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‘Hey, promise me you won’t change.’

‘Change? Why would I?’

‘Just promise me.’

‘I promise. I won’t change.’

‘You said it, you’d better keep it, or you’ll owe me—‘

‘All the cups of coffee you want, alright?’

‘Just ten would do.’

‘… Just ten?’

‘Just ten. Maybe it’d seem like a lot after you’ve changed.’

‘But… Would you stay for more? If I wanted you to?’

A laugh. ‘Who am I to say no?’

One.

The office is quiet. It's late, and there's no frenzied typing, no sound of high heels and heavy footsteps. Nothing to distract you.

That's why you like coming to the office at night. You sink into your chair gratefully, finally relieving your legs from supporting your weight after an entire day. The white suitcase - which you feel has been growing heavier and heavier each passing day - is gently placed on the floor beside you.

Letting out a small sigh, you stretch your arms out in front of you, feeling the strain the day has put on muscles. Just report what happened today, and you're free to go. You reach out to turn on your computer, then your eyes drop to the mug on your table, eyebrows raising at the sight of a blue post-it stuck on the ceramic.

The note is written down in a neat but still distinctly boyish handwriting, and it's the first time you're receiving a note from anyone who isn't asking you to write a report or do your work.

'Don't stay till too late?

- Sasaki Haise'

The question mark has your lips twitching up into an unwilling smile. The name looks familiar even though you can’t match it to a face, but you're sure no one in the office would try to poison you. Considering how tired you are now, you’re not sure if you’d even care if this was an attempt on your life.

Don’t stay till too late? You’ll try not to, you think, reaching for the mug and peeking into its contents to see that it's coffee. It's cold, but you take a sip of it anyway, too lazy to make your way to the coffee machine.

It's not machine made, and it's... Surprisingly good.

Two.

Telephones ring. Voices are muttered. Keys on keyboards are being pushed down in the most horrible and loud of ways.

The unfinished draft of your report glares at you from the computer screen. The more you try to focus on the words, the more they blur, seemingly rearranging themselves to form the words of a language you do not understand.

The white noise in the background makes it worse, makes your head spin. It makes it all too easy to lose yourself in less than soothing thoughts.

Sometimes you wonder how people survive in this kind of environment. Your fingers itch to do something other than type on the computer, and you feel the urge to push up and march out the office doors.

So you do, grabbing your white coat and quinque as you make your way towards the doors. Anything is better than staying in this small office place where the buzz and drone chips away at the sanity of your mind.

Your gaze meets the surprised grey one belonging to someone with a head of black and white hair as you duck through the doors. He offers you a small smile, and vaguely, you recognise that he’s a first-class investigator. You feel a stir of recognition, deeper than just recognising him from the CCG, but you jerk your gaze away from his, solely focused on getting out of the office.

The day turns out like the previous one.

You return to another mug of coffee on your table, another note.

‘Maybe sometimes you’ll feel like collapsing. But then you’ll lose to them. So don’t, okay?

- Sasaki Haise’

You blink, finally matching the name to its face - one you had seen just this afternoon. His words strike something in your heart.

Sighing, you cup your hands around the mug to see if it’s already cold.

It is, but you gulp the beverage down anyways.

Four.

You feel eyes staring at the back of your head, feel the weight of his stare, but you only continue looking at your screen.

His reaction to the cup of coffee on his table is not something you particularly wanted to see, for if it turned out to be different from what you expect, - not that you knew exactly what you had expected - you wouldn’t know how to feel.

You had turned away as soon as he read the post-it on the cup and looked towards your direction, and as much as you hoped he didn’t notice you staring, he could probably tell from the stiffness of your body that you could feel his eyes on you. You were never good at hiding your emotions.

You hear a laugh - soft and gentle and nothing you’d expect from a first class investigator in the fact that it’s so, so familiar - that makes your cheeks redden in embarrassment as you redirect your attention back to your screen, trying to make final changes to the report you were supposed to have done yesterday.

Half an hour later you send the report for printing and push up from your seat, making your way to the printer. When you glance back at the first class investigator - Sasaki - he’s furrowing his eyebrows at his screen, your cup of coffee in his hand.

When you make your way back to your seat after sending in your report and reporting to your superiors, a mug of coffee sits on your table once again.

‘If you enjoyed the previous three cups of coffee so much, here’s a fourth.’

You reach for the mug, and this time, it’s warm. Your lips curl into a smile.

Seven.

You struggle with the monsters in your heart. Over and over, he watches as you fight, and fight, and fight, until you crack.

Sometimes you leave without a backward glance. Others, you slow just the slightest, fingers clutching your white suitcase so hard that the knuckles turn white. Those times, your eyes stray to meet his for the slightest moment before bouncing away. They look like the eyes of a feral creature.

Maybe he sees some kind of desperation in them. Maybe he sees a girl who longs for some kind of comfort. Maybe he sees someone who seeks protection against her monsters.

Whatever he sees, there's always a cup of coffee waiting for you when you return to the office at night. Maybe it’s become a thing between the two of you. You’d like to think the caramel liquid heals your heart.

But each time, you return a little more tattered and broken. He sees it in your gaze.

And you know he does, through the little notes he leaves, or maybe through his grey eyes. Maybe you even hope that he notices. That's why when you read the note on the cup of coffee - the sixth he's offered, you're counting - one hazy, raining night, you take out your own pen.

'Do you want to talk about it? I know a place with great coffee.'

In response, your handwriting is jerky and scribbled - like someone trying to write for the first time. You write in the empty space beneath his words, too tired to hunt for your own paper.

Your footsteps are unhurried as you walk to his desk and paste the sticky note on the surface of his table - it isn't as clean and tidy as it had been days ago. Yet when you walk away, you notice you've been biting your lips hard enough to draw blood - much harder than you thought.

'Only if the coffee's as good as yours.'

Eight.

He's silent as he stirs his cup of caramel liquid. You stare into yours as he does, watching the tiny ripples on its surface.

The coffee shop is surprisingly quiet, and somehow, you’re afraid of opening your mouth - afraid of disturbing this silence between you. But the words… They bubble up anyway, quick but soft. You think it’s pathetic that you sound so small. But this is the man who offered you coffee with words that tell you he understands - this is… Sasaki Haise.

He understands how it’s like to have monsters in the back of your mind, egging you over the edge of sanity. He understands how it’s like to live a life that doesn’t feel like yours. It’s like he understands you.

So you tell him. You pour it out - the unwelcome thoughts that arise when there's constant, whirling white noise around you, the feeling of finally being in control of yourself when you’re out, quinque in hand, the comfort you’ve always felt in silence. It's ironic, that you're now breaking a silence you've always treasured.

You keep this to yourself, but maybe you're starting to find comfort in the presence of the dual-coloured haired investigator across you. Maybe you can forgive him for… This.

He doesn't talk, only listens quietly as you spill out your thoughts, staring into your gaze with grey ones that bring back so many memories you feel like your brain is - or maybe your eyes are - going to flood over. And when you're finished, when silence begins to set over you like a blanket, you feel like a weight has finally lifted off your chest. No, not lifted. Pushed - hauled off.

You reach for your untouched coffee on the table, but his fingers circles and wraps around the cup before yours. As you look at him with a raised eyebrow, he smiles - gentle and soft - just like how you remember. It’s heart aching, but soothing at the same time.

"It's cold, don't drink it."

As if you don't drink coffee cold all the time.

"But..."

“Come on, I’ll make some for you back at the office,” he pushes up, glancing back to see if you were following, and his lips twitch at the look on your face as you regarded the cup of coffee on the table.

Unwillingly, your lips tip up, and you follow.

Nine.

The apartment he shares with his squad members is full of life - arguments and dinners and laughter. You’re glad; it feels lived in.

But now, it’s quiet as you follow the investigator into the kitchen. Your eyes scan the place, and your heart wrenches. You’re… Not a part of his life anymore.

But books, they are. You see them lying on the countertops and tables, and the corner of your lips twitch as you question why you hadn’t expected that. It’s kind of calming to see that some things haven’t changed, you muse to yourself, and as if he’s heard, he glances at you, gaze gentle but questioning.

So you shake your head, hiding your feelings again. “It’s nothing.”

His eyebrows furrow slightly, as if to say that it’s something, but he doesn’t pry, turning back to his task at hand. You watch as he slowly pours hot water over the ground coffee beans in spirals, and the dark liquid sips through the filter paper and into the jug below. Uncontrollably, your lips twitch up into the smallest of smiles, and you find yourself letting out a soft laugh.

Sasaki’s concentration breaks - or maybe he hasn’t really been able to focus much at all, and he glances at you. It might just be the lighting, but his cheeks are pink when he quickly turns his grey gaze away and sets the hot water aside.

“You really haven’t changed at all, you know?” You say as he lifts up the filter paper and lets the last few drops drain. Your words are soft - he doesn’t catch them, but you have a feeling he knows anyway.

The coffee is left to cool as he turns back to you. His expression tells you he’s hesitant, but his eyes are determined. You guess you couldn’t have avoided the question anyway, and you close your eyes - maybe you’re willing yourself not to cry.

“I did know you - Kaneki Ken,” your first words waver, but they come out audible. It’s difficult to push them out, but you do so anyway, deciding that he had the right to know about his past. You never thought it’d be easy, but once you open your mouth, and the words flow.

Sasaki Haise holds out a cup of warm coffee for you when you’re done speaking, and his smile is filled with melancholy.

“I’m sorry.”

You breathe out a laugh, reaching across the distance between you to gratefully wrap your fingers around the cup.

“For what?”

Ten.

You go to the office in the morning. Maybe it’s time you stopped running from your duties. Maybe you want to see if anything’s changed between the dual-colour haired investigator and you. But that curiosity dies down - replaced by a prick of surprise, then a flutter of butterflies - when you push open the office doors and your eyes land on the figure standing beside your desk.

He glances up as you make your way over, and there’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze - as if he hadn’t expected you to come. Then he smiles, and it seems as if your nerves stop buzzing, seeing that the previous night hadn’t really changed him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” is what you echo back to him when you reach your desk, and a slow blush rises onto his cheeks. He’s holding a cup of coffee - there’s a flicker in your heart when you think that might be for you.

His hand creeps up to grasp the back of his neck, and he’s the definition of flustered as he avoids your gaze. His words come out haltingly.

“Last night, you said that the past me owed you ten cups of coffee, and it sounded as if you had planned to up and leave after the last cup, but…

“But would you stay for more? If I wanted you to?”

His words are an echo of the past, and as he raises his eyes to yours, and it’s as if you’re staring at Kaneki again, but this is different, - it’s different, because he’s changed - different, but maybe, you don’t mind this difference. The past, it’s an angry thing - it’s everything - but in that past, you did promise that no matter how much everything changed, you’d be a constant.

You don’t realise the tears in your eyes until they begin to sting, but you smile through the tears, and your laugh sounds bright and genuine - maybe even the most genuine one he’s ever heard. Your fingers brush his as you accept the warm cup.

“Who am I to say no?”

.

‘Besides, if you'll allow it, I won't leave your side.'
'No matter how much I change?'
'No matter how much we change.'

Description

‘Hey, promise me you won’t change.’

‘Change? Why would I?’

‘Just promise me.’

‘I promise. I won’t change.’

‘You said it, you’d better keep it, or you’ll owe me—‘

‘All the cups of coffee you want, alright?’

‘Just ten would do.’

‘… Just ten?’

‘Just ten. Maybe it’d seem like a lot after you’ve changed.’

‘But… Would you stay for more? If I wanted you to?’

A laugh. ‘Who am I to say no?’

One.

The office is quiet. It's late, and there's no frenzied typing, no sound of high heels and heavy footsteps. Nothing to distract you.

That's why you like coming to the office at night. You sink into your chair gratefully, finally relieving your legs from supporting your weight after an entire day. The white suitcase - which you feel has been growing heavier and heavier each passing day - is gently placed on the floor beside you.

Letting out a small sigh, you stretch your arms out in front of you, feeling the strain the day has put on muscles. Just report what happened today, and you're free to go. You reach out to turn on your computer, then your eyes drop to the mug on your table, eyebrows raising at the sight of a blue post-it stuck on the ceramic.

The note is written down in a neat but still distinctly boyish handwriting, and it's the first time you're receiving a note from anyone who isn't asking you to write a report or do your work.

'Don't stay till too late?

- Sasaki Haise'

The question mark has your lips twitching up into an unwilling smile. The name looks familiar even though you can’t match it to a face, but you're sure no one in the office would try to poison you. Considering how tired you are now, you’re not sure if you’d even care if this was an attempt on your life.

Don’t stay till too late? You’ll try not to, you think, reaching for the mug and peeking into its contents to see that it's coffee. It's cold, but you take a sip of it anyway, too lazy to make your way to the coffee machine.

It's not machine made, and it's... Surprisingly good.

Two.

Telephones ring. Voices are muttered. Keys on keyboards are being pushed down in the most horrible and loud of ways.

The unfinished draft of your report glares at you from the computer screen. The more you try to focus on the words, the more they blur, seemingly rearranging themselves to form the words of a language you do not understand.

The white noise in the background makes it worse, makes your head spin. It makes it all too easy to lose yourself in less than soothing thoughts.

Sometimes you wonder how people survive in this kind of environment. Your fingers itch to do something other than type on the computer, and you feel the urge to push up and march out the office doors.

So you do, grabbing your white coat and quinque as you make your way towards the doors. Anything is better than staying in this small office place where the buzz and drone chips away at the sanity of your mind.

Your gaze meets the surprised grey one belonging to someone with a head of black and white hair as you duck through the doors. He offers you a small smile, and vaguely, you recognise that he’s a first-class investigator. You feel a stir of recognition, deeper than just recognising him from the CCG, but you jerk your gaze away from his, solely focused on getting out of the office.

The day turns out like the previous one.

You return to another mug of coffee on your table, another note.

‘Maybe sometimes you’ll feel like collapsing. But then you’ll lose to them. So don’t, okay?

- Sasaki Haise’

You blink, finally matching the name to its face - one you had seen just this afternoon. His words strike something in your heart.

Sighing, you cup your hands around the mug to see if it’s already cold.

It is, but you gulp the beverage down anyways.

Four.

You feel eyes staring at the back of your head, feel the weight of his stare, but you only continue looking at your screen.

His reaction to the cup of coffee on his table is not something you particularly wanted to see, for if it turned out to be different from what you expect, - not that you knew exactly what you had expected - you wouldn’t know how to feel.

You had turned away as soon as he read the post-it on the cup and looked towards your direction, and as much as you hoped he didn’t notice you staring, he could probably tell from the stiffness of your body that you could feel his eyes on you. You were never good at hiding your emotions.

You hear a laugh - soft and gentle and nothing you’d expect from a first class investigator in the fact that it’s so, so familiar - that makes your cheeks redden in embarrassment as you redirect your attention back to your screen, trying to make final changes to the report you were supposed to have done yesterday.

Half an hour later you send the report for printing and push up from your seat, making your way to the printer. When you glance back at the first class investigator - Sasaki - he’s furrowing his eyebrows at his screen, your cup of coffee in his hand.

When you make your way back to your seat after sending in your report and reporting to your superiors, a mug of coffee sits on your table once again.

‘If you enjoyed the previous three cups of coffee so much, here’s a fourth.’

You reach for the mug, and this time, it’s warm. Your lips curl into a smile.

Seven.

You struggle with the monsters in your heart. Over and over, he watches as you fight, and fight, and fight, until you crack.

Sometimes you leave without a backward glance. Others, you slow just the slightest, fingers clutching your white suitcase so hard that the knuckles turn white. Those times, your eyes stray to meet his for the slightest moment before bouncing away. They look like the eyes of a feral creature.

Maybe he sees some kind of desperation in them. Maybe he sees a girl who longs for some kind of comfort. Maybe he sees someone who seeks protection against her monsters.

Whatever he sees, there's always a cup of coffee waiting for you when you return to the office at night. Maybe it’s become a thing between the two of you. You’d like to think the caramel liquid heals your heart.

But each time, you return a little more tattered and broken. He sees it in your gaze.

And you know he does, through the little notes he leaves, or maybe through his grey eyes. Maybe you even hope that he notices. That's why when you read the note on the cup of coffee - the sixth he's offered, you're counting - one hazy, raining night, you take out your own pen.

'Do you want to talk about it? I know a place with great coffee.'

In response, your handwriting is jerky and scribbled - like someone trying to write for the first time. You write in the empty space beneath his words, too tired to hunt for your own paper.

Your footsteps are unhurried as you walk to his desk and paste the sticky note on the surface of his table - it isn't as clean and tidy as it had been days ago. Yet when you walk away, you notice you've been biting your lips hard enough to draw blood - much harder than you thought.

'Only if the coffee's as good as yours.'

Eight.

He's silent as he stirs his cup of caramel liquid. You stare into yours as he does, watching the tiny ripples on its surface.

The coffee shop is surprisingly quiet, and somehow, you’re afraid of opening your mouth - afraid of disturbing this silence between you. But the words… They bubble up anyway, quick but soft. You think it’s pathetic that you sound so small. But this is the man who offered you coffee with words that tell you he understands - this is… Sasaki Haise.

He understands how it’s like to have monsters in the back of your mind, egging you over the edge of sanity. He understands how it’s like to live a life that doesn’t feel like yours. It’s like he understands you.

So you tell him. You pour it out - the unwelcome thoughts that arise when there's constant, whirling white noise around you, the feeling of finally being in control of yourself when you’re out, quinque in hand, the comfort you’ve always felt in silence. It's ironic, that you're now breaking a silence you've always treasured.

You keep this to yourself, but maybe you're starting to find comfort in the presence of the dual-coloured haired investigator across you. Maybe you can forgive him for… This.

He doesn't talk, only listens quietly as you spill out your thoughts, staring into your gaze with grey ones that bring back so many memories you feel like your brain is - or maybe your eyes are - going to flood over. And when you're finished, when silence begins to set over you like a blanket, you feel like a weight has finally lifted off your chest. No, not lifted. Pushed - hauled off.

You reach for your untouched coffee on the table, but his fingers circles and wraps around the cup before yours. As you look at him with a raised eyebrow, he smiles - gentle and soft - just like how you remember. It’s heart aching, but soothing at the same time.

"It's cold, don't drink it."

As if you don't drink coffee cold all the time.

"But..."

“Come on, I’ll make some for you back at the office,” he pushes up, glancing back to see if you were following, and his lips twitch at the look on your face as you regarded the cup of coffee on the table.

Unwillingly, your lips tip up, and you follow.

Nine.

The apartment he shares with his squad members is full of life - arguments and dinners and laughter. You’re glad; it feels lived in.

But now, it’s quiet as you follow the investigator into the kitchen. Your eyes scan the place, and your heart wrenches. You’re… Not a part of his life anymore.

But books, they are. You see them lying on the countertops and tables, and the corner of your lips twitch as you question why you hadn’t expected that. It’s kind of calming to see that some things haven’t changed, you muse to yourself, and as if he’s heard, he glances at you, gaze gentle but questioning.

So you shake your head, hiding your feelings again. “It’s nothing.”

His eyebrows furrow slightly, as if to say that it’s something, but he doesn’t pry, turning back to his task at hand. You watch as he slowly pours hot water over the ground coffee beans in spirals, and the dark liquid sips through the filter paper and into the jug below. Uncontrollably, your lips twitch up into the smallest of smiles, and you find yourself letting out a soft laugh.

Sasaki’s concentration breaks - or maybe he hasn’t really been able to focus much at all, and he glances at you. It might just be the lighting, but his cheeks are pink when he quickly turns his grey gaze away and sets the hot water aside.

“You really haven’t changed at all, you know?” You say as he lifts up the filter paper and lets the last few drops drain. Your words are soft - he doesn’t catch them, but you have a feeling he knows anyway.

The coffee is left to cool as he turns back to you. His expression tells you he’s hesitant, but his eyes are determined. You guess you couldn’t have avoided the question anyway, and you close your eyes - maybe you’re willing yourself not to cry.

“I did know you - Kaneki Ken,” your first words waver, but they come out audible. It’s difficult to push them out, but you do so anyway, deciding that he had the right to know about his past. You never thought it’d be easy, but once you open your mouth, and the words flow.

Sasaki Haise holds out a cup of warm coffee for you when you’re done speaking, and his smile is filled with melancholy.

“I’m sorry.”

You breathe out a laugh, reaching across the distance between you to gratefully wrap your fingers around the cup.

“For what?”

Ten.

You go to the office in the morning. Maybe it’s time you stopped running from your duties. Maybe you want to see if anything’s changed between the dual-colour haired investigator and you. But that curiosity dies down - replaced by a prick of surprise, then a flutter of butterflies - when you push open the office doors and your eyes land on the figure standing beside your desk.

He glances up as you make your way over, and there’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze - as if he hadn’t expected you to come. Then he smiles, and it seems as if your nerves stop buzzing, seeing that the previous night hadn’t really changed him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” is what you echo back to him when you reach your desk, and a slow blush rises onto his cheeks. He’s holding a cup of coffee - there’s a flicker in your heart when you think that might be for you.

His hand creeps up to grasp the back of his neck, and he’s the definition of flustered as he avoids your gaze. His words come out haltingly.

“Last night, you said that the past me owed you ten cups of coffee, and it sounded as if you had planned to up and leave after the last cup, but…

“But would you stay for more? If I wanted you to?”

His words are an echo of the past, and as he raises his eyes to yours, and it’s as if you’re staring at Kaneki again, but this is different, - it’s different, because he’s changed - different, but maybe, you don’t mind this difference. The past, it’s an angry thing - it’s everything - but in that past, you did promise that no matter how much everything changed, you’d be a constant.

You don’t realise the tears in your eyes until they begin to sting, but you smile through the tears, and your laugh sounds bright and genuine - maybe even the most genuine one he’s ever heard. Your fingers brush his as you accept the warm cup.

“Who am I to say no?”

.

‘Besides, if you'll allow it, I won't leave your side.'
'No matter how much I change?'
'No matter how much we change.'