Work Text:
Coffee in the Morning, Tango at Night
If one word was used to describe the shop across the street, Newt would probably have said it was “unoccupied”. It always had been, even since before he had started working in the coffee shop. He’d gotten used to the sight of the empty space.
Until it wasn't empty anymore.
Someone moved in, and opened up a shop.
So instead, if anyone asked Newt about the shop across the street, he'd reply with, “I don't know. Never checked it out.” That was a lie. Of course he had. Well, not a complete lie, he supposed. He hadn't ever gone inside, and he didn't even know what kind of a shop it was.
What he had checked out, however, was the boy who ran the shop. Not being able to see much from across a busy street, all he'd been able to see up close so far, was his smile. A smile that constantly brightened up his day when he happened to glance up toward him. The boy wasn't completely unfortunate looking either, as a whole. Not at all. In fact, although Newt was not prepared to admit it out loud, he looked pretty good.
So, of course, he wanted to know more about that boy. Unfortunately, his usual sources of information (in other words, friends) were being absolutely unhelpful.
“Frypan, have you ever gone to that new shop, uh, thing, across the street?” he asked one day, before the shop opened, trying to appear casual.
“Nope, I'm stuck in the kitchen all day, aren't I?” Frypan answered, right in the middle of making a crème brûlée.
“Alby?”
“Sorry buddy, never even gave it a look,” his friend and fellow employee replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Too busy making coffee and tea and who knows what else.”
“What about you, Minho? For goodness' sake, you're outside all the bloody time,” Newt exclaimed, exasperated, turning to the delivery boy.
“Geez, Newt, calm down. It's just a dance studio,” Minho informed them, “I've only spoken to the shank who runs it once or twice. It's not like you guys give me much time to sit and chat, I've got to run around and fetch all sorts of ingredients from the grocery store!”
“Yeah yeah, we get it, but what did the shank say?” Newt prompted.
Sending a raised eyebrow his way, Minho smirked, and continued. “He only wanted to ask about the coff—wait a minute, Newt, why do you want to know so badly, you sneaky shank?”
“No reason,” Newt argued, his face flushing, “can't I be curious? Plus, it isn't about the boy, it's about the shucking shop!”
Minho took one look at him and burst out laughing. “Oh, Newt! You like the boy, don't you?” It wasn't really a question.
Alby snickered. “You've definitely got it bad for the unlucky shank!”
“You're exaggerating! How can I like someone I've never even met?” Newt protested.
Wiggling his eyebrows, Minho replied, “Well, maybe it's about time you did.”
Frypan's roar of laughter echoed out from the kitchen. Newt, on the other hand, was not amused. Keeping his head down as he arranged chairs and tables before the store opened, his mind wandered back to the conversation. He didn't like the boy across the road. He didn't! He didn't even know him. Well, the boy did kind of have a nice smile… and nice brown eyes… and a great laugh… and… oh. Oh shuck. Well, not that he was ever going to admit it, but he guessed… he kind of liked the boy from across the street. Just a bit. Not that he was ever going to act on it. It wasn't like he would ever meet that boy in person or anything anyway. So, of course, who else would walk into the coffee shop bright and early that morning, but the boy himself.
Shit.
Brown eyes tracking the boy's every move as he strolled across the street, Newt ducked into the kitchen, cursing silently as he fumbled for his phone. He hurriedly called the one person he knew would be the reason behind Mr. Dance Studio's visit to the coffee shop. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the table, he waited for the sound of the phone being answered. His prayers were answered when he heard the phone beep, signalling that the receiver of the call had picked up.
“Oh god oh god oh godohgodohgod. Minho, you shuck, he’s here. He’s bloody here.”
“Well, go and talk to him, you shank!”
“But I—”
“Hi, is anyone around?” The voice came from the other side of the counter.
Newt hurriedly jammed the “end call” button with his thumb and dashed back to the counter, huffing, “so… rry… what would you… like…?”
The boy looked at him weirdly. “Are you alright? You look like you just ran a marathon or—” He paused suddenly before grinning rather cheekily, “well…”
Newt felt flabbergasted that the boy, who was nothing more than a stranger, could insinuate such a thing. His mouth flapped open and close, his brain was unable to formulate a proper response.
“So, uh, can I order?” the boy chuckled, somewhat amused by Newt’s expression. “I’ll have a caramel latte. With as much caramel syrup that you can dump on, thanks.”
Newt moved over to the espresso machine, quickly getting to work. While putting “as much caramel syrup that he could dump on”, he started to wonder what on earth the cute boy from across the street—who was supposed to stay across the street, mind you—was doing at his coffee shop, of all places.
“So, uh, I'm Thomas. I ran into one of your friends just now, and he, um, he actually recommended this place. ‘Homestead’, right?”
Newt grinned, relieved that Thomas had spoken first to end the silence, finding it extremely easy to slip into conversation with him. “He actually recommended it?” Newt replied in amazement. “He doesn't even buy anything, and he works here. I mean, the shank gets his coffee down the road at bloody Starbucks!”
“Well, he didn't really phrase it that way...” Thomas trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.
Newt's heart began to fill with dread. What had Minho told him? What if he told Thomas that he had some ridiculous crush on him? He got so caught up with imagining all the horrors, that he couldn't quite catch what Thomas was saying.
“Sorry?”
“Your friend, he told me that the food's great, and... uh,” Thomas stammered.
“Yeah?” Newt prompted, praying with all his might that Minho had not mentioned his interest in him.
“And the servers aren't half bad either,” Thomas finished. “Especially the one called... Newt?”
Newt groaned and rested his head down on the counter, suddenly regretting his friendship with Minho. He was going to kill that delivery boy once he came back from his run to the grocery store.
Right on cue, his phone buzzed, signalling that he had received a text message, quickly followed by laughter coming from the kitchen. He took a glance at his phone, then felt a great urge to hurl it across the shop.
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Text from: Delivery Boy
You'll thank me later.
xoxo Minho
P.S. You should take his dance class.
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Definitely going to kill the bloody delivery boy.
“Uh… why are you glaring at your phone?”
Looking up to find Thomas staring at him, he explained while handing him his latte, “That would be me you're looking for, then. The boy you were talking to was probably Minho, our delivery boy. The bloody shank just sent me a text.”
Noticing that he had yet to start drinking his caramel latte, Newt squinted at the drink, starting to worry whether anything had been added incorrectly. Before he could say anything, however, Thomas took a sip, furrowing his eyebrows, before his face lit up. “This is spectacular!” He exclaimed.
Ducking his head shyly at the compliment, the words slipped out before he could think about what he was about to say. “Thanks, Tommy.”
“Tommy?” The boy asked, tilting his head in slight confusion.
Shit. That was bloody adorable.
Thomas glanced at his watch and quickly took another sip. “Shit, sorry, I've got to dash, I've got a dance class to teach in a couple of minutes.” Finishing his latte within the blink of an eye, he stood up. He placed a few notes on the counter, and leaned over.
“So, since I visited you at your coffee shop, does that mean you'll visit me at the dance studio?” Thomas asked cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows. “We’re learning how to tango. You can watch if you want to!”
Newt smirked, before replying with a single word, “Maybe.”
But they both knew that definitely meant yes.
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Newt didn't have the patience to wait for very long. In fact, the very next day, he found himself crossing the street, caramel latte in hand, to visit the boy who so intrigued him. It hadn't even occurred to him that he was actually about to enter Thomas' shop until he was pulling on the door. Strolling past the small receptionist's desk as quickly as he could with his limp, he found himself in the dance studio, watching Thomas teach a group how to... well, he wasn't really sure what they were learning with all the twirling and the jumping.
Noticing him slip into the room, Thomas called out, “Newt! Hey, nice to see you!”
Newt raised a hand in return, giving a small wave whilst walking toward Thomas to hand him his caramel latte.
“It’s delicious,” Thomas exclaimed gleefully, setting the drink down.
Newt took a seat in the corner of the room, all ready to watch Thomas dance.
He hadn't sat down for very long, however, when he heard Thomas exclaim in what seemed like a tone of utter despair, “I don't have a partner today!”
A brown-haired girl called out, “Sorry, Tom! Now that Brenda's here, we have an odd number, and I'm at my best when I dance with her anyway.” She blew a kiss to another girl, whom Newt presumed was Brenda, before turning to face Newt. “My name's Teresa. I didn't use to have a partner, so I had to dance with the teacher,” she explained, making a face, nodding her head toward Thomas. “Well, he isn't actually that bad. You should try being his partner. I've got Brenda, so he's free. Plus, I think he kind of likes you.” She winked. “Go for it!”
Before Newt could even start to process that information, Teresa turned to Thomas, pointing at Newt, asking, “Why don't you ask him to dance with you?”
Newt could feel his face flushing, cheeks heating up as everyone in the class turned to stare at him. Looking over at Thomas, he saw that he looked as flustered as he felt.
“I can't. My leg,” Newt tried, hoping to avoid the embarrassment.
A middle-aged man grabbed his hand and yanked him up from his seat and towards Thomas. “Young children these days,” he muttered, letting go of Newt's hand and pointing at the dance teacher. “You'd think they'd be a tad less shy. Bloody boys. Just dance with him already!”
“Jorge, stop it,” Thomas half-heartedly protested, mouth curving slightly upwards as Newt hesitantly made his way through the students to where Thomas stood.
“I haven't danced in ages,” Newt murmured, shaking his leg. “Much less danced the bloody tango.”
“In ages? You mean you’ve learnt it before?”
Newt froze, a horrified look on his face. Thomas simply shook his head and took Newt’s hands in his.
“Come on, you shank. You can lead.”
Shoulders relaxing, Newt grinned and put a hand on Thomas’ hip, thoughts of his limp completely fleeing his mind. Thomas mimicked his expression, and put his hand on Newt’s shoulder, lining them up for the dance.
“Ready?”
“Oh please, Tommy. Please. I was born ready.”
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Text from: Chef
Heard about the tango. Let me know when I can get started on the wedding cake, yeah? Tell me a couple of weeks in advance!
Frypan
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Text from: Alby
Congrats, you bloody shank! Bring him around to the bloody Homestead more often.
Alby
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Text from: Delivery Boy
You’re welcome.
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Bloody delivery boy.
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A routine seemed to fall into place. Coffee in the morning, tango at night. The Homestead in the morning, the dance studio at night. But Newt was always with Thomas, regardless of the time of day. He felt as comfortable dancing with Thomas as he did chatting with him in the coffee shop every morning.
If one word was used to describe the shop across the street, Newt would probably have said it was “home”.