Chapter Text
“Shit. I’m cutting it fine.”
This was already trending toward ‘problematic morning’.
Ryland looked at his watch, tapping the cracked face. Functionally still accurate. Aesthetic condition: deteriorating. He pushed open the familiar green door, the little bell tinkling as he entered. Head bowed, he came to an abrupt halt, stopping himself from bumping into the back of the suit-clad lady in front of him just in time.
Eyes widening, he looked up, peering at the line. “I’m going to be late.”
This was, statistically speaking, moving from a potentially problematic morning, to an outsight bad start to the day. Correlation between first-day lateness and long-term administrative suspicion was not formally proven, but anecdotal evidence strongly suggested a causal relationship. The knowledge settled over Ryland like a poorly configured emergency alert. Immediate, loud, and not particularly helpful. He glanced at his watch again, tapping on the face as if that would somehow fix everything.
It did not.
He had overslept, which was, in fairness, a known issue with his ongoing sleep schedule. Unfortunate, but not surprising. The first day of the last term of the school year meant an elevated cognitive load was inevitable: students needing reassurance, lesson plans to be triple-checked and signed off for approval, and an administrative layer of interruption that tended to err on the extreme. Ryland was, in theory, prepared for all of this.
Unfortunately, his coffee machine had chosen that exact morning to stop functioning. And while he could tolerate a wide range of adverse conditions, beginning the new term with staffroom coffee – something that never failed to be closer to a solid than a liquid, and tasted burnt no matter how recently the pot had been made – was not one of them.
Ryland shuffled forward a pace, tightening the gap between himself and the businesswoman as the bell jingled behind him. The line did not move at all. Staffroom coffee, he reminded himself, was still objectively worse than no coffee at all.
If things took too much longer, he would have to test out that particular theory.
The coffee shop itself was exactly the kind of place Ryland usually tried to avoid: corporate green branding, fake reclaimed wood, identical chalkboard menus copied across hundreds of locations nationwide. The air smelled aggressively of burnt espresso, overheated milk, artificial vanilla syrup and stale bagels. Beneath it all lingered the sharp, chemical tang of industrial cleaner and a dozen different colognes and perfumes. It was enough to trigger the first warning signs of pressure between his eyes.
Coffee. Think of the coffee. His situation would improve significantly once coffee was obtained.
Objectively, he knew that the coffee would be terrible. Subjectively, it was still preferable to the staffroom coffee machine, which Ryland suspected had not been cleaned in years, or possibly since its installation. Either option was concerning for entirely different reasons.
It’s only seven fifteen. How is the line so long already? Statistically, Ryland knew, there was probably nothing unusual about it. Morning rush hour. Commuter clustering. Limited caffeine distribution points within walking distance.
Entirely predictable.
That did absolutely nothing to stop Ryland’s nervous system from reacting like he was moments away from being hunted through the woods for sport. Being late on the first day back was the kind of thing that spiralled. First you were five minutes late, then admin stopped trusting you with deadlines, then you were mentally reclassified as “problematic,” which was rarely reversible. Really, it all just set a terrible precedent for the rest of the term – and for his students.
Ryland lingered towards the back of the line. There were still at least fifteen people in front of him, and two – no, three – behind. Judging by the speed of the three baristas working behind the counter, accounting for the complexity of the different drinks orders and some people ordering a drink for a friend – his eyes widened as the woman at the front of the line accepted an order of twelve drinks, neatly stacking the layers of cups in a wobbly little tower of take-out trays, the next man stepping forward with a physical list – and he knew there was no longer any doubt. He was going to be late. .
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ryland let out a long, unsteady breath. This was, by most reasonable metrics, an inefficient start to the day. Fingers wrapped around his phone, tugging it from his pocket. Maybe his watch was running a little– late.
“Shit.”
“What are you doing?”
A hand landed on Ryland’s shoulder. A full-body flinch ran through him, hard enough to allow his phone to slip from between his fingers. Fumbling to catch it before he could crack yet another screen he couldn’t afford to replace, he turned back to look at the stranger who had interrupted him, and blinked.
The man in front of him looked like he was dressed for an entirely different kind of morning. The crowd of men and women that surrounded them ran the full gamut from business-casual to full on suits and ties.
The collar of his jacket was pulled up, dirty-blonde hair uncombed – artfully messy? – and with just enough facial hair that Ryland couldn’t tell if he’d forgotten to shave for a few days or this was some kind of look that he was going for, and yellow shorts. There was no seeing his eyes through the thick-rimmed, oversized sunglasses with the strangest yellow tint that covered nearly half his face.
Ryland’s eyes lingered. Sunglasses. At 7am.
The only thing that didn’t look completely out of place about him was the 30oz coffee held loosely in his hand, thick ice cubes bobbing in the pitch black liquid.
Maybe if I offer him an extra five bucks he will let me buy his coffee and I can get out of here? Ryland thought, gaze lingering on the coffee with poorly concealed envy. Iced wouldn’t be his first choice so early in the morning – nor his second through fifth – but it would solve a significant number of his problems.
Dark eyebrows rose, an unimpressed expression settled firmly on the other man’s face. Ryland glanced back over his shoulder, looking to see if perhaps the man was talking to someone else. The rest of the line shuffled around them without paying them any heed.
“I’m… sorry?” Ryland said automatically. The man was looking at him like Ryland had just asked a very stupid question, in a very public place. He sighed, tugging his sunglasses further down his nose, peering at Ryland over the rim..
“You’re going to be late,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards Ryland’s watch with his drink. The stranger frowned as he caught sight of the cracked glass. “No wonder, how is that piece of shit still working?”
“It’s minor cosmetic damage,” Ryland answered automatically, turning the watch towards the man to show him the still ticking hands. “There’s nothing wrong with the actual mechanisms–”
The man pressed on as if Ryland hadn’t said anything at all. “You’re going to be late, and then I’m going to be late, which will make everyone else late. Do you see the problem here?”
Even as his stress response escalated unhelpfully, Ryland’s brain snagged on the logic. “I… don’t think I have any control over other people’s arrival times,” he said carefully.
Ryland squinted at the other man, trying to figure out if there was something familiar about him, or if his uncaffinated brain was playing tricks on him. He didn’t look like anyone else Ryland knew from Grover Cleveland Middle School’s faculty. A parent, maybe? Probably not the board of governors, though, judging by his whole… everything.
The man exhaled through his nose like it was all a well-trodden conversation he had long since tired of. He took another sip of his coffee, the corner of his lips twitching with amusement at the way Ryland’s gaze followed his movements. He moved his cup left, then right. Ryland’s gaze followed.
“Right. Of course you don’t,” the man said flatly. He reached up to brush a stray lock of blonde hair away from his face, his popped jacket collar falling away as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryland registered one of the women in the queue whispering to the person beside her while gesturing in their direction. He shuffled forward slightly to correct his position in the line. He hadn’t allowed the gap to grow disproportionately big. There was no need to be rude.
Silence stretched between them.
Ryland glanced back at the man. Why was he still standing there, just staring at him? Did he have something on his face? All at once, Ryland became acutely aware of the line behind him; of steam hissing from the expression machine in uneven bursts, ice clattering into plastic cups, the loud chatter – too loud, too early – and louder still calls of people’s names and drink orders. Somewhere behind him, somebody was aggressively stirring sugar into a drink with enough force that the little wooden stick kept hitting the side of the cup in rapid-fire taps.
Mentally, Ryland increased the priority of replacing his broken coffee pot. He could not stand the thought of having to put up with this again without good reason. His eyes drifted back to the stranger before him. He still had no clue what he had done to draw the man’s attention before he had even managed to find his first coffee of the day.
“I’m sorry,” Ryland tried again; that usually went a long way towards fixing things. Pushing his glasses up, he forced a smile. Judging by the strangers face, it wasn’t a very convincing one. “Have we met?”
That got him a look. A long one. It wasn’t unfriendly, Ryland thought, as he apologised again. Almost more… resigned.
“Right. You’re still…” The man sighed. “Yeah, we’ve met. Is this because of the thing Gail said yesterday?”
Ryland hesitated. Did he know a Gail? A brief search of his memory returned nothing conclusive. There was a high probability this referred to the elderly neighbour who had recently moved in down the hall with her grandson. Low probability it referred to anyone else. Moderate probability Ryland had failed a basic social recognition task. Again. It was starting to become a pattern.
He mentally filed it under “People I should probably recognise but do not” and suppressed the urge to sigh. There were, objectively, more urgent problems available. “I’m sorry, I don’t know any Gails, either. I don’t believe we have met.”
The man’s mouth twitched at one side, a hint of a lopsided smile ghosting across his lips. “Don’t let her hear you say that. I don’t mind, but she gets touchy about these things.”
He took another long, slurping sip from his drink. Ryland’s eyes darted down to his cup. There, on the side, in black sharpie: Tom 🖤
Ryland stared blankly back at him. Were they having two entirely different conversations? What was going on? He should know if he knew the other man – he was almost entirely certain. He looked like the kind of man who would be hard to forget. Ryland cleared his throat. “Listen, I really don’t think–”
“Wait.” The man – Tom – glanced down at Ryland’s empty hands, only just seeming to notice his position in the line and his distinct lack of drink. “You haven’t even ordered yet? Unbelievable. Every time,” Tom said, already moving into action.
Without another word, he stepped forward, taking hold of Ryland by the elbow, and neatly leading him out of the line. Ryland’s eyes widened as they bypassed the dozen people still in front of them, waiting their turns to order drinks with varying degrees of patience.
Ryland let out a startled sound and tried to pull his arm back, overbalancing slightly as the movement met resistance. Tom’s grip tightened just enough to keep him upright, steadying him without slowing his stride.
“Excuse me, excuse me, I’m so sorry,” Ryland said, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as more and more customers turned towards them as they bypassed the line altogether. Twisting in the other man’s grip, Ryland yanked on his arm, trying to get his attention. “What are you doing?”
Tom didn’t slow down in the slightest. “I’m fixing this. Clearly. Did you hit your head again?”
“What? No?” Ryland’s anxiety spiked sharply, his mind bluescreening. Voice rising, he twisted in Tom’s grasp to clutch at his arm in return. “We can’t just skip the line. There are rules. People are waiting. That woman just ordered twelve drinks–”
“So? She’s already got them.”
“That is not the point,” Ryland insisted as they reached the counter. The baristas seemed to become more alert. Movements sharpened, conversations stopped, and attention firmly cut towards them. Ryland checked over his shoulder again. Still nothing. Well, other than a dozen pairs of eyes locked on the two of them, watching with varying levels of confusion and interest.
Tom leaned in slightly, a lopsided smile spreading across his face. He gestured with his drink again, eyes flicking to the nametag of the nearest barista. “Excuse me, Jen. My friend here is in a bit of a rush. Can you make his usual?”
He rattled off a coffee order so complicated Ryland looked at him dumbly. Double shot. Triple syrup. Extra foam. Something about a cream to ice ratio? It was a level of specificity that suggested either deep personal knowledge or a mild obsession. Ryland wasn’t sure which was more likely. He eyed the dark iced coffee in Tom’s hands, calculating the probability that it was really just a black, iced coffee. The evidence wasn’t leaning in his favour. What kind of monstrosity was hiding in that deceptively plain looking cup?
“That is an extraordinary amount of sugar,” Ryland said faintly, as the baristas – Jen and another whose nametag he hadn’t managed to catch sight of – jumped to make Tom’s requested drink.
Tom glanced at him. “Yeah. That’s what I keep saying. But it’s your usual, and I know after what happened last time not to try and change that”
“I don’t…” Ryland paused. He looked at the cup being made. As another pump of syrup shot down the side of the plastic. “...I don’t think that I have ever ordered that. I don’t even know what that is.”
Silence stretched between them for a beat, then two. Tom stared at him, studying him closely. A little furrow appeared between his eyebrows, before, half a second later, he shrugged.
“Right. You’re experimenting again,” he said, like that somehow explained everything. “Don’t worry about it. You always come back to your usual anyway. If you wanna try something new, I’m not going to stop you.”
Ryland opened his mouth, then closed it again. The barista poured two shots into the sugary concoction. He shuddered.
“Could you make that four, please?” It would need at least that many to even get a hint of coffee beyond all that sugar.
“One of these days, you’re actually gonna listen to my nutritionist instead of acting like eating carbs is a personality trait. It’ll fix up that little definition problem Gail wanted to chat about,” Tom said, eyes dipping to Ryland’s shirt. Ryland pulled the strap of his bag closer to him, shifting his coat so that it would better cover himself. He was perfectly happy with how he looked. Really.
“Not everyone needs to optimise their life around physical training.”
Tom laughed. “I know, I know. But seriously; no sugar, no carbs, protein maxing–" He lifted his coffee slightly as if it demonstrated the argument. The ice clinked loudly against the plastic.
Ryland’s eyebrows rose. “You know you need carbs. Your brain runs on glucose for simple cognitive functions, you need–”
“–I need to not have this lecture again.”
“Sorry.”
Tom exhaled through his nose, glancing at him sideways. “You’re saying that a lot today. Did something happen?”
Ryland hesitated, then gave a small, helpless shrug. He pushed down the hysterical little giggle that threatened to break out. “Honestly? I have no idea what is going on right now.”
He was beginning to suspect some kind of social hallucination, though sleep deprivation was also a possibility. He always did have trouble getting to sleep the night before a big event. And the night before that. And–
He should probably cut back on coffee. Or at least try to sleep more. He did not feel entirely like himself.
Before Tom could say a word, Jen returned, drink in hand. She held it out towards Tom with a bright smile. “On the house, Mister Ryder.”
Ryland watched the exchange, no less confused as Tom accepted the cup with a smile, before passing it to Ryland. He pulled the edge of his collar jacket back up around his face, sunglasses neatly pushed into place before turning towards the door.
“Come on. You’re going to be late. And you’re dragging your feet again,” Tom added, like he was mildly amused by a predictable pattern. It was oddly disconcerting to be spoken to like a familiar variable in someone else’s routine, Ryland thought, body moving before his mind could catch up.
“I am not–” Ryland began, before cutting himself off abruptly, because he absolutely was going to be late. For some reason, that earned him a brief, almost approving glance from Tom, like Ryland had passed some little test, or admitted defeat. “Fine.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
Slowly, Ryland took his first sip of coffee, eyes locked, unblinking on Tom. Immediate regret. His teeth ached with the sweetness. He could feel a cavity forming already. “I continue to have absolutely no idea what is happening.”
He noted that it was starting to become a recurring state of affairs.
“Yeah, you’ve said that already.”
They stepped outside together, the bell jingling merrily above them as Ryland followed in Tom's wake. The cold air hit his face – just enough to take the edge off of his lingering, sleepy haze, but not quite enough to help lift his confusion. Footsteps came to a halt as Ryland turned towards Tom; there was no way he was following the other man to another location. His morning had already surpassed acceptable levels of strangeness.
“I really think there has been some kind of misunderstanding,” Ryland said carefully, trying to regain some control over the situation. “I. Do not. Know you.”
Tom paused mid step. He turned back to look at Ryland, a bemused smile twisting on his lips. “You know, this bit is gonna get old eventually. You really should try something new.”
“I assure you, this is not a bit.” Frustration and anxiety collided in his chest. He really, really couldn’t afford to linger any longer. To his relief, he wasn’t the only one.
Ringing sounded from Tom’s pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out a sleep phone, and frowned down at the screen. He let out a long, low sigh. “Great. Great. I’ve got to take this. I’ll see you later.”
“You don’t even know my name,” Ryland called after him.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, I do. Stop wasting time and get to work. And you’re welcome for the drink!”
“You didn’t even pay for it!”
Ryland stood, rooted to the spot, as Tom disappeared into the crowd. Fingers flexed around the cold cup. If it wasn’t for the drink – one that he would never order for himself – in hand, he would have thought the encounter had entirely been dreamt up by his imagination.
“What the hell?”
The door behind him tinkled again as more customers entered and exited. Ryland stepped slightly aside, offering automatic apologies to the flow of traffic. At least he could still manage that much.
He looked down at his drink again. Objectively, nothing about his morning made sense. Subjectively, it could be just written off as an anomaly. Something almost impossible to be repeated. Everything would be fine.
Ryland took another sip of his drink without thought and promptly spat it back out. “Staff room coffee it is.”