Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“First day of work, darling,” said Lynette, fixing her lipstick in the mirror as she glanced at Gareth. “Are you ready to expose some OSHA violations?”

Gareth looked up at her and grinned. “Oh, I’ve never been more ready.” He kissed her on the cheek and slung a coat over his shoulders. “Shall we?”

Lynette hummed and examined her makeup before taking his offered hand. “This is going to be fun.”

The trip to Saxons’ Café was a bit longer than Gareth’s normal commute to Lionheart, but it gave the two of them time to plan.

“I think we go for the doorways first,” proposed Lynette, popping her gum. “There’s a lot of rules about doorways. Or emergency exit routes, that’s a big one.”

“What about first aid? I bet Hengist hasn’t updated his kits in years.”

“Good idea, but harder to hold against him. Easier to fix. Plus, they’ve already had like ten complaints,” Lynette said, peering through the stack of papers in her hands. “So this could get us as far as we need alone.”

“Where’d you find these even?” asked Gareth, taking the top page from Lynette.

“Oh I just know things, Gareth,” she said, taking it back without looking. “You understand. Anyways, I think we need the measurements of at least three halls, doors, and or exit routes. Let’s hope they’re too small.”

“You’re so hot when you talk about health and safety regulations,” Gareth said as they approached the double doors of the cafe.

Lynette shoved the papers into her bag and stopped, smiling at Gareth. “Oh please,” she kissed him once before resting her sunglasses on her head and walking into their place of conquest. “I’m always hot.”

Cold and impersonal lights shone overhead as the pair made their way inside, and a short, stocky man greeted them from behind a fake marble counter.

“‘Morning. I should give you the training according to the protocol or whatever, but you probably know all that already so I’m just going to skip it. Your aprons are over there.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hengist,” said Gareth, smiling. Lynette waved at him cheerily.

“Guys,” Hengist said, directed at the few tired teenagers and twenty-somethings that already haunted the halls of the coffeeshop. “These are… uh… Gareth and Lynette, they’re new, treat them well. Or something.” He looked over his blinking audience and sighed. “Well anyways, we’re opening in five, so that frappuccino machine had better have been fixed by one of you rodents. Goodbye.” Hengist grimaced as he retreated in a small nondescript plywood door.

Gareth and Lynette put on their aprons and headed for the staff room, looking for the shift board. They walked down a (non OSHA compliant) corridor, accidentally opened the door to the (non OSHA compliant) staff bathroom and finally stumbled into the (barely OSHA compliant) staff room. They checked the board.

“Bathroom duty,” read Gareth.

“Bitch,” said Lynette.

“Well, at least we’ll have the time to measure it,” sighed Gareth, ever the optimist.

Fastening name tags onto their aprons and pulling out their measuring tapes stolen from IKEA, they made their way towards the bathroom.

Their measuring time was interrupted the first time barely ten minutes after they got there. A young man in a hoodie walked in, used one of the stalls, and left behind him a trail of flour that looked like it was coming out of his pockets.

“I don’t even know what to say about that,” said Lynette after the man had left.

Gareth was already moving to sweep up the flour, and shrugged. “You get used to it.”

Despite the delays, Gareth and Lynette managed to intermittently clean the bathroom while collecting evidence. Most of their shift was spent coming up with elaborate ways to inconspicuously find the heights and widths of various hallways and doors. Lynette was on a mission to find at least one satisfyingly tight emergency exit, but insisted on measuring every opening or corner they came across on the way there.

“Is this, like, a new kink or something? Should I be taking notes?” asked Gareth, crouching on one side of the measuring tape as Lynette tapped the length into her phone.

Lynette’s head snapped at him and she scoffed. “Absolutely not. That would be nerd behavior. You think I’m a nerd, Hot Hands? You think that?”

“No, of course not babe, It just seems like you’re really into this-”

“You guys measuring doorways?” interrupted a voice from behind them. They jumped and the tape snapped back into its shell. It was one of their co-workers from before, a bored-looking teenager with black nails and a chain necklace, leaning against the wall opposite them.

Lynette shot up and took an identical leaning position, staring into the kid’s eyes. “Of course not. Why would you think that? We’re on bathroom duty, why would we be measuring doorways-” she checked his name tag, “Ælfrith.”

Ælfrith nodded. “Sure. So, what, are you guys like secret door inspectors or something? Looking to get dirt on Hengist?”

“That would be ridiculous,” Gareth said, litting his eyes back and forth between Lynette and Ælfrith. He laughed nervously. “Who does that? So weird. Hengist is great. We have a completely normal level of interest in doors. Which is none, maybe.”

“Oh man, that sucks,” said Ælfrith, running a hand through his bleach-white hair. “If you were I would be able to tell you about the exit in the backroom that isn’t up to code. Tragic.”

Lynette tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “The, uh, backroom? Just don’t think I heard you there.”

“Second door to the left. Don’t know why you need all this but I’m down to fuck with Hengist literally any day of my life. And this place is a corporate nightmare. They deserve to get knocked down a peg, I won’t snitch.”

Lynette allowed herself a thin smile and saluted at Ælfrith, grabbing Gareth’s sleeve to pull him towards their target.

Hours later, Gareth opened a laptop on Kay’s desk displaying the exact measurements alongside state and federal regulations, laid out in a neat spreadsheet.

Kay clicked his tongue. “Well done, you two.”

There was someone hitting his leg. This fact presented itself through a haze of half-dreamed snippets, lost in horrible incoherent thoughts and bits of memory that didn’t seem to be his own. It was like a picture book: a lake, a broken tree, something long that started and ended in red. Then the thing hitting his leg grew undeniably insistent and, with a great effort of will, he wrenched himself out of the swamp of thoughts and kicked as hard as he could.

“Whmph,” said Priamus, and clattered backwards into the coffee table.

Gawain blinked the fog out of his eyes and took quick stock of the situation. “Ah, fuck. How long have I been asleep?”

“It’s just past nine.” Priamus rubbed his knee. “Why did you kick me?”

“You were hitting me!”

“I was prodding you.” He produced a blue mug from behind him. It had a line of writing in what Gawain (incorrectly) presumed to be Arabic, and then in English under that the motto: “We Have Tea!” Its contents did not smell like tea. “Drink this.”

Too numb and brittle-feeling to protest, Gawain obliged, and then only barely managed to prevent himself from spitting the contents out immediately. “What the fuck is that?”

“Uh…” Priamus began to list items on his fingers. “One egg, fried; a spoonful of ice cream; three shots of espresso; the sausage oil from the pan; frozen blueberries; and three ibuprofens that I ground up. You’re awake now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Gawain miserably.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty fucking bad.”

Priamus reclaimed his mug. “Do you have any takeaways from our conversation last night?”

Pushing himself to an upright position, Gawain scanned his brain for the dregs of whatever it was they had talked about. He had— oh, God, he had told Priamus everything, hadn’t he? Why on earth had he done that? It was so embarrassing— then he glanced back at the man standing in front of him with a horrible hangover-cure concoction and a tank top advertising Gatorland, Orlando. He clearly had no sense of shame, and there was thus no point in Gawain feeling shame either. He had probably given good advice the previous night. Unfortunately Gawain could currently remember about 40% of it. “Be… nicer?” he tried. “That seems— to be frank, Priamus, that seems a pretty fucking monumental task. I can’t just— change.”

Priamus stared at him for a long moment. “You need a day off,” he said eventually, and turned away from the couch to deposit the mug on his kitchen counter.

Panic overtook him. He couldn’t take a day off, that was impossible, because he had told Aggravaine he didn’t take days off for something as trivial as mental health, and that was what had started the fight in the first place, so to take one off now would be to lose, and Gawain Orkney didn’t lose. Unfortunately none of these thoughts aligned themselves in a verbally comprehensible order, and all he managed to give in way of protest was: “But it’s Saturday.”

“Sure is, buddy.” Priamus grinned at him. “Saturdays should be for recovering from Friday. Not for showing up at 9 to your subpar coffeeshop and thinking about all the reasons you’re a terrible person, which is what it looks like you’re planning to do right now. Look, you don’t even have to talk to anyone. I’ll handle it. Just come with me and stay outside, you should get some fresh air. I’ll deal with your uncle.”

“No one deals with Kay,” said Gawain, in his most ominous voice, “Kay deals with you.”

“You may have forgotten,” Priamus drawled, “but I am a marketable professional in the field of coercing people into minding their own business. I think I can handle your uncle Kay.”

No one showed up to work anymore apparently, but Kay supposed bitterly that this was alright, since no customers showed up either. He would have texted Bedivere to express this thought, but he was a professional who didn’t have his phone out at work except for work-related business, unlike everyone else. So he was just glumly cleaning the counter thinking glum thoughts when Priamus stalked in.

“What the fuck do you want?” He asked, glumly. “Because if it isn’t to exchange legal tender for caffeinated goods, then I will start throwing things.”

Priamus very casually rested one arm on the counter, which due to having been wiped down with a wet cloth recently made his sleeve damp. He smirked and pretended not to notice this. “Is that a threat, old man?”

Instead of pointing out that they were basically the same age, Kay rolled his eyes. “Good lord. Gawain—!” Halfway through summoning Gawain to deal with this delinquent, he remembered. “God fucking damn it. Where the hell is he?”

“That’s not the question you need to be asking,” Priamus said. This routine worked significantly better on low level career criminals, but he was determined to use his job skills somehow.

“And what question would that be?” Kay asked flatly, sensing weakness.

Priamus was silent a moment. “You’re going to give Gawain the day off.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Exactly.”

“Right, well,” Kay began, with one of his more withering looks. “If Gawain wants the day off he can call and ask and arrange to have someone cover his shift, like every other employee.”

This was seemingly not going well for Priamus; his suave confidence was somewhat ragged. He went to open his blazer a bit to reveal a gun, and was stymied by the lack of both gun and blazer. “Yes— well, that’s not what I’m offering.”

No good deed goes unpunished, Kay reflected. He had this thought a lot around the Orkneys, especially recently. There seemed to be something up with them, which did not bode well for anyone involved, and he was hoping to stay out of it.

“What are you offering, Priamus?”

With this pity lead in, Priamus was back on solid ground, leaning forward and tapping his fingers absently on the register. “How good is your insurance policy on this place?”

“Good lord.” No fucking subtlety. “Fine, whatever, he has the day off. Because I’m running a god damn summer camp here. But he has to call me and confirm this.”

Priamus brightened, standing straighter. “Oh, well that’s no trouble he’s right outside.”

There was an awkward pause. Kay opened his mouth, but the phone behind the counter rang before he could say anything. Keeping eye contact with Priamus, he answered it.

“Oh hello Mr. Lucius, my landlord,” he said for the benefit of a one man audience. Priamus paled. “Yes, he is here actually, just loitering around the counter.”

With a rare and malice-filled smile, Kay handed Priamus the phone.

“Lucius? How did you know to call LCC?” Priamus demanded in horror.

“Through God all things are possible. Also things are going south with Hellen so I need you to meet the senator by the garage about four minutes ago. No excuses. Go in Christ.” Then he hung up. Priamus turned to give the phone back to Kay and found no one.

“Kay wait, Kay—”

But, leaving the counter to a mostly asleep Percival, Kay was heading outside. The few customers watched curiously as he disappeared through the front door. Priamus swore, hoped everything would sort of work itself out, and darted out the back door.

Gawain was leaning on the wall to the left of the door, coming off more too-tired-to-stand than casual.

“Kay—” he said miserably, then stopped.

“What the hell is going on with you all?” Kay demanded in exasperation. Who ‘you all’ meant wasn’t clear. “Is there something medically wrong?”

Gawain wouldn’t look at him. “No. Sorry.”

Kay shook his head. “We’ll talk about this inside. You can have a cup of coffee out of your next paycheck.”

Not accepting this offer, but unable to object, Gawain nodded miserably.

Kay may have been about to say something patronizing and vaguely well meaning, like What am I going to do with you? Before he had the chance, his cell phone rang. It was an unknown number and, knowing waiting in discomfort would make Gawain more garrulous, he accepted. “What is it?”

A throat cleared itself on the other end before a voice, vaguely familiar, spoke. “Mr. Pendragon? This is Henry Hengist of Saxons’ Cafe. We met— ah— several days ago.”

Kay remembered. He had enjoyed talking to Hengist because Hengist was clearly very scared of him. The timing of this call, however, did not bode well. “You’re that manager fellow?”

“Uh, yes. Well. I’m calling because last night someone broke into our establishment and damaged some of our property.”

“Hm,” said Kay. He could hardly pretend this wasn’t pleasant news to receive. “We here at Lionheart Coffee Co. extend our condolences and will summarily refuse to help you.”

“That’s not what I’m calling to ask. We have security footage. Is someone named Gawain still in employment at your establishment?”

This was the worst possible thing Kay could have heard at the present moment, and in the manner of bad things for Kay, it would soon become a bad thing for the subject of his ire. He turned a glower on Gawain, who was staring at him anxiously. “He is. What are you planning to do with this?”

“Well…” said Hengist. He sounded as though he was trying to drawl, but it wasn’t working very well because he was slightly too polite. “I can submit it to the proper authorities. Or.”

Kay waited. There was something in the intonation of threats that Hengist had yet to master, and he was hardly going to take pity on him.

“Or.” Hengist cleared his throat and tried again, slightly more accurately. “Or…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Kay caught a glimpse of Gawain’s blanched face. He was his nephew, in the end. No mercy would be provided to his persecutors. “You’ve said ‘or’ three times. I would like you to finish your sentence.”

“Or I could submit the security footage to the proper authorities,” mumbled Hengist.

Panache was the problem, Kay reflected. Say what you liked about Lucius, he had panache. He had flair. It was horrible to be on the receiving end of it, but it existed. Hengist had none of those things, and Kay was not inclined to be gracious. The blood was in the water. “You could submit it to the proper authorities,” he said brightly. “You must be looking for something in return. Tell me.”

“I want you to fire him.”

“Fire Gawain?” Kay left a brief pause to indicate he was thinking about it, during which he saw Gawain pale even further. “No. Do you know why?”

“Why?” said Hengist, whose threatening phonecall had been waylaid by its intended victim, and who was not sure what was happening anymore.

You wanted a drawl? thought Kay vindictively. I’ll show you a proper drawl. “Because… because if you do… I’ll have to do something with all these pictures I have of how small your hallways are. Not up to code, are they, Henry Hengist? Skimped a bit, didn’t you?”

“Uh oh,” said Hengist, out loud.

Kay grinned. “So that’s why you’re not going to do anything. I have ways and I have means, Mr. Hengist, and I will utilize those ways and means if you so much as breathe a word of what happened on that security footage to anyone. I will, of course, arrange for all financial losses to be covered at the expense of the employee in question, and it will not happen again. But don’t try to threaten me.”

“Okay,” said Hengist meekly. “But, um, one problem.” “Oh?”

“I have— people I know— in the university administration and I may have already sent some very angry emails this morning.”

“Shit,” said Kay.

“I think we can— reach an accord,” Hengist continued. “Mutual silence? From now on? Please don’t report me, Mr. Pendragon.”

“Mutual silence is acceptable,” Kay snapped. “Have a day. Goodbye.”

He hung up. Then, as kindly as he could, he recounted the details of the call.

“So they know,” said Gawain dumbly. “He already sent the security footage to the— whoever it is he knows in the admin. They know I, uh, had a bit of a freak-out.”

Kay might have tried to placate him. “You’re probably going to be expelled,” he said instead.

“Expelled? No, I— I can’t— no, they wouldn’t expel me. I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure something out. I always—”

It was at this horribly apt moment that his phone began to vibrate. Startled, Gawain patted his pockets before eventually producing it and pressing accept on the last ring, the name Wirnt von Grafeburg barely registering in his mind. “Hello?”

There was a pause. Gawain’s face underwent several expressions in quick succession, starting at his default abject misery and winding up at an impenetrable blank slate of a gaze. After about a minute of listening to the voice on the other end, he spoke again. “Yes. Yes, that’s true.” Silence. “Absolutely, Coach. Yes. Thank you for telling me.” His mouth twitched once, briefly, and then the mask slid back over his features. “I’ll manage somehow! Of course, I recognize this was horrible of me, and I’m taking all the necessary steps to fix the situation. I’m very grateful to you, I’d like to say.” One last dreadful gap stretched out before he said, “That means a lot. Of course. Have a wonderful day.” Then he pressed End Call and, very slowly, placed the phone face down on the counter in front of him. “I’m going to lose my scholarship,” he said.

“Ah,” said Kay.

“I’m getting dropped from the teams. And my scholarship is athletic. I can’t pay for school anymore. Not school and the flat.”

“But you’re not getting expelled,” pointed out Kay, who was at the best of times as comforting as an eel.

Gawain nodded. “Yeah. Yeah I’m not getting expelled. So it could be worse. And this isn’t anything I don’t des—” Then with a strangled laugh, he burst into tears.

“Aw, fuck,” Kay grimaced. “Shit.” He briefly assessed the situation, including the trio of customers looking at the counter with concern. “Kitchen. Now. Get.”

Percival, emerging from sleepiness to say something like “oh, no!” found himself manning the entire coffeeshop as Gawain and Kay disappeared into the kitchen, which wasn’t really another room and barely offered a modicum of privacy, but was probably better than nothing.

“Sit,” Kay said, pointing at the stool for reaching things in high cupboards. Gawain sat. He had the back of one hand pressed against his eyes, the other a fist at his side, trying very hard to stop crying and not remotely succeeding. There being no other stool, Kay reluctantly sat across from him on the floor. The space was wide enough to do so because their place was up to code, god damn it.

“I don’t— I don’t know what I can do,” Gawain admitted, before an honest to god sob broke through his gossamer-thin self control.

So this is actually happening, Kay thought but didn’t say aloud. He sighed. “Look, this isn’t the end of the world. You fucked up big time, but you’ve been in worse spots, if we’re being honest, and I’ll— God. I’ll help you figure this out.”

“There’s no point,” he protested, pressing both palms to his eyes shakily. “There’s no— stop crying— there's no point! This is because I— I fucked up I deserve this. I’m not— there’s no figuring out how I can keep going to the, the school where everyone hates me and living with my brothers who all fucking hate me!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kay considered giving him a pat on the shoulder and decided against it.

“Everyone hates, hates me because I’m a bad person, and—” here his voice shrunk to a choked whisper, “And everyone can hear me—!”

“There are six people maximum in this building, and two of them are us,” Kay reasoned. “Not a big deal. Why do you think you’re a bad person and everyone hates you?”

“They’re going to tell everyone,” Gawain said, still in a rather pathetic stage whisper. “They’re going to— I don’t cry, Kay! I don’t. Not since I was eleven.”

“Uh huh. Why do you think you’re a bad person and everyone hates you?”

Gawain sniffed. “I’m mean.”

“Uh huh.”

“I argued with Agravaine and he said I’m mean and he hates me. And I broke a bunch of stuff in Saxons, and— and I’m a manipulative control-freak and I slept with Hengist.”

There was a painfully long silence filled with muffled sobs and someone in the front pushing a chair back. “What?” Kay said finally. “You—”

But Gawain was so awfully miserable. Kay counted a few seconds and tried again. “I think you'd better explain that in, uh, no detail.”

Gawain kept shifting, like he wanted to tuck his legs against his chest but counted this as too great an ignominy. “You— you embarrassed me. In Saxons. I had to— I wanted to have— power, I don’t know it’s stupid.”

“Did you?”

“What?” he blinked, as if tears weren’t a renewable resource. “No. It felt bad. I do things that make me unhappy I, I guess.”

Putting aside the emotion of I’m going to commit an actual murder, with great effort, Kay tried to be productive. “Alright why don’t you— take a few deep breaths.” There, that would give him a moment to think. “If the problem is that you’re mean or whatever just stop being mean and apologize. Your brothers will forgive you.”

Finally Gawain looked up at him, glaring out through now damp brown curls. “I can't just— decide to do that, Kay I— can’t just let go!”

Kay counted a few seconds. “Alright. This is unproductive unless you calm down. I’m going to set the oven timer to three—” he looked again. “Eight minutes to wallow in self pity.” He set the timer.

If he privately found this patronizing, Gawain didn’t say, surrendering to indignity. After eight minutes of sobbing and recounting his many sins and misfortunes with no particular relevance or clarity, the timer went off.

“Times up. Take some deep breaths and then we’re moving on.”

Gawain looked skeptical. “Right yeah I’ll just stop, I’ll just stop crying it’s not like I’ve— been trying to do that this whole time, Kay.”

“Be nice.”

“Sorry,” he said, voice small again. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Kay stated blankly, despite all evidence to the contrary. “Do you want,” he winced internally, “a hug or something?”

Gawain considered this for long enough that Kay regretted suggesting it. “Um. I don’t— I don’t know. Yes.”

“Right, well,” Kay tried with little success to sound reassuring. “Come on then.”

Gawain was always smaller than one remembered, Kay thought, folding him into an awkward hug. He mumbled something like thank you, and Kay ineptly patted him on the back a few times.

“I don’t know what I can do,” Gawain said again, but sounded slightly less hopeless.

Then his phone buzzed. “Text,” said Gawain. “I’ve got a text. I should— I should see who’s texting me.”

“Do that, then,” said Kay gently. He wished desperately that Bedivere were here. “I’ll still be here when you finish your text business.”

Gawain fumbled for his phone and stared at it for several minutes. “Oh, it’s Derek,” he said vaguely.

“Derek?”

“Yeah, Derek. Apparently they all got an email from the coach. He wants to know if I’m okay. That’s— nice of him.” For a second he sounded as if he would start crying again. “That’s really nice of him. What do I say? Do I say I’m okay?”

“I’m not going to direct your personal affairs.”

“I’ll just— tell him I lost my scholarship but I’ll figure it out,” said Gawain, with a measure of steel in his voice. “I can do this.”

He typed for a second. Kay watched him, unsure whether to be comforting or realistic. Eventually he opted for realistic. “You won’t get a loan after this. How are you going to pay for the last semester?”

“I don’t fucking know, Kay!” said Gawain, still looking at his phone, his voicing rising slightly. “I’m trying very hard not to think about it and just deal with what’s in front of me. And that’s Derek.” His phone buzzed again. “Now it’s Derek and Fergus. And— and Ysabele. Derek and Fergus and Ysabele. I can deal with this. I’ll tell them I’m fine.”

“So you're going to lie to them?” Kay asked without judgement. “Wasn’t that one of the things you regretted doing?”

Gawain froze. “But I don’t— they’re not my friends or anything! They’re just people I know! I can’t just unload my life on them or whatever.”

“You’re worried about seeming weak, aren’t you?”

Before Gawain could provide some semblance of an answer, there was a knock from the door frame. Not the actual door, because there was no actual door, but from someone who clearly felt bad about barging through the curtain into the horrible mess that was sprawled across the kitchen floor. That someone, when Kay pulled back the curtain, turned out to be three someones, and also happened to be the remaining non-Perceval someones in Kay’s count of the six people in the shop. “Hey,” said Ragnelle uncertainly, their eyebrows knitting in their forehead. Then, to Kay, who seemed to have taken on a chaperonial role: “Could we talk to Gawain for a sec?”

“He’s all yours,” said Gawain, very sadly. The realities of pouring out his many misdeeds to Kay in the kitchen, while in complete auditory range of the customers, was setting in.

Slightly suspicious of civilians behind the counter, but willing to make sacrifices in the current circumstances, Kay scooted out. The three customers moved in to stand in a ring around Gawain, who stared up at them blearily.

“Ragnelle. Joconde. Cade,” he said, like he was naming his executioners. “How— much did you hear?”

“Only some!” Ragnelle said reassuringly. Gawain couldn’t tell if they were lying, and was too dedicated to this deduction to notice Joconde disappear and briefly reappear, before handing him a paper cup.

Suspicious from previous experiences that morning, Gawain took it with some hesitance. “Coffee?”

“Water,” she said dryly.

“...oh.”

“So…” Joconde began, “we heard the bit about losing your scholarship. Also, and more saliently, I did get a text from Ysabele asking if I’d heard that you’d gotten dropped from the equestrian team and thus lost your scholar—”

“Don’t tell him that!” Cade said, at the look of severe embarrassment on Gawain’s face. “Forget about that. Gawain, forget everything.”

“Who’s Gawain?” said Gawain, with a grimaced attempt at a joking smile.

The three of them tittered politely. Then Ragnelle, their face sympathetic, dropped down to the floor beside him. “I hope this whole thing doesn’t seem like prying. You just seem like you’re having a hard time right now.”

“Deceptive use of a, a passive phrasing,” he suggested with some bitter self effacement. “Thank you, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” said Cade, nudging him with one foot. “You don’t have anything to apologize for! This is what friends are for, you know.”

He froze sort of uncomfortably at that. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry. Fuck. We are— we’re friends.”

“Right,” said Joconde somewhere between humour and sympathy. “We’re all up to speed then.” She paused. “Why are you making that face?”

Gawain tried to stop his face from doing whatever it was doing. “What face?”

“The face like you’re thinking about running out the back door really really quickly.”

Ragnelle nodded and gestured at his face. “Kinda… vulpine.”

“Vulpine. Right.” He ran a hand through lightly tangled curls, and it came to rest on his neck, like this was a familiar, nervous habit. “I— I’ve been sort of an— an asshole recently.”

“What?” said Joconde, frowning. “You’ve been fine, Gawain! Honestly, I know you’re going through some stuff, but you’ve never been anything but lovely to me.”

Maybe trying to stall, Gawain took a sip from the paper cup and frowned. “I hate water.”

“What do you mean you hate water? It’s water,” Cade wondered aloud.

“It tastes gross.” He took another drink. “I’ve— feel like I’ve been a traitor.”

“To water?” said Ragnelle, giggling slightly.

But he was just looking down at his cup with a slightly sick expression. “I mean that I, I don’t know. I only ever say I’m an IR major and—”

The three of them gave identical frowns. “What?” said Cade.

“I don’t want— I don’t want people to know I’m also a WGS major. I’m not exactly sure why,” he admitted like he was forcing the words out through his teeth. “And I act like— I’m bad at explaining.”

No you aren’t, a less kind audience may have pointed out. You’re quite eloquent and we all know that, you just don’t actually want to be understood. But these were his friends, so they waited for him to elaborate.

“I think,” he said eventually, the breathiness in his voice mellowing into the calm of reflectiveness, “that perhaps some part of me feels as though passing as cis all the time with everyone is a grand jest, and I’m winning. And to relax that guard, therefore, is to lose. I— I really made it through years of WGS classes without applying any of it to myself, didn’t I?”

They sat with this statement for a moment in collective pondering. Before the silence could grow too oppressive, Gawain absently shook the cup and made a dismayed look at how much seemed to be left. Ragnelle laughed generously. “Are you saying you managed to coach me through my gender crisis while you ignored your own crisis the entire time?” they said. “Bro, that’s kind of impressive. I’m really sorry, though. Thanks for talking about it with us.”

Joconde and Cade joined them on the floor, apparently deciding they were in it for the long haul. Joconde gave him a slightly sad smile. “Is it really that bad to be a WGS major?” she said, but her tone was light enough to take most of the sting out of it.

“No! No—” He paused to consider his further answer. “Not for other people. I don’t know what that means, but— people think of me differently. If they think I— I care about things, then everything isn’t a game anymore. Like— if the joke isn’t on life, it’s on me. And that's weakness.”

Cade blinked at him. “What? That’s not— Gawain, I’m gonna say something really corny, but I think being trans is stronger than being cis. I know that’s, like, very motivational poster. But—”

“I’m not transphobic!” cut in Gawain. “I’m just— I don’t know. It’s just a facet of some broader stuff I guess I’ve been dealing with. And you guys were—” He broke off and gave a chuckle. “Sorry, you guys showed up at the exact right moment to get a lot of really weird deep shit. Oh, this is bad, actually. This is a bad conversation. I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”

“On the contrary,” Ragnelle said with a clever look, “If you’re afraid of being honest and vulnerability I’d say the solution is to do that a bit. You know we’re always happy to talk through this stuff— okay.” They switched track abruptly. “Do you really not drink anything that isn’t coffee or alcohol? How are your organs, like, extant?”

“Sometimes I put the alcohol in the coffee,” said Gawain piteously, as though this was a third type of liquid.

“If you keep making faces I’m taking my water back,” Joconde threatened. “Also, yeah. You can talk about this seriously.”

He batted his hands vaguely in front of his face. “No, no. I mean, thank you, but maybe on the floor of the kitchen while my uncle bullies Perceval outside and also I’ve lost my entire future is not the best time or place.” He hiccuped. “But— really, thank you. Something to deal with in the future, I guess. A problem for tomorrow Gawain. Today Gawain has to figure out how to maybe steal a degree. Can you do that?”

“Today Gawain is furloughing life problems for tomorrow. If they’re dropping you now, you still have a few weeks before anything is due, so you can afford to take today off,” Joconde said, in a tone which didn’t suggest disagreement.

Gawain tried to protest. He tried to open his mouth and point out all the reasons he really couldn't do that. And yet all he managed to do was give a small, tired nod and let himself be pulled to his feet. They escorted him gently out of the kitchen and into the main room of Lionheart Coffee Co, where they deposited him on Gaheris' bean bag in the corner and wrapped his shoulders in what seemed to be Cade's trenchcoat.

Time passed. He took deep breaths and watched the three of them do their homework. It was almost pleasant, if he forgot all of the baggage of being himself and absorbed the atmosphere of the morning. It was almost normal.

Aggravaine got a text from Bedivere halfway through his Abstract Algebra class. It was long, which was automatically worrying, and furthermore it used correct punctuation. Surreptitiously slipping his phone out of his pocket, he flipped it on under his desk and tried to look unnoticeable.

Hey, Aggs. I wanted to apologize on behalf of Kay. I know he’s been treating you more brusquely than normal, and you deserve to know that there’s more going on. I know this sounds harsh, but it’s not about you, and I’m sorry he’s been taking it out on you. LCC is having a hard time right now with Saxons’ and everything, and (please don’t tell anyone this) we’re probably going to go out of business within the next two months unless we get really lucky. So, I’m sorry Kay’s being snappish, and I need you to know it’s not your fault. Proud to be your uncle <3

Aggravaine felt his face twist in an expression somewhere between dismay and comfort. The relief of it not being about him was taking second place to the concern of it being about Lionheart Coffee Co. going bankrupt, which was hardly an optimal situation, even if he wound up with other work.

“Matrices,” Professor Troy was saying, up by the whiteboard. “More matrices.” He paused and surveyed the class. “Now, you may not know this, but I am particularly fond of matrices. It was in 1947 that my father—”

Dismissing Professor Troy’s story about his father taking him to the boardwalk (he had heard it three times before and it was clearly false; Troy couldn’t have been older than thirty), Aggravaine slumped down in his seat, trying to fathom an existence without his uncle’s awful coffeeshop. The concept stung at him more than he would have expected. Oh, it was a horrible little place, but it was also where his entire family congregated like a village green of old, where his brothers caused havoc and his aunt Guinevere periodically appeared with all the ceremony of a queen entering her court. Even if he didn’t work there anymore, it would hurt to lose it.

“—then that we came across a Frenchman, recently ejected from Napoleon’s armies, he was very old, you see, and—”

If Lionheart was struggling, you could be sure that weird tea shop down the road was as well, Aggravaine reflected. Maybe that was the bright side of this tragedy. The French would also be driven out of business.

“—Alexander the Great—”

An idea weaselled its way into Aggravaine’s mind. It was a horrid idea, full of things that involved associating with French people, but it was an idea nonetheless. Lionheart was struggling. Liberthé was probably also struggling. Rent was expensive and Lucius was a rat bastard with a dumb white blazer who looked like he sold used cars at an upscale casino. Saxons made coffee, sort of, and they made tea, if you held your nose and didn’t look up the ingredients.

Sighing and feeling like a martyr, suffering arrow-wounds for the good of the people, he pulled out his phone once more and scrolled through his contacts to find a number he had never once texted of his own volition.

Aggs: hey you french asshole

Aggs: this is important im not just bullying you

Lionel: i believe neither that u have anything important nor arent bullying me but go on i guess. Is it about gawain

Aggs: ew what no

Aggs: literally never mention my brother to me again you whore

That was mean, the little voice in his head said. Especially after your— conversation— with Gawain last night. He felt slightly bad, but the concept of apologizing to Lionel was appalling. And besides, he didn’t seem to take it personally.

Lionel: lol whatever loser. What do u want then

Aggs: how are you guys over at the tea shop doing like. Financially

Lionel: im not gonna share trade secrets with u and ur filthy coffeeshop

Lionel: jk idgaf. Were doing bad lol

Aggs: yeah so are we

Aggs: so i was thinking

Aggs: could we like

Aggs: merge

Lionel: OH

Lionel: like when the game store and the comics store by my house were both going under so they moved in together and just became a games AND comics store bc they appealed to the same demographic and it was bad business practice to sandwich the post office in b/w them instead of just consolidating their products?

Aggs: youre weird

Aggs: but yeah

Aggs: like that i guess

Lionel: ill

Lionel: ask vivian ttyl

Aggs: cool

Aggs: bye

He settled back in his chair and had a sensation he’d been feeling a lot in the last few days. It was unusual. It was the feeling of having done something productive. Aggravaine smiled, and tuned back in to Professor Christian Troy’s shockingly violent Summer of 1947 Boardwalk Story.

Friday trickled into Saturday. Saturday lurched into Sunday. Various events happened in the interim.

The first event that happened was a long and stressed phonecall between Viviane du Lac, proprietor of Fleurs de Liberthé, and Kay Pendragon, general manager of Lionheart Coffee Co. Both of them opened the call with expressions of bemusement that their least competent employees had, behind their back, engineered some kind of a competent scheme. “I’m proud of Aggravaine,” Kay told Bedivere gruffly, when he had finally hung up with Viviane. About a mile and a half away, Viviane was having a similar conversation in her apartment with Morgan about Lionel.

The second event that happened was that, very late Friday night, Gawain managed to pull himself out of the haze of self-pity and self-hatred long enough to send a text. It was exhausting. It was to Agravaine, and read:

Gawain: hey Aggs i know i really fucked up and wondered if you’d be willing to talk. Over the phone or text would be fine if u dont like want to see me which i get. I'm not asking you to forgive me or let it go i just wanted to talk.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket as soon as he hit send, not able to stomach staring at the message and waiting. The warm orangey light from the floor lamp in Cade’s dorm room washed everything in a not unpleasant way.

When asked a few hours before where he would go when the coffee shop closed, Gawain had tried to vaguely assure them all that he could crash on a friend's couch. They asked if this friend was home, and he had somewhat groggily told them that no, his friend had been called away to do violence at his crime job because the crime emperor was getting divorced and converting to Catholicism and someone had to violence about it.

Cade had promptly invited him to stay at Cade’s dorm. It wasn’t a single but the roommate, who was also named Cade and who, unbeknownst to Cade 1, Gawain had once put in the ER for mostly justified reasons, was on a weekend snowboarding retreat. To Gawain’s disappointment, though he couldn't say why this was disappointing, there weren’t bunk beds, just too small regular beds across from each other.

Currently, he was sitting up against Cade’s gigantic Gengar plushie carrying out a stilted conversation while Cade did work. He probably had work too, but he didn’t want to think about it. “I texted my brother,” he announced, because then Cade would say something like good job, and he wanted someone to say that to him.

“What did you say?” Cade asked.

Fuck! “Just asked if he was willing to talk.”

“That’s a good start.”

“Thank you!”

They remained in companionable quiet for a while. Gawain stared at the ceiling, listening to the scratching of a pencil, the air conditioner whirring, the music faintly leaking from Cade’s headphones.

Then, like the barking of hell hounds come to take his soul, Gawain's ringtone sounded from his pocket. Cade stood abruptly, shot him an encouraging smile, and said, “I’m going to go to the vending machine, back in a bit.”

“It’s just you and me, Gengar,” Gawain said grimly, fishing out his phone. He wasn’t familiar with pokemon as a concept, but Cade had introduced them. Gawain answered the phone without even looking at the screen, could tell instantly just from the so-familiar ambient noises that Agravaine was at the apartment.

“Thank you,” Gawain said into the now deafening empty room. “For calling.”

“You wanted to talk?” He was suspicious, but not angry. Better than nothing.

“Yeah, I—” He paused. Took a deep breath. Exhaled the deep breath and took another one. “I’ll start with the easy ones. I said some really awful things to you yesterday.”

“Like calling me a mediocre loser?” Aggravaine said evenly.

“I—” He sucked in a breath, unsure what he thought it would do, except that was how he’d react to someone hitting him with a baseball bat, which was how it felt hearing his own words again. “I’m sorry. I don’t— I don’t think that.”

“You do, though,” said Aggravaine. His voice sounded curiously untroubled. “I don’t do the things you do and you judge me for it. I’ve come to terms with that. If you want to say sorry, though, then it would be highly warranted.”

“I am. I am sorry, I’m sorry for everything I said and— and for being an asshole, in general, I really—” he’d been worried that he would start crying again. Instead of feeling like that, Gawain was considering those peasants in medieval France who started dancing till they died. He was mentally calculating plane ticket prices to Antarctica. He wondered if there was a witch in the woods who would be willing to turn him into a frog. “I’m sorry,” he repeated lamely.

There was a pause. Then, in a very small voice which belied his earlier nonchalance, Aggravaine said, “Thank you.”

That was something, it was definitely something, Gawain reflected faintly. Then, feeling distinctly ill: “I guess now is as bad a time as any to— to tell you I lost my scholarship.”

Agravaine didn’t say anything for a beat.

“I’m gonna figure something out. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it,” Gawain said quickly, not really believing himself.

“You have a lot of things to apologize to me for, but that is not one of them.”

“Oh.” His head felt foggy. Words were something he was supposed to be good at. Was this what crying did, rotted your whole brain? “Thank you. I— I’m really losing it this week. Month. Year,”

“Twenty three years,” Agravaine supplied helpfully.

“I don’t think I was a, a toxic baby. Probably not?” He shook his head. “Sorry. I meant to say that— that I’m going to get my shit together.” Oh no, was he? That sounded exhausting. But Gawain had already said it.

“What does—” There was a burst of static on the other end of the phone, which probably meant Aggravaine had gone into his room, which had terrible reception because it was an oversized closet. “What does that mean?”

“As a person? I guess I don’t, I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not sure yet. Apparently there is a great deal wrong with me. And you don’t— I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

“Mhm.”

Gawain floundered. He had said all of the things he was supposed to say, and they still didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere. This was unheard of. Aggravaine wasn’t even crying, which he normally did religiously! Something was very amiss in the Orkney household. “Um, so… that’s… that’s all I’ve got. I hope you’re doing alright.”

“Okay,” said Aggravaine, “thank you for apologizing. Are you— I mean— I don’t want to know whose apartment you’re at, but are you safe for tonight?”

The implications in Aggravaine’s words churned in Gawain’s stomach, gnashing their teeth at the horrible awful anchor-heavy recognition that he truly didn’t have any normal, entirely non-sexual friendships. He shoved that thought aside and tried not to worry about it. “Yeah, I’m at Cade’s dorm. I’m sleeping on the floor. There’s a funny purple plushy here,” he added, in case Gengar could salvage his relationship with his brother for him.

“Nice,” said Aggravaine. “Anyway, I’m gonna go, we’re making brownies with Claire.”

“That’s great. Have a good night. Aggs.” He was about to hang up when something else occurred to him. “Oh! Wait, I— I wanted to say congratulations on your possible intern thing. I’m rooting for you. That would be really cool. You— you work really hard and you deserve it.”

“Aw. Thanks.” Aggravaine sounded surprised. “I was worried— nevermind. Thank you. Stay safe, Gawain. Bye.”

The call clicked off. Gawain leaned back against Gengar, breathing in and closing his eyes. “Thanks, Gengar,” he said, “you’re my only real friend.”

The third event that happened was that Gaheris went to see a movie. It was supposed to be something on 19th century Vietnamese politics, but he was the only person who bought tickets to it, and because he sat in the highest corner of the cinema, the operator didn’t see him and assumed no one had shown up. It took him thirty minutes of staring silently at the screen wondering if his family was falling apart to realise he hadn’t been the victim of minimalist performance art, and there was in fact a mistake. Instead of solving it he went to get boba. That was the highlight of his weekend.

Monday dawned with an overcast sky and too much paperwork. Tuesday passed, and so did Wednesday, and the rest of the days happened as well. Kay Pendragon and Viviane du Lac scrambled from location to location, first Lionheart and then, when the atmosphere was pronounced too depressing, the back room of Fleurs de Liberthé, and then to multiple lawyers’ offices and also the city council board. Bureaucracy, which mandated a two-month notification period for changes of commercial residence, was foiled by Priamus, who was scary, and more broadly by Lucius, who was very excited to be able to rent his building to anyone other than its current occupants.

Fleurs de Liberthé sat a block up from where Lionheart had, until very recently, lurked. It was a larger property, which was why Kay and Viviane had opted to combine their merchandise there despite the small extra distance from campus. They sold mediocre flowers and very high quality tea, which appealed to a very specific demographic of the student population that was not the majority. The staff of the establishment that had previously been Lionheart Coffee Co. sold very low quality coffee, but drew a much larger crowd of students who wanted somewhere cheap and vaguely pleasant to do their homework.

It was still called Fleurs de Liberthé. Its employees trundled through the door the following Monday, uncertain exactly how this newest venture would pan out, and dressed in a motley combination of aprons. They had been given very little warning for the change, and besides many of them had had very stressful weeks for non-commercial reasons (save Aggravaine, who was riding on a high of a successful definitely-not-a-job-interview, and also was now no longer employed as a barista).

The first shift at the merged location was manned by Lionel, Lancelot, Gawain, Kay, and Viviane herself. None of them was in a coherent frame of mind. Lionel spilt coffee on a thirteen-year-old boy and then poured water on him to try to help with that. Kay set a bouquet of flowers on fire. Perceval was, inexplicably, present and unhelpful.

At the end of the first three hours, Gawain made a decision. The decision was Lancelot-shaped and tinged with discomfort, but it was a decision that had to be made, because he was trying to do things like apologize to people. In a lull between customers, he edged over to the cramped flower counter and gave an awkward wave. “Hi.”

Lancelot looked up, looked back down at the flowers, and then looked up at him again. “Hi. Are you— I mean— hi.”

“I was wondering if we could, ah, talk briefly?” said Gawain. He hated this newfound trend of words not working for him as well as they usually did.

“It’s just you, me, and the roses,” mumbled Lancelot, gesturing vaguely at the counter with a pair of garden clippers.

“Cool.” Gawain forced himself to lean casually on the counter, propped up by his elbows, instead of sliding to the floor slowly in discomfort. “So, I know you’re mad at me. Or something.”

“Ah— hmm,” said Lancelot coherently.

“And I thought—” Gawain stopped. A brief memory flashed across his mind of him and Lancelot fleeing Saxons’ together, laughing, grinning, and tumbling to a halt on the sidewalk. Lancelot had given him the widest smile anyone had ever given him and pulled him into a hug, which had been deeply disconcerting. “I thought we were maybe friends.”

“Class friends.” There was a nasty click as Lancelot beheaded a rose. “Yeah. We were, I guess.”

“So can I ask…” Gawain took a deep breath. “What did I do? I don’t know what I did. I’m really sorry, Lancelot, I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything. You didn’t do anything to me, just— ow.” He winced. His latest attack on the rose had collateral damage. “I started to think, maybe you aren’t— a good person.”

“Oh.” Here Gawain did sink onto a nearby stool, with relief more than anything. “Then you found out before I did.” He paused. “Fuck, sorry, are you bleeding?”

“It’s fine, this happens all the time,” said Lancelot, shoving his bleeding finger into his mouth and glancing around nervously in case anyone was watching other than Gawain, who had no grounds on which to judge him. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway. I guess we’re coworkers now. That’s fun.”

“Yeah,” said Gawain, and then, in a rush of words: “I’m trying, I mean I’m trying to be better, or be not worse, or fix whatever it is I did, or— I don’t know, but I’m trying.”

Lancelot wrung his hand and then wiped it on his apron before answering. “Okay,” he said. “Hey, would you take out the trash bag here? It’s full and I don’t have anywhere to put the stems. Trash is out back.”

“Yeah, of course.” Gawain stood, breathing out a shaky breath, and accepted the plastic bag of flower waste that Lancelot handed to him without looking him in the face. “I’ll— see you around.” Then, without waiting to hear Lancelot’s response, he fled towards the back.

He had just tossed the bag unceremoniously in the large dumpster outside when he became aware of a rattling noise. It sounded like a very organic vacuum cleaner was gargling compost at the bottom of the dumpster. He stood on his tiptoes and just managed to peer over the edge.

A stained orange face stared back at him.

“Hey, fox,” he said, a smile pulling at his face. “How are you doing in there?”

The fox blinked at him, long and slow. It didn’t look afraid. If anything, it looked supercilious. Then, with a swish of its tail, it went back to its chicken bones.

“I’ll take that as pretty good,” said Gawain. “Guess it’s a good day to be a fox. Less of a good day to be a Gawain.”

Making a disgusting snorting noise, the fox flicked a banana peel at him.

“Thanks. You’re a real one.” He paused, and gazed at it more attentively. “You got a name? Or are you just Fox?” There was no response to this. “Or maybe since you’re behind Fleurs de Liberthé you’re a French fox. A renard. I’ll call you Renard, how’s that?”

Renard crunched down on a bone of undisclosed origin and gave him a patronizing look. Gawain nodded at him as seriously as he could, then winked. “I won’t tell anyone you’re out here. Have a good day, Renard the fox.”

Then he went back to work.