew. 

 

"Hey, I didn't get your name." He took his pocket notebook back out, grinning. "That's kind of important to have if I'm gonna treat you to dinner after my shift is over." 

 

Rowan barked a self-deprecating laugh. "Why would you want to go anywhere with me? You just met me, for fuck's sake." 

 

"Because," he said. "You look like you need a friend, at least. And I'm not leaving you alone after you got all defensive when I asked if you wanted to harm yourself. That would just be a dick move." 

 

"I don't… Have any friends," they admitted. "And you don't need to take time out of your day for some pathetic loner you picked up off the side of the road. I'll be fine." 

 

His gaze remained steady. "You see, it's that kind of talk that's exactly why you're gonna sit tight for the next thirty minutes while I finish my shift, and then I'm taking you out for noodles. Jebodiah Valentin, nice to meet ya." 

 

So that's his name. It's also pretty, they thought. Gods fucking dammit, Rowan! He can hear you, remember?

 

The server—Jebodiah—winked and made dorky little finger guns at Rowan. He rose from their booth once more, dropping a slip of paper on the table in his wake: a phone number and his name scrawled in neat print. 

 

He dotted his 'i' with a little heart, the bastard! Even his dumbass handwriting is cute! 

 

"If there's any chance I can make your life a little more worth living, Rowan , I really hope you'll let me take it," Jebodiah said, and he was off.