Chapter Text
This was not what Almond expected to happen in his controlled, mundane life.
He followed a strict routine—exactly what people expected from someone of his caliber. Wake up at 6:30 AM, eat a low-sodium, highly nutritional meal tailored to his exact physical needs, and arrive at school by 7:45 AM. He was the epitome of a "study-focused specimen." Loved by instructors, feared by acquaintances. He was it.
Almond was calculative. He lived by timelines, outlines, and statistical data. His friends often joked that he was "too knowledgeable" because the information spilling out of his mouth was rarely known by average people. Books and research data piled high on his desk. Honestly, even his mother wondered where he inherited that trait. Maybe from his dad?
Class president, leader of the debate team, resident mathematician, and plus, he was handsome—he had it all. But his major downside, at least according to public opinion, was his complete lack of a social life. He had countless admirers, but he routinely turned them down with his typical, "I'm not looking for a relationship right now; I'm focusing on my education" type of speech.
His friends never let him live it down.
"You're probably the only person I know who turns down a literal line of admirers one by one just because you're a massive nerd."
Aston would tease during lunch, wildly exaggerating his facial expressions and qaltering his body language to mock the confessions he’d witnessed outside the lecture halls. Aston would place a hand over his heart, fluttering his eyelashes dramatically. "Oh, Almond, please take my love! And you're just like, 'Error 404, romance not found, go study calculus!'”
Keaton was the grounded one. Built from the same high caliber as Almond, just a little more carefree, a little softer around the edges. He was a politer, more diplomatic version of Aston, knowing exactly when to back down when he sensed the vein on Almond's forehead was beginning to throb with genuine annoyance.
"Stop it, Ton. Look, he's embarrassed," Keaton said, chuckling softly as he nudged Aston with an elbow. "It's okay, Mond. Maybe your person just isn't in this university. Maybe they're somewhere else. Out there in the real world, away from equations.”
Whenever they ate at the crowded cafeteria, the dynamic never shifted. Aston was always the loudest, drawing eyes from neighboring tables with his booming laughs and wild gestures. Keaton was the bridge between them, translating Aston's chaotic energy into something civilized. And Almond was the quiet anchor, sitting perfectly straight, methodically chewing his food. They were known around campus as a package deal. Aston was the star athlete, a powerhouse on the field. Keaton was an athlete too, but equipped with a sharp, tactical brain.
Sometimes, as Almond watched them bicker over something as trivial as sports statistics, he genuinely questioned why they were even friends. They were completely, fundamentally different. Loud, In-between, and Quiet. What a chaotic mix.
Yet, Almond had always securely believed that no one would ever truly meddle with his life. He had built walls of logic, reinforced them with high grades, and locked the door with a strict schedule.
Well, the universe had the last laugh.
There was one variable Almond could never oversee. A literal force of nature that bypassed every single one of his mathematical formulas. A human being named Progress.
Progress was loud. Not just normal loud, but a type of vibrant volume that could easily overpower the campus loudspeakers during a pep rally. He was a Fine Arts major, a fact that Almond had deduced without much effort based on Progress's incredibly bright, colorful demeanor and the paint-splattered canvas tote bag he constantly slung over his shoulder.
But the most frustrating thing about Progress was his eyes. Whenever he smiled or laughed—which was approximately ninety percent of the time—his eyes would crinkle up into perfect, flawless crescents. A total weirdo, if you asked Almond. Not that Almond would ever say it to his face, of course. That would violate basic campus etiquette.
Progress knew absolutely everyone. He would wave cheerfully at the cafeteria ladies, trade jokes with the stiffest professors, and high-five the campus security guards on his way through the gates. There was a literal world of difference between him and Almond. Almond was an isolated island of logic; Progress was a sprawling, chaotic festival.
If Aston ever met him, they’d probably get along like a house on fire, Almond thought to himself one afternoon, watching from a distance. They're both aggressively high-energy. It would be an absolute nightmare to stand between them.
Lately, though, Almond had noticed a terrifying pattern. Whenever he spotted Progress walking through the crowded corridors, the art student was always surrounded by a very specific group of four people: one who looked distinctly foreign, two who were so blatantly a couple by the way they held hands and shared drinks that it was practically sickening, and a fourth person—the exact student Aston secretly had a massive, pathetic crush on.
One day, while staring at the group, a sudden wave of cold panic washed over Almond.
Wait. Why do I know all this? his internal voice demanded, his mind spinning into an immediate spiral of self-correction. Why am I cataloging his friend group? Why do I know that he prefers acrylics over watercolors because of the stains on his left thumb? This is completely illogical. Am I collecting information on this guy like a literal stalker? I am a mathematician. I track data for academic trends, not for random, paint-scented art majors who don't even know my name.
He didn't know why. And the lack of an explanation was driving him entirely, utterly crazy.
Why was he noticing him? Why did his eyes automatically track that specific patch of bright, paint-stained denim whenever he walked into a room? They belonged to entirely different worlds, destined to move along parallel lines that would never, ever intersect.
Until this exact day.
It happened during his General Education class in the late afternoon. The routine was supposed to be the exact same as it always was: sit by the large window, enjoy the warm sunbeams hitting his notebook, feel the mellow breeze filtering through the structural cracks of the old building, take attendance, listen to the lecture, take immaculate notes, and get dismissed. Clean. Seamless.
He never expected a single, casual announcement to make him question his entire existential framework.
“So, class," the professor announced, clapping their hands together and beginning to pack up a leather briefcase. "Since I am scheduled for an academic seminar next week, I won't be able to lecture on our next topic. However, an acquaintance of mine from another department suggested a paired project between my students and theirs. It's a great opportunity for you to collaborate, integrate, and socially interact."
A collective wave of miserable groans mixed with excited chatter immediately erupted in the lecture hall. Almond automatically tuned it out. Other people's emotional reactions to academic workloads weren't his business. He just stared at the professor, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. Socially interact? Integrate? With another department?
"This will be a major output, accounting for thirty percent of your final grade, so please make sure you get along," the professor added with a cheerful, entirely unbothered smile. "I will randomly assign the pairings via Google Chat later this afternoon. Goodbye, everyone!”
Instantly, the room descended into chaos. Almond sat there in a total state of crisis. An integrated output with students from a different department.
What an absolute tragedy. He felt drained just thinking about it. He pulled out his phone and frantically texted the group chat.
This is nuts. A pair activity with students from another class. What are your opinions? I need statistical data because this is making my head spin.
Whoa, what the hell? Your instructor is a menace. That's gonna suck so bad if you get paired with a dumbass. Your head is literally gonna smoke. RIP 😂💀
I agree with Aston, Mond. That's totally out of nowhere, even for that professor. First time I've ever heard of a setup like that. You'll probably head to that bakery to decompress, right? The yellow one with the sunshine walls? Grab me some blueberry croissants and an iced caramel latte, please.
Wait, me too! Strawberry coffee and a peach cobbler, Mond! 😭🙏 pls pls pls
Fine. Send me the money later. Bye.
Keeping his expression completely blank, Almond walked out of the university gates with his usual tailored, precise posture. He passed the guardhouse, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the pavement as he made the sixteen-minute trek to the one place where he could actually escape his own head:
Pastel Chvoire Café.
With its soft pastel pinks and sunny yellows splurged across the exterior walls, it was a literal delight for the eyes.
He pushed the door open, the bell chiming softly. The lighting inside was perfect—not too harsh or sterile, just a warm, comforting glow. Childlike artistry and whimsical sketches gleamed from every corner. Almond navigated to his usual spot in the corner, a table flanked by beautiful white and pink flowers. It completely contradicted the rigid image people had of him, but here, he could breathe. He let his body sink gracefully into the chair, letting the tension melt away.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the table. Almond instantly scrambled back into his "outside personality"—back straight, expression controlled, perfectly precise.
"Hi sir! What can I get started for you today?"
Almond rattled off the order without looking up. "I'd like a chocolate mocha frappe with ten percent sugar, an iced strawberry coffee, an iced caramel latte, one blueberry croissant, and a peach cobbler to go, please. Kindly place them in separate containers."
"Got it, sir. Anything else?"
"Nothing. That's all."
"All right, I'll have the barista prepare that for you right away!"
As the waiter hurried back to the counter, Almond let out a quiet sigh and finally relaxed his posture. For a split second, he had felt completely exposed, like someone had caught him slipping past his defenses. He shook his head. Guess it's just not my lucky day.
Almond kept his eyes glued to his phone screen, waiting for the inevitable Google Chat notification. The ambient noise of the café—the gentle hiss of the espresso machine, the soft acoustic playlist—usually calmed him.
"One chocolate mocha frappe at ten percent sugar, an iced strawberry coffee, a caramel latte, and the pastries!"
The voice didn't just carry; it practically sang.
Almond’s fingers froze over his keyboard. That voice. It was too loud for a peaceful café, too bright, and entirely too familiar. He slowly lifted his head, his analytical brain desperately trying to calculate a margin of error.
There, standing behind the pastel yellow counter in a paint-splattered green apron, was Progress.
His crescent-moon eyes crinkled as he flashed a brilliant, high-wattage smile at a customer leaving a tip. He wiped his hands on his apron, scooped up the heavy take-out tray, and began walking straight toward Almond’s table.
Almond felt a physical sensation of locking up. His posture stiffened so fast his spine popped.
What is a force of nature doing in my controlled environment?
"Here’s your massive order, sir!" Progress chirped, setting the tray down with a little flourish. Up close, Almond could smell a faint mix of coffee beans, vanilla and acrylic paint.
"Separate containers, just like you asked. Though, man, ten percent sugar on a mocha? That’s basically drinking cold, blended sadness. Respect, but wow."
Almond opened his mouth, but for the first time in his life, his database of extensive knowledge completely failed him. No words came out. He just stared.
Progress blinked, tilting his head. The playful smile on his face shifted into a look of sudden, dramatic realization. He leaned in a little closer, his eyes widening.
"Wait... hold on. You’re Almond, right? From the debate team? The guy who looks like he’s judging everyone's posture?"
Before Almond could process the sheer indignity of being described that way, the phone in his hand vibrated with a violent, aggressive buzz.
A Google Chat banner popped up at the top of his screen:
[GE 104] Prof. Santos: Class, here are the paired assignments for the integrated output. Please contact your partner immediately.
Pair 12: Almond (Dept. of Mathematics) & Progress (Dept. of Fine Arts)
The universe wasn't just having the last laugh; it was practically cackling.
Almond looked from the phone screen, up to Progress, and back to the phone screen.
Progress, catching sight of the bright notification, glanced down. He gasped—a sound so loud it actually made a girl at the next table look over—and pointed a paint-stained finger at the phone.
"No way," Progress beamed, his face lighting up like a carnival. "You're my partner?! Oh, this is fate! I was literally just telling my friends I was going to fail this project!"
Almond sat there, utterly trapped in his seat, completely and totally frozen.
What the heck is this? Almond's inner dialogue scrambled wildly. This is not what I expected. Is my statistical data wrong this time? How should I act with him? He's already too loud, for God's sake.
His mind scrambled into a terrifying realization. While the person he was talking about was right there in his line of sight—standing in front of him just beaming and hollering, not caring if the people around him heard what he was doing just because he was gonna pass the output, eyes beaming with delight and happiness—Progress was completely blind to the breaking down demeanor of his partner, which Almond desperately kept hidden under a shield of controlled outside glee.
"Bro, Almond, I'm so happy that you're my partner, holy shit," Progress laughed, shaking his head. "Just tell me what to do. I'm trying my best. Just don't patronize me, bro. Tell me your Line ID. We'll communicate there, okay?"
Progress was quite confused by Almond's behavior. He noticed that the guy wasn't responding at all.
"Hello, bro? you there? Are you okay?"
Progress softly touched Almond’s shoulder with a controlled, gentle demeanor. The physical contact snapped Almond completely out of his rigid stance, making him intensely aware of Progress's touch and concerned gaze. Almond’s cheeks turned a crazy shade of pink, as if he were wearing a heavy pink blush that was entirely too much for him. He stammered over his words, trying to force his voice to get straight to the point.
"I'm… okay, Progress. Let's just plan this over with. So, yes, I'm Almond as you see, your partner. Let's plan what we're going to do with our project first."
"Okay!" Progress smiled.
Suddenly, a voice cut right through them, calling Progress's name from across the room.
"Progress boy. You're so loud the customers heard it. I was just in the back arranging things and now you're out here creating total chaos. Very 'Progress' of you."
The voice was authoritative, with a distinct hint of a caring demeanor. They both looked up at the counter. Standing there was a guy—about 5’11 tall, probably—with sharp eyes scanning Almond, looking just a little bit scary.
"Hi, Boss Gemini! I'm just talking with my partner here for our collaborative output. It was really sudden too, I didn't expect it either!" Progress said with an amusing expression, completely baffling both Almond and Gemini.
"Just control your voice, you little kid," Gemini sighed, rubbing his temples. "Remember, you're in the cafe, not lounging in your own home. Geez."
Gemini's eyes then wandered back over to Almond, shifting into an amusing but deeply apologetic demeanor.
"Sorry, customer. This kid is just so loud and can't be controlled easily. Be patient with him. Progress, do what you're gonna do, because it's important. We'll take it from here."
"Thank you, boss!" Progress cheered.
The eyes of the boy smelling like acrylic paint turned into flawless crescents again, looking exactly like an excited puppy. He moved over right beside the calculative boy, their shoulders pressing remarkably close to each other as Progress began scrambling into the neighboring chair, eager to talk to Almond about what to do with the project.
Almond froze. Like, literally froze. He hadn't expected it at all—a person casually engaging in skinship with him. If he were with anyone else on campus, he would be deeply annoyed, but with Progress... it felt right. No, it felt perfect.
If Aston were to see this right now, Almond thought in an absolute panic, he would be cackling until he couldn't breathe, with Keaton standing right on his side smiling. I am completely losing control of my parameters.
It felt like he was standing at the very edge of the world, barely holding on by his fingertips. And Progress was entirely oblivious to the absolute emotional devastation Almond was experiencing.
He was doomed. Utterly, completely doomed.