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your-hurricane · 3 years

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neon moon || chapter 1 - broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times

A/N: Disclaimer, I haven’t written fanfic since I was fourteen so please be gentle with me, friends

AO3 link

Fair warning that the only editing this has gone through has been proofreading!

Also, the first two chapters are largely exposition and setting up the various connections between Frankie and the MC (Natalia), but they will finally get to meet in chapter three!

Neon Moon summary: [starts three years after the events of the movie]

Single dad Francisco "Frankie" Morales and former Ph.D candidate Natalia Yevstigneyev-Diaz are trying their best.

Alternatively: Frankie and the woman about to change his life keep missing each other, until they don't.

“Whoo-wee! Nice one, Diaz!” Benny said from where he’d just been knocked onto his back atop the sparring mats.

At her instructor’s praise, Natalia Diaz preened, making a show of taking her long dark wavy-curls out of her workout ponytail and flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Thank you, thank you, always happy to hear my badassery is increasing.”

“I’d say perfecting. That was solid.”

“Yeah, haven’t seen him go down that unexpectedly probably ever,” piped up a man with big, kind brown eyes whose name Natalia swore was Frankie. She’d only ever heard him called by his real name once or twice --- Benny usually greeted him as Fish.

If Frankie was here, that meant the rest of Benny Miller’s military buddies would be trickling into the gym. Pity they seemed to be on time today— flipping Benny was fun, maybe he’d’ve given her a window to do it again. Sometimes if his buddies ran late he’d keep sparring with her past the self-defense session she’d paid for.

“It’s thanks to him and his lessons! Wouldn’t know where to begin without him.” Natalia hi-fived Benny from where he was on the floor, now sitting. “Thanks as always, Benny. See you Friday afternoon?”

“Hell yeah!”

“Awesome. Well, I’ll get out of your hair before the rest of the guys show up. Later Benny!” She nodded politely to Frankie just as she spotted the man she knew to be Benny’s older brother and...Pope? Santiago? again, she’d only run into these men in passing.

~.*~.*~.*~.*

Natalia Diaz’s early life read like an adventure, and in many ways, it had been. Her mother, Anna Diaz, was a first generation Mexican-American of Spanish, Mixtec, and Chinese background who met her father, then in medical school, while studying abroad in Russia. Her father, Gavril Yevstigneyev, was from Yakutsk of mixed Russian, Yakut, and Chuvash background. He was a doctor who gave up the possibility of an ultra-lucrative career to spend most of his life working as a medical officer in human rights organizations, and she was a research assistant in those same organizations.

Born while her father was practicing in St. Petersburg, Natalia Gavrilovna Yevstigneyeva Diaz didn’t spend too long in one place. She may have been a dual citizen of the United States and Russia but she didn’t set foot in the United States until she was twelve years old, and her earliest concept of ‘home’ was Pakse, Laos. She was educated at international schools across Southeast Asia, and spoke Lao, Khmer, and Vietnamese in daily life depending on where the Yevstigneyev family was living, Russian at home, learned English and French at school, and her mother taught her enough Spanish to understand her abuela’s English-Spanish mix on birthday and Christmas phone calls.

When it came time to graduate from secondary school - she graduated in Laos, ultimately - she even applied to universities across Laos, Canada, Cambodia, France, The United States, Switzerland, China, Singapore, Australia, and Russia. At her parents’ insistence she cast her net far and wide. Except, with twenty-two acceptance letters and zero rejections, she almost wished she hadn’t.

She studied at McGill University and through a combination of scholarships, her parents’ help, and her “waitressing” job (stripping job actually, and Natalia was damn proud of it and the crazy money it made, but knew her parents would flip out on her so she lied), she earned her B.A.s in linguistics with a minor in translation and interpretation, and anthropology.

She had her pick of the litter as far as where she could settle post-grad: her dual citizenship made the US and Russia wide open to her, Canadian employers were offering to keep her in Canada, her parents still lived in Laos - six years in one place? That was a record for her folks! - and the NGO they were working for straight up offered her a job without her even sending an application.

There wasn’t a grad school on planet Earth that would’ve rejected her application.

Natalia’s life should have been set forever. For a while, it was.

After a gap year traveling Bhutan, Thailand, Indonesia, Mongolia, and completing the Trans-Siberian railway with her younger sister Mariya, who took a gap year between secondary school and university herself, Natalia prepared to conquer grad school….at motherfucking Yale!

That same year, her parents and younger siblings (save Mariya who was studying at Yakutsk State University in their father’s home Russian Republic of Yakutia) moved to her mother’s home state of Texas. A part of Natalia felt bad for her eleven year old sister and the three year old twins out of some sense that her upbringing had been, objectively, the best possible. Natalia did not feel Russian, or Mexican, or American, or Laotian, or Cambodian, or Vietnamese, nor did she feel the need to. Borders were an arbitrary thing. People were people just with different languages, looks, and customs, and she believed she came to know that truth early in life because of her childhood as a third culture kid.

She understood why her parents made that decision though.

In her first year of grad school, the Yevstigneyev Diaz siblings were twenty-two year old Natalia, nineteen-year-old Mariya, eleven-year-old Valentina, and two-year-old Alisa and her twin brother, the only boy in the family, Pavel. Alisa had been born partially deaf and their parents, as if they could react any other way, saw it not as a terrible thing to mourn over but as an opportunity to learn. A challenge did not equal a burden in their eyes. When she was two, however, they realized they needed to either move back to Russia or move to the United States.

The Yevstigneyevs primarily worked and lived in Vietnam and Laos, and there was no singular Laotian or Vietnamese sign language, rather, localized sign languages. As Alisa grew from an infant to a toddler they decided they did not want to deprive her of Deaf culture, and thus, the decision to move to Texas was made.

Just two years after relocating to Texas, tragedy struck the family.

A car speeding through a red light killed Anna and Gavril on the way home from volunteering their time to teach Russian classes at the local Russian cultural center. Natalia, then twenty-four years old with a newly minted Masters from Yale and acceptances to three Ph.D programs, had to force out emails declining the offers, pack up her apartment, and move to Texas to raise her siblings.

Abuela Rita instinctively offered to handle her grandchildren, but Natalia couldn’t possibly make her abuela (who she barely knew at that) raise three children again. Besides, her mother’s youngest sister still lived at home, and this was the same year Hurricane Harvey destroyed one of her uncle’s homes and he, his wife, and their children were also living in Abuela’s home...yeah, no. No, this had to be Natalia.

It was Natalia or the state of Texas and like hell she was going to throw her three little siblings, two of them just four, and one of them deaf, into the system. Alisa being able to communicate in ASL was so important to her parents...how could Natalia possibly let Alisa go into a system that wouldn’t care?

And anyway, it wasn’t so bad. She used her fluency in Russian, Lao, Khmer, and French to work as a book translator. She’d even gone back to dancing four days a week for two reasons. A. You’d think speaking five languages fluently would mean she was making an assload of money, right? Wrong. and B. The inheritance and life insurance policies from her parents wouldn’t last forever and she had four college educations to finance.

That was three years ago, and two and a half years before she started taking self-defense classes from Benny Miller. She’d only been working at an Austin strip club for about four months when one handsy patron reminded her that she needed a refresher on how to throw a punch.

As for why she was Natalia Diaz now and not Natalia Yevstigneyeva? Well. She was still Natalia Yevstigneyeva-Diaz, but unless she was filling out legal papers, or at the Russian cultural center, it was just Diaz. Her mother’s last name was just easier for Austinites to pronounce right. You had to be at least a level six friend to unlock her tragic backstory and her full last name.

Natalia had had everything going for her until one drunk driver took her parents, her Ph.D goals, her planned return to traveling the world, and even her name in one instant.

She wished she had it in her to be bitter but that would require her to have time to think about herself anymore. If it wasn’t taking ASL classes with Alisa, it was listening to Mariya complain about her job. If it wasn’t Valentina’s archery competitions, it was Pavel’s gymnastics meets.

(Yes, yes, she knew. How stereotypically Russian of them to have a kid in competitive gymnastics. It wasn’t her idea! Pavel loved it and when he begged his big sister to be allowed more than one class a week...she dared anybody to say no to that face.)

Any Natalia time she did have was too precious to spend being bitter, she decided.

~.*~.*~.*~.*

“Natasha! Nataaaaaaaasha….NATASHA!”

“Wha!” Thud! “Fuck. Oww.”

Natalia groaned from where she’d fallen into a startled pile on the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling and turned her head to shoot a glare at Mariya.

“Marusya, one day, you’re going to scare me awake to actual death.”

“That’s impossible.” Valentina said from where she sat at the dining table typing up a paper for school. “If you’re scared to literal death you can’t be scared awake because you’ll be dead. Dead people can’t be awake.”

“Unless she’s a zombie, Valya!” Shouted Pavel from his room down the hall.

“Pasha’s got a point.” Mariya said, to which Natalia grabbed her foot and yanked hard, making her shriek as she fell against the couch. “Oof. Anyway, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t hurry up.”

Natalia checked her watch and let out a swear under her breath. “I really need to not spar with Benny on work nights. Hey, Valya-” she sat up on the floor and whirled around to face her middle sister. “Do I need to drop you off for babysitting anywhere tonight?”

Valentina shook her head. “Abuela’s picking me up to take me to Mr. Morales’. I’m watching Daniela.” Mr. Morales - whoever that was - lived near Abuela and her taking Valentina to his house gave her some ‘Valone time’ she liked to say.

Natalia peeled herself off the floor and made her way to her bedroom, stopping by Alisa’s on the way. She grabbed the purple narwhal plushie that lived in a little basket attached to her door - the Get Alisa’s Attention Narwhal - and gently tossed it at Alisa, and when it landed in her lap Alisa tossed it back to Natalia, kept her hands free, and said “I didn’t forget.”

“Good. If you’re good at the dentist tomorrow morning, I’ll buy you ice cream after.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of what you should do after the dentist?”

“So you don’t want ice cream?” “That’s not what I said!”

Natalia laughed and stepped far enough into Alisa’s room to ruffle her hair and then said, “Be good. Masha’s in charge while I’m at work.”

~.*~.*~.*~.*

“Thought you were day shift on Wednesdays, Natasha!” A black woman with her hair in box braids — Jess, stage name Phoenix — said, throwing her arm around Natalia when she first got to work.

“Nah, I talked to Paris, got my hours changed around, remember? Gosh, it’s like you don’t remember everything I ever say to you.”

Jess stuck her tongue out and muttered, “Bitch,” before smooching Natalia’s cheek.

Natalia shoved Jess off of her with a giggle. “Go finish getting ready, ya crazy.” She sat down in front of one of the available mirrors to touch up her makeup before she was officially working, then addressed Jess again. “My 11-8 days are now Sunday and Monday. Wednesday, Saturday, I’m here with you 8 til 4, baybeeeee.”

“Mm, good call. Wine Wednesday.”

Half price wine meant more cash for dancers.

“Needs more body glitter,” Natalia said in her best Christopher Walken impression, before unscrewing the cap of her body glitter to shiny herself up.

“Now in your Zoya voice!”

“Needs more body glitter,” Natalia repeated, this time, in her stage persona’s stronger Russian accent.

The accent helped to further distinguish between Zoya the performer and who Natalia was offstage. It also wasn’t exactly offensive, either, because it was just Natalia exaggerating the accent she naturally had and just making it consistently Russian. It was a mess otherwise. Natalia and Mariya...talked funny. Their accents were kind of impossible to place because of how they learned English and which languages they first learned to actually speak in.

At first listen, their international school education would hint at American- ish . But listen closely and certain vowels come out like an Aussie or a Canadian, courtesy of international school teachers from those countries. Listen for another moment and you’ll hear that Natalia’s tongue, specifically, never learned to consistently make certain sounds that English has that Russian, Lao, Vietnamese and Khmer just don’t. Natalia’s H’s came out harsh courtesy of her Russian father. And both Natalia and Mariya had a habit of dropping articles when telling their younger siblings to ‘close window’ or ‘feed dog and cat.’

For the most part, as Natalia tried to explain to anybody who asked about her accent, English was a language for the classroom. They spoke exclusively Russian in the home and out in ‘the wild’ spoke the local language. Yakutsk was a closer flight from Laos, Cambodia, or Vietnam than Austin was so if they visited any grandparents for Christmas it was their babushka and dedushka in Russia.

Returning to the US permanently never was the plan, remember. It was only a decision they made for Alisa to live somewhere with a standard sign language -- and the only reason, Anna confessed to Natalia once, that they didn’t go back to Russia, was because Natalia had recently come out as bisexual.

“We worried for Valya and the twins. What if they also grow up and realize they aren’t straight? The way it is in Russia for people like you...your father and I love Russia more than the United States. But we love our kids more than Russia.”

She hated how vivid that conversation was in her head. There were some truly beautiful moments with her mother that had already faded from memory. How unfair of her brain to let things like holidays, birthdays, and her mother’s hugs slip.

“Drive home safe, Jess.” Natalia bid her friend farewell a little after four the next morning, kissing her on the cheek before she unlocked her own car. If she got up to 70 and stayed there, she’d be home in time to count her tips, shower, and fix breakfast for the kiddos before school and in Alisa’s case, the dentist.

~.*~.*~.*~.*

“Stand still Pasha,” Natalia said as she gently bopped the seat of her baby brother’s pants to knock the glitter off them. “Your butt looks like a glitter cannon exploded right next to it.”

Pavel giggled and pointed out, “It’s your fault there’s always glitter in your bed.”

“You shouldn’t lay down in my bed for naps after I’ve woken you up for school anyway. Especially not after you’ve already got your clothes on, you dingus.”

“ Heeeey, that’s mean!” Pavel pouted.

“Not if I’m saying it with love. Which I am.” Natalia stood up and pressed a kiss to the top of her brother’s head. “Okay, your butt’s as unsparkly as it's gonna get.”

“I don’t see what wrong with having a sparkly butt anyway.” Pavel grumbled.

“Now run along to the bus stop with the other kids. Be good at school, learn lots, I love you kid.”

“Love you too , Natashe-!” the -nka! came muffled as Pavel had darted out the door to run down to the bus stop.

Natalia sipped on her coffee and watched out the window as her brother darted across the field to the complex’s mailbox pavilion to make sure he joined the other children safely. Satisfied he had, she turned away from the window to trudge back to the kitchen and refill her coffee and begin her vanilla work for the day before she had to wake Alisa for the dentist. On today’s docket? Trying to get through editing at least the first third of her Russian translation of the next book in the hottest new YA series.

There was nothing Natalia wanted more than a nap but she was already cutting her deadline close. Right on schedule was the same as being behind in the literary translation world. If she wasn’t so ahead of schedule she was getting bored then she was nearing panic mode.

Logically she knew that only she felt that way. Her boss didn’t, or at least never felt the need to express to her that he did, but just herself was enough to put the pressure on from beginning to end of a project.

It had benefited her in school. Not so much in her career.

A life in academia as a linguistics scholar and researcher would have suited her better. The universe didn’t consider that when it let a drunk driver kill her parents and leave her three siblings to raise and Mariya’s academic dreams to finance.

#pedro pascal fandom #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #francisco morales x ofc #my fic #neon moon fic #ofc of color #multiracial ofc #Francisco catfish Morales

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knowerofuselessfacts · 5 years

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Note to self, make characters that actually fit the roles you meant for them. Your character that is meant to be gruff and reserved does not need to be making jokes like ‘you must be a level 5 friend and at least 17 to unlock my tragic backstory’ every five minutes or to be found singing showtunes in a tanktop and underwear. A few fun things is fine, but pleASE

#loki's ramblings #i am struggling #but at least it's a bit easier

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capnebula · 6 years

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Winter Cherry - Part III

A/N: Firstly I want to apologise for this taking so long. School and Holiday stuff has been holding me up big time, and for a while I was kind of stuck on where to go with it. Also, I won't be able to link the past chapters for this until mid January due to mobile devices being a bitch. Hope you all enjoy it!

BLURB: It was always said that if you met a mutant with the opposite power as you, that person was your soulmate. Stan Uris, who steals life with his power, didn't believe in superstitions like that until he met Mike Hanlon, the boy who gives life.

PAIRINGS: Stanlon (main), Reddie (side), Benverly (side), Audra/Bill (side (p.s. Do they have a ship name?))

WARNINGS: main character with negative self image, references to parent death, (will update as needed)

WORD COUNT: 1803

His mother was a consistent breaker of mutant folklore, and though she told him much of it, she always reminded the boy that it was all just speculation and something of a children's story so they could believe in all good things. He remembered that the darkness was an invite to peace and safety from those who thought mutants should be dead or “controlled”, that each mutant was special and even if they had similar powers one person would have a different strength than the other, and that mutants met on accident were supposedly lifelong friends, but his mother had never once told him about one of the biggest tales in mutant superstitions. It was like all the stories where people were “meant to be”; the clichés that Stan always snorted at, though a lot of the time the stories were good in spite of the soulmate concept. It was the sound of his best friend’s voice that brought Stan back to earth. He was saying something about opposite powers, Eddie and himself, Bev and Ben. Stan hadn't caught all of it, and as such was rather confused. “So she thinks you and Mike are gonna be perfect for each other, too, which is fine and great and all but damn does Mrs. Denbrough run things along fast. It's like she's looking for good romance to gossip about with the other teachers,” Rich finished. “I'm sorry, what? I have honestly only managed to process the last two sentences you have said. Everything else is like white noise in my brain,” “Mutants. Opposite powers. Soulmates. Eds and I. Bev and Ben. You and Mike,” and then he was making kissy faces at his best friend as if to mimic what was going to happen. Stan paused for a moment. And then he laughed. He let out a howl of hysterical laughter, and continued laughing until he was tearing up. “You do know that shit is fake, right? Just like every other superstition mutants have. It's just for kids,” he choked out before laughing a moment more, finally starting to calm down. Everyone seemed to be thinking what the fuck at Stan’s behaviour towards this concept, because to them it was something that could easily be true. Had he been thinking properly, Stan would have probably thought the same thing of himself. He wouldn't have let anyone know it, but he was acting out of shock. Although he trusted his mother, he had always wondered if at least some of them were true. Maybe mutants you met unexpectedly were bound to become your best friend until the day you both died. Richie didn't seem to be going anywhere any time soon, after all. And the concept of soulmates was something he wanted desperately to believe in, but the idea of it being this boy who seemed nice enough and had a rather nice appearance (Stan couldn't lie to himself, honestly) the idea of them being soulmates was so utterly absurd he couldn't possibly believe it. “Stan. I know this sounds ridiculous coming from me, but calm the fuck down,” Richie blurted. Stan heaved a sigh. “You think I'm crazy for not believing it, don't you?” There was a silence, like a collective nod that no one wanted to make reality, as no one answered. “Thought so,” Stan muttered, “Well, to change the subject here, how about someone help me figure out where I'm supposed to be staying. I need to get my suitcase, as well. It was left in that main building,” Beverly stands up. “Your suitcase shouldn't be a problem. I'll go talk to Mrs. Denbrough about who your roommate will be and where that will be and let you know,” “Thanks, Bev,” Stan replied, trying out the nickname the girl had said to use. He rather liked saying something nice and short and simple. Though Richie was short for Richard, it was like the rare times he'd call the shapeshifter Rich. It was almost exhilarating to call people by nicknames. The redhead sashayed off after a planting a quick kiss on Ben’s forehead and waving to everyone, leaving the them alone with each other. Richie finally sat down, plopping crisscross next to Stan. “So, I see you all have met my best friend ever. Whatcha think of the guy?” Everyone's eyes spoke for them, all signalling Richie to be quiet. It was evident Stan could have made a better impression than he did, but he was grounded in what his mother told him all growing up. He would heed her words until his last breath; he had decided that when she passed on. “Can I ask something?” Georgie piped up, curious eyes looking directly at Stan. He nodded. “Why don't you believe in soulmates?” “I… I think it has to do with how I was raised. My mother married a non mutant. She told me she met her ‘soulmate’ and they never once got along, so I saw no reason to have to believe in them,” Stan explained. He wanted to provide a decent explanation while not giving too much information about himself, and he had gotten good at that over the years. The only hindering factor was Richie, of course, but he wasn't one to complain. Richie was a good friend, flaws and all. Beverly came flying backwards and almost crashed into the ground, somehow stopping herself before she hit the bottom. “Mrs. Denbrough says she'll show you later, but told me where it is if you wanna see now. Your stuff is already there. Ben, could you help me with the straps? Wings need to go,” she stated breathlessly but without a pause. Ben stood up to help Beverly out while Stan thought about what to do. As much as he wanted to try and make friends, he was already ready to be alone for a bit again. By the time Bev’ wings were back to looking like tattoos, he decided to at least check it out. “I want to at least have a general idea of where it is, so if you could show me that would be great,” Bev smiled. “Gotcha. Follow me then. See you losers later; gotta show the new kid where he’ll be staying,” Stan stood up and waved at everyone, then turned to follow Beverly, who was already walking away. They went out across the grass and to the main sidewalks, which weaved throughout the school grounds in a way that could only be described as labyrinthine. It was silent for some time until Beverly piped up. “So, Stan. Richie talks about you an awful lot, and I'm guessing based on what he's said that you two have known each other a long time. I'm not one to pry out backstories the first day I meet someone, but I just wanna fact check,” Stan scrunched his nose in thought before saying “Well, I met him when we were probably five or six, so it's been a good while, I'd say,” “Wow, that is a long time!” Stan nodded. He was glad they had put up with each other as long as they had. If they hadn't, Stan would be friendless and Richie would have been probably about ten times more annoying than he was today. They balanced each other out, after all, and if Richie’s life had never been put in peril by Stan neither of them would have taken life and death so seriously. “Stan, you're not very talkative. At all. I hate to be that stereotypical girl who is always talking, but I really feel like I need to fill in the bouts of silence,” Beverly admits. Stan looks towards the ground, feeling kind of bad. “Well, you can pick a topic and go from there. I can't promise I'll talk as much as, say, Richie, but I can certainly try to sustain a conversation,” “Hm… Okay. What kind of things do you find funny? Like not ‘this is stupid’ funny. Genuinely funny,” “You mean like my sense of humour? I don't really know how to explain it. No one understands my jokes and half the time it's just random words that sound funny to me that I end up laughing at for up to five minutes,” “Like what words?” Stan thought for a moment, then a word came to mind and his shoulders shook with silent, contained laughter. “Stan, what words? I see you laughing; you have to tell me now,” Bev pried. “Avocado,” he half-whispered before bursting into laughter that put his fake laughs to shame. Beverly actually joined in. She shared his sense of humour, Stan could tell. Her laugh wasn't even slightly forced; in fact it seemed more real than any laughter he had ever heard. “Okay, then we should get along just fine. You’ll get me,” she said after she evened out her breathing, “No one really gets me in that way, you know?” “Yeah. It kind of sucks until you find someone who gets it,” he agreed. Kindred spirits, to Stan, were one step towards feeling safe and at home wherever he was, and being able to see how Beverly acted one-on-one opened Stan’s eyes to a whole world of people similar to him. Perhaps no one else would understand his humour, but he didn't need that to know there were other people he could get along with. “Hey Beverly? I was wondering how it was you ended up here,” The redhead become very somber and stayed silent for a few minutes. “You have to be at least a level four friend to unlock my tragic backstory. Sorry,” she said as if trying to joke it away. Just like Richie. Heck, sometimes just like himself. Humour and satire and sarcasm had become less of a joke and more of a coping mechanism for the few people Stan knew, and Beverly could easily be added to the list. She forced a small smile and Stan frowned. “You don't have to tell me now. I was just curious,” “Alright. I'll tell you later, once we know each other a bit better,” she stated decidedly. They walked in silence for a short while longer. Upon the end of this time, they had reached a rather large two or three story house. Stan assumed it was one of the dormitory buildings. Beverly led him inside and up to the second floor. Down twisting halls all decorated and almost impossible to distinguish from one another, they came upon his room. “You’ll like your roommate, I'm sure. If I assume correctly, you already met him,” Beverly assured him as she opened the door. And she was right. He was in there, listening to music in his headphones and laying in his bed, reading. Stan figured his time at the school would be tolerable, now.

TAGS: @rhubarberous @alex-twy

#winter cherry #stanlon #reddie #benverly #audra phillips #bill denbrough

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terresdebrumestories · 7 years

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Power Ranger

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Digimon Adventure 01/02/Tri RATING: General Audiences. WORDCOUNT: 1 964 words PAIRING(S): Pre-Taito/Yamachi. CHARACTER(S): Taichi Kamiya, Yamato Ishida, Genai, and a special appearance from Miyako. Mimi is mentioned in passing. GENRE: Coffeeshop disaster. TRIGGER WARNING(S): None, but Taichi may make you feel some second hand embarassment. SUMMARY: So there’s this guy. He has a Power Rangers shirt, and he’s cute. He’s also a walking catastrophe, but in a cute way.

“I hope your boss doesn’t know you call his clients shitheads,” the guy with a Power Rangers shirt chuckles as the miffed ass stomps out of the door, “you could get in trouble.”

He’s cute, Yamato will give him that, as well as a bonus point for the pun on his shirt, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to take that kind of criticism lying down. Not with the mood he’s in.

“First of all,” he says while he gathers the coffee cups on a nearby table, mostly so he won’t start punching people, “I called him a fucking shithead, which he should take as compliment because it assumes he does get laid. Second, barista doesn’t have ‘act as a punching bag for assholes and bigots’ on the job requirement.’

He wipes at a stain with more force than necessary for several seconds, breathing through his nose until he’s reasonably sure he’s not going to shout his next sentence:

“Third, this is my shop. I get to throw homophobes out if I want to.”

Power Ranger blinks at that, grows very red, and bursts into laughter, loud and uninhibited to the point of borderline obnoxiousness. It’s a hearty sound, though, and the way he throws his head back to get it all out sends heat blooming at the back of Yamato’s neck, so he doesn’t really try to hush the guy.

Yamato does have to keep working, though. His regulars are used to the occasional odd person coming into the shop, but he holds no illusion as to his personality’s power to keep people coming if he stops doing a good job at hosting them.

He’s walking back to the counter with a tray full of dirty dishes when Power Ranger follows him, having apparently forgotten where he is, just to hiss:

“Sorry, I just—fucking shithead. It’s hilarious!”

It’s...really not? At least, Yamato doesn’t think the joke is that good. And it certainly doesn’t compensate for having to deal with an asshole like that, but hey. At least Power Ranger isn’t telling him to be more patient or accept that some people want him dead and that’s just how life is, so there’s that.

He still shoots a look at Mr. Genai over the counter, rolling his eyes and smirking a little when Mr. Genai gives him a ‘people are strange’ kind of shrug. It used to be Mr. Genai would rebuke Yamato’s outbursts at clients, sometimes even though he thought Yamato was in the right.

Nowadays, he’s either changed his stance on how to deal with terminal assholes, or come to the conclusion that Yamato is a good enough owner to keep the shop afloat without having to kiss everyone’s boots. Either way, it’s a show of support that means a lot, considering Mr. Genai is the last vaguely parental figure in Yamato’s life.

He nods at Power Rangers in acknowledgement, and maybe in thanks, too. Just a little. He’s not that starved for positive attention that he’ll admit it out loud but, well. It is a nice change to meet someone who appreciate his sense of, uh. Humor.

Power Ranger doesn’t seem to realize the exchange is over, though: he follows Yamato to the back of the shop, and barely stops in time to avoid a collision with the half-door marked ‘employees only’. Yamato is emptying his tray into the dishwasher, which is finally full enough to run, when Power Ranger calls out over the wood:

“What kind of college-age guy has his own coffee shop though? I mean you’re, what, twenty-five? Ish? I’m not good at white people ages but—”

The tray rattles when Yamato sets it down on the counter top.

“I’m Japanese.”

Technically, he’s a quarter French, but it’s not even like it shows that much outside of the eyes and hair, damn it!

“Oh, cool!” Power Ranger exclaims, the grin audible in his voice. “Do you speak Japanese?”

“Yes.”

Yamato was born in Japan, even. Spent the first eleven years of his life there until his mother’s job as a journalist moved the family to San Francisco. He may have spent more time outside of Tokyo than in, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten it, and having to prove he’s Japanese enough to people like Power Rangers who wear their origins on their faces got tiring something like five minutes into the first iteration of that particular conversation.

“That’s nice,” Power Ranger continues, still in Japanese, “because you look really cute and it’s easier to flirt without an audience.”

“Mr. Genai speaks Japanese as well.”

Yamato turns around to get back in the main room just as Power Ranger throws a barely-embarrassed grin toward Mr. Genai, and he almost chuckles at the sight. The guy, if nothing else, doesn’t seem to have a shy bone in his body.

“With all due respect to Mr. Genai, if he’s your employee he can’t tell you off for being seduced on the job.”

“Who says any of what you’re doing is working, here?”

Yamato does not shiver when he brushes past Power Ranger on his way back to the counter—no, really, he doesn’t. He does feel some heat creeping up his neck and into his ears, though.

“No one, but being optimistic doesn’t hurt,” Power Ranger retorts with an even wider grin that does things to Yamato’s insides.

It’s a little embarrassing, but then again, the guy is good looking, cute, somewhat funny in an accidental way, and he’s also not even trying to be subtle about his intentions. There’s no harm in indulging in the charm while it lasts, right?

“Maybe you’ve got it wrong and I’m not queer. I could be keeping homophobes out of my shop for the sake of a friend or family member. Or just as a decent human being.”

“As one of my best friends would say,” Power Ranger quotes with a finger in the air while Yamato wipes down the counters and sets on cleaning the coffee machine, “'the quest for true love was always dependent on taking risks'. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll catch the gay bug after a while.”

“’Sur un malentendu ça peut marcher’,” Yamato mutters, and Power Ranger’s eyes widen into a look of pleased surprise so intense he all but leans across the pick up station to ask:

“Was that French I heard?”

“Get off my counter, you’ll get me in trouble with the hygiene division. Yes, it was.”

“So, wait, you’re the college-aged owner of a fairly popular shop, a blond Japanese guy and you speak French? The thick plottens! You must explain!”

“Sorry,” Yamato replies, unashamedly quoting Tumblr, “you have to be at least a level three friend before you can unlock my tragic backstory.”

“What if I take you out on a date though? Do I have to be a level three date mate to unlock your backstory or does that come with its own set of rules?”

At the orders station, Mr. Genai tries and fails to cover a laugh under the scrap of his chair on tiled floor, which gives Yamato just enough time to smooth a stupid grin off his face before Power Ranger looks back to him.

“I think Mr. Genai likes me.”

“I think Mr. Genai thinks you’re ridiculous.”

“I think Mr. Genai can do both of these things at the same time,” Mr. Genai says from the counter.

The wind catchers on the door chime at that moment, as if to punctuate the exchange, and Yamato starts on a tall soy latte as soon as he hears Mr. Genai greet Miyako. She’s one of Takeru’s school friends, and she mostly comes to the neighborhood to visit Mimi’s pastry shop, across the street, but considering she swings by for an order almost every time, Yamato isn’t about to complain.

“I’m still at work,” he tells Power Rangers without bothering to put any heat in it, “you need to order something or let me do my job.”

“Do I get your number if I order something?”

Yamato turns around to the sound of Miyako choking on her own laughter, face hidden behind her hands as she stands next to Power Ranger and makes a valiant attempt at pretending she’s not laughing at the both of them. Yamato just sighs and hands her her usual drink, with a reminder for the dinner at his place the next weekend.

“I know you remember but Takeru would kill me if I didn’t make really really sure.”

“No worries. See you Saturday!”

“Please,” Power Ranger all but whines, “tell me Takeru isn’t your boyfriend.”

“He’s my little brother.”

“Oh! Little brother is fine—I’ve got a little sister, if they’re the same age—”

“Will you please go order something?”

Power Ranger dissolves in apologies, words coming out of his mouth at almost superhuman speed for the next ten seconds, before he goes to the counter and asks Mr. Genai for whichever dairy-free cold drink he likes best.

Yamato makes extra sure no one can see him grin like a loon, grateful that he decided to grow his hair out again this year. There’s nothing to be done about his ears, but at least that way Power Ranger can’t see him flush redder than a tomato.

Or, you know, write his number on the paper cup he pours the drink in.

“Thanks,” Power Rangers says with a wide, wide smile when he retrieves his drink.

Then he walks out of the shop like he hasn’t just spent the past half-hour flirting at Yamato like his life depended on it.

“Not to be intrusive,” Mr. Genai remarks in soft Japanese, “but it seemed to me like a rather speedy departure.”

“Yeah,” Yamato agrees, more disappointed than he cares to admit, “that was fast.”

He’s barely finished his sentence when Power Ranger pops back into view, slams the door to the shop open hard enough to make several customers jump in place—Mrs. Izumi even spills her tea—and runs up to the counter, red faced and out of breath:

“I’m so sorry,” he heaves in English, “I’m so stupid, I completely forgot to ask for your number!”

“It’s on the cup,” Yamato replies, too puzzled to to anything more than point at the item in question.

Power Ranger nods, turns around to leave again and, halfway through the shop, swirls back around to say:

“Almost forgot: my name’s Taichi. I’ll talk to you soon!”

This time he opens and closes the door like a normal human being, which is a relief. Yamato might find Taichi’s flustered attitude adorable—flattering, even—but that doesn’t mean it’s very good for his business.

He watches Taichi pause outside the door for a wide fist pump, then realize everyone inside the shop can see him and walk off with his face in his hands...straight into a streetlight.

Yamato may or may not choke in laughter at the sight, and he may or may not still be laughing about it when his phone buzzes.

‘So,’ Taichi’s text reads, ‘I will totally understand if you ask me to delete your number after this truly stunning display of human disastrousness.’

‘Honestly,’ Yamato replies, opting for Japanese just to see if Taichi can read it, ‘I get the feeling this kind of thing is why I will agree to go on a second date.’

It takes a while, but Taichi does reply with a long, long string of relieved, then happy, then dancing emojis.

(He pretends to be offended when Yamato shows the text exchange off on their wedding night four years later, but the way he keeps bragging about seducing Yamato through unabashed weirdness kind of gives the charade away.)

#digiotpweek #Yamato Ishida #taichi kamiya #Yamachi #Digimon #Digimon fic #Fanfiction #If you don't think Taichi 'once vomited in Sora's hat' Kamiya could do this #then we definitely don't see the same character #either that or the French dub fucked up which wouldn't even surprise me #ANYWAYS enjoy the fic #15n #20n #30n

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