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“Caramel macchiato for Caspar?”
With a heavy sigh in anticipation of just how hideously Linhardt will have butchered his name on the cup today, Caspar heads to the handoff area and picks up his paper cup. The boxes are ticked and marked in his boyfriend’s easily recognisable scrawl, and just above the siren’s head, Cazpar is scribbled with a crude heart and what might be a butterfly, or might just be a mistake that’s not been crossed through all the way. From the register, Linhardt beams at him, and just for a moment, Caspar feels sixteen again, his heart clenching just a little, the way it always does when he gets to see that smile. It’s part of the reason why he acts so dramatic over the misspellings - because if it makes Linhardt grin and giggle like that, it’s got to be worth it.
“A fucking Z? Really, Lin?” He clutches his chest theatrically, pretends to stumble, and in the process, spills hot coffee all over his hand. “Ow!”
“Idiot,” Linhardt scolds fondly, beckoning him over to the counter again and taking his hand. He mops at the coffee with a bit of blue paper towel, but Caspar knows that it’s just an excuse to touch him. Linhardt likes to be touching him. It’s just the way he is, especially now he’s got the Starbucks job at weekends and the football season is in full swing, it’s like they hardly see each other any more.
There’s no line, so Caspar lets Linhardt take him by the collar of his varsity jacket - it’s red and black, the Eagles colours, with his initials stitched on the left side of his chest and his jersey number embroidered on the back, and it might just be his most prized possession after Lin’s heart - and pull him in for a quick kiss. It tastes like coffee, obviously, because Linhardt always has a cup of something on the go, usually a weird secret menu creation or something topped with far too much whipped cream. Today, though, it’s something iced and black, and yet, Linhardt still hides a yawn in his sweater sleeve.
“You are not sleepy right now.” The disbelief is evident in Caspar’s voice.
“Oh, but I am
so
sleepy right now, Cas,” Linhardt almost whines.
“How much coffee have you had already?”
His coworkers chime in, as if on cue, all bright-eyed as ever. “He’s on his third cup?” Ferdinand guesses.
“Fourth, actually. I am surprised his heart is not stopping.” Petra sounds unamused.
Linhardt kisses Caspar again. It’s definitely just to distract him. “How could my heart stop, when you’re here? It beats only for you. And besides, I think I’ve become immune to caffeine,” he adds mournfully, gazing at his cup.
Caspar rolls his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a thing. Please drink some water. And call me when you get off.” He leans up for one more kiss, standing on tiptoe, because Linhardt is just that
slightest
bit too tall, and has taken to wearing a pair of thrifted, thick-soled Doc Martens that Dorothea says are the perfect compliment to his oversized knit sweaters and torn jeans, but Caspar just thinks they were picked out to make his boyfriend an inch too tall to kiss unexpectedly. The only time he can surprise Linhardt with kisses now is when they’re laying in bed, and it’s annoying to need him to bend down every time Caspar wants to show off how fucking
cute
and how
in love
they are.
“I promise I’ll drink water. And I promise to at least text you.” Linhardt practically lies across the counter to hug him. “Have fun at practise, okay? Don’t get hurt.”
“I never get hurt. I’m fine. I’ll see you tonight.” Caspar reluctantly detaches himself, waves to Petra and Ferdinand, and leaves, the door chime jingling after him.
If he has to run to make practice in time, and his coffee is cold enough to chug by the time he gets there, it doesn’t matter so much when he’s seen Lin.
~~~
“Gingerbread latte for C-Caspar?”
The first snow has fallen on campus, and Caspar has finally given in to Dorothea insisting that he needs to wear more than a hoodie so he doesn’t freeze. He thinks, though, that it isn’t him anyone needs to worry about.
It’s Linhardt, shivering in his Christmas sweater and red apron even among the heat of the coffee machines, his hair coming down from its usually neat half-bun as he flits between bars, grinding beans and steaming milk and pouring hearts and roses in the foam. Petra’s working the register, so Caspar’s name is spelled right for once, and as he goes to take the cup, Ferdinand comes out of nowhere behind Linhardt and pats his shoulder. “Take your half-hour, while you can.”
Caspar beams, and practically drags Linhardt around the handoff, coffee forgotten as he wraps his arms around him. “A whole half-hour? We’re getting spoilt, Linny.” He’s already gently untying the apron strings so Linhardt can take the stupid thing off, so they can commandeer a low table in the corner of the room and Caspar can actually hug Linhardt for the first time in a few days. They’ve been so busy with studying and working that they haven’t had the chance for one of their impromptu sleepovers, both squeezed into a dorm room bed, or even to catch up at lunch. Caspar has been wholly deprived of boyfriend time, and judging by the way Linhardt pulls him down onto an overstuffed couch and buries his nose in the crook of his neck, he's not the only one. His face is hot, but his hands are freezing, stained with tiny splatters of mocha and espresso and soon firmly curled in the folds of Caspar’s parka.
“Feeling okay?” Caspar asks softly, nosing into his hair and then deciding to fix it for him. Gentle as ever, he twists the mess into an uneven braid, so at least it won’t get even more tangled as he works. The smell of coffee always clings to Linhardt’s hair, like his personal brand of perfume.
In reply, Linhardt sneezes into Caspar’s shoulder. “I fucking hate winter.” A pause. “It’s cold. I want to nap. And I’d happily never see another eggnog latte for as long as I live.”
“Aw. C’mon, it’s not that bad, right?” Caspar asks hopefully. “You’re just being a drama queen because you have a cold?”
“My blood is ninety percent honey citrus mint tea and cough syrup. And it’s not just a cold. I’m dying.”
“Sure you are, babe. Sure you are.” Caspar kisses his head fondly. “You have half an hour and my undying attention. That makes things better. Right?”
When he doesn’t get a reply beyond the softest of snores, his heart melts and breaks and swells all at once. It’s the mark of someone being comfortable, when it only takes a moment for them to fall asleep in your arms or your lap. And it hurts to wake him, when their precious half-hour is up and he has to get back to work, red-eyed and disoriented. Petra takes pity on him, and sends him to do dishes.
If he takes the next day off, and spends it in bed watching Hallmark movies, with Caspar petting his hair and bringing him tea and toast and NyQuil, who is anyone to judge?
~~~
“A
pink drink,
Caspar? Really? I expected better from you.”
Nobody does disappointment quite like Ferdinand, nose wrinkled in disgust as he holds the cup at arm’s length. “I thought you were an adult.”
Caspar pouts and takes the cup for Caspie. He is going to kill Dorothea for that one, especially as he spots Linhardt’s smug smile. He’s been saving that one up ever since he overheard a tipsy conversation between them at Edelgard’s New Year’s party, one that involved Caspar “waxing positively lyrical”, apparently, about just how much he adores Linhardt. A drunk mind may speak sober thoughts, but drunk Caspar is a sap, and drunk Dorothea is a giggler who likes pet names.
He realises he hasn’t answered Ferdinand. “I am an adult. An adult who likes strawberries, and coconut, and uh, acai. Whatever that is.”
“I like the pink drink!” Petra chirps, waving her own almost-empty cup.
“And I like a man who is so sure of his masculinity that he isn’t afraid to drink something baby pink,” Linhardt adds between sips of what looks like an iced latte.
Caspar narrows his eyes at him. “I thought you made a resolution to drink less caffeine this year. All it does is make you anxious, it doesn’t even keep you awake. You’re broken.” He sidles over to kiss Linhardt anyway.
“It’s decaf!” his boyfriend protests.
“No it’s not. Decaf lattes are lighter in colour.”
“Fuck you, Ferdinand von Aegir.”
Caspar tugs at a lock of Linhardt’s hair where it’s come tumbling over his shoulder. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Lin. For your health. And perhaps a little for my own sanity because your caffeine crashes are fucking
awful
.”
“I don’t have caffeine crashes. This stuff doesn’t even touch me,” Linhardt scoffs, then yelps and lunges for the cup that Caspar has snatched from under his nose. “Give it back!”
“If it doesn’t affect you, why do you need it?”
“I don’t
need
it, I…” Linhardt pouts. “I want it. My coffee. Please, Cas.”
Ugh. Caspar is absolutely powerless when it comes to Linhardt’s pout and his kicked-puppy eyes and his whining. “Ugh. Fine. You’re hopeless.”
“I’ll quit tomorrow?” Linhardt blinks at him, feigning innocence. “I really will?”
“No, you won’t.” Caspar rolls his eyes.
“I will! From tomorrow, no more caffeine.”
“I dare you.”
To his credit, Linhardt lasts until just after lunchtime, head aching with the withdrawal. It takes falling asleep on a cafeteria bench before Caspar relents and drags him back to Starbucks on his day off. He orders a quad-shot espresso and drinks it without a pause, gazing intently at Caspar all the while.
“Never, ever take my coffee again.”
~~~
“Cas?”
Linhardt slips into the changing rooms long after all the other players have gone. He hates it in here, it smells like Axe and sweat and dirt, but Caspar didn’t show up in the stands with the others, so it falls to Linhardt to come and find his boyfriend. The game was close, but not close enough - getting knocked out of the running so close to the final was pretty brutal.
One of the showers is still running, and Linhardt stops in front of it, hand on his hip. “Caspar. I know you’re not still showering. Come out for me.” And then, softer, “Please?”
Caspar always takes the team’s losses as a personal loss. He relies too heavily on himself for the outcome of the games, the actions of his teammates. He may be a captain, but he likes to forget that he’s a human, too. “No. Go away.”
“You aren’t made of sugar, as sweet as you are. You won’t dissolve under the hot water. And besides, it can’t still be hot.”
“It’s f-fine…” The chatter of his teeth betrays him, and he turns off the water, the cold air of the locker room immediately assaulting his skin. His hair drips down his neck. Maybe this was a stupid thing to do.
“Come out, Cas. Come on. It’s only me.”
The curtain twitches aside, and Caspar more or less tumbles right out, into the towel that Linhardt has already grabbed from his bag and proceeds to wrap tight around him.
“That’s it. Well done.” Linhardt ignores how wet he is, and kisses his forehead. “You played beautifully. You always do.”
“Not good enough,” Caspar sighs. “We suck. We got so close.” A bruise is blossoming across his cheekbone, and when he walks to where he left his clothes, the ankle that got twisted beneath a bad tackle leaves a slight limp in his step. He can feel Linhardt’s eyes on him, concerned, pitying, pained.
“You don’t suck. You’ve worked so hard this season. You’ll get to the finals next year,” Linhardt tells him, far too much confidence in his voice, or so Caspar thinks.
“Whatever.”
Caspar dresses quietly, and doesn’t complain when Linhardt pulls out his scarf, and gently winds it around his boyfriend’s neck, finishing the gesture with a kiss to his nose, then his lips. “You don’t have to comfort me,” he protests, but it’s weak. For once, he wants the comfort Linhardt always so willingly provides, so he lets his boyfriend zip up his jacket, and towel dry his damp hair even though, outside, he can hear that it’s beginning to rain.
“I’m going to anyway,” Linhardt murmurs. “I always will.”
As soon as the fussing stops, Caspar buries himself in Linhardt’s chest, in his layers of wool and his vintage pea-coat, in his embrace. Linhardt holds him there, steadying him, until he’s ready to face the world.
“I brought you hot chocolate,” Linhardt remembers, when Caspar breaks the hug. “Although, it’s probably more like cold chocolate now.”
A small smile flutters across Caspar’s face. “We can make more at your place?”
Some things in life are constant.
Highs come with lows, wins come with losses.
Linhardt comes with sweet hot drinks and the scent of freshly ground coffee in his curls. With icy hands, and holes in his sweater sleeves for his thumbs to poke through. With paper cups and heart-wrenching smiles, and most importantly?
Linhardt comes with Caspar. Always.