Chapter Text
Basil
“What.” It comes out as more of a statement than a question, what with the way she's been looking at me.
“That guy is looking at you.”
I blink at her, then settle into a glare. Ever since I hired her, Miriam has been trying to set me up with someone. Ever since I told her I was gay, she’s been trying to set me up with every guy who walks by. It’s nauseating.
“I’m sure you’re imagining it. Get back to work.”
“I’m not , Basil; he is!” She’s a foot shorter than me, which means she can stick her face right up under the milk pitcher I’d been drying. It’s dead in here today, except for the odd customer and the regulars who have been lurking at the edges. “Look, he’s right over there, by the window.”
I shift my gaze to Frankie, who’s got her eyes closed. She gets tired easily; I worry.
“Frank, break time.”
Head snapping up and face flushing, she tilts her head at me. “I’m fine.”
“Take a break anyway. Did you eat yet today?”
She huffs but does as she’s told, dropping her apron in the basket on her way to the back. Sometimes it feels like I'm more of a babysitter than a boss, between her and Miriam.
Miriam, who is poking at me, nosing her head between my arm and my side: “Look at him, look at him, look at him, he’s looking at you, he has been for hours now-”
I snort. “Your shift started twenty minutes ago.”
“Just look-”
I do. The pitcher is out of my hands and crashing to the counter with a clang that echoes through the shop over the corny indie playlist Miriam has got going on, and I think I’m going to have a heart attack. I’d known he was in New York, of course, but not… here.
That’s all it takes for him to be out of his seat and marching over here, his chair flying out and footsteps heavy, unintentionally dramatic as ever.
“He’s coming over here, he’s coming over-”
“I know.” I snap, and I don’t mean to. She pulls her face out from where she’s wormed her way into my side--she’s so touchy-- squinting at me.
“Why are you panicking?” Damn her.
“I’m not.” I am.
“You are. Is it ‘cause he’s cute? Is it ‘cause he looks like he could break your nose?” He has. He’s almost to the counter, his steps slowing.
“Be quiet or get back to work.” She huffs, and I cut my eyes at her. “Not a word.”
Snow steps up to the counter. He looks the same as he did when we parted ways three years ago: soft, warm and like everything I want to eat. His freckles are in full swing, since it’s only August, and he hasn't buzzed his hair in ages by the look of it. His curls spring out in all directions and I long to run my fingers through them. He’s a little rounded out, but otherwise the same Simon I’ve always known.
“Baz.” I expect him to spit it, to throw it at me like he used to, but it comes out a little breathless. I like that; I like that I startle him that much.
“Snow.”
We regard one another a long moment.
“What are you doing here?” He asks at last, and I raise an eyebrow at him.
“...This is my coffee shop, Snow?”
“Yours? What makes it yours?”
“My name on the lease, that’s what.” I snap, and he blinks.
“Oh. Guess that works.”
I scoff. “Does it? Thank god that works out for the Golden Boy,” I mock, putting a hand up to my head in fake relief.
“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
“And yet, here we are.”
Snow’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Here we are.” He parrots.
We’re quiet again; I pick up the pitcher and begin wiping it down once again with the rag, though it’s already past dry. He’s still looking at me, so I make a show of curling my lip and looking as sinister as I can muster. Miriam has fucked off to who knows where, but I can feel her eyes on me as well. She’s going to be a nightmare about this. I knew I shouldn’t have hired a high schooler.
Someone clears their throat, and I realize I’ve got an actual customer: he’s stocky and broad, glaring at the back of Snow’s head. He doesn’t step away from the counter, only stumbles off to one side, still watching me with narrowed eyes.
“What can I get for you?” I deadpan to the man. He’s got sagging, sad eyes and smells like an alleyway.
“You shouldn’t linger in other people’s way, you know.” He says to Snow, who snaps his head in the man’s direction. “And you,” This to me, “Should be more mindful to your customers.”
“My sincere apologies. What can I get you?” I can’t explain the feeling that wells up in me at the disgusted look he shoots Snow.
“Some cheer, or a smile?”
I grimace. “What the fuck can I get for you, sir?” I’m not usually like this with customers, but Snow watching me has me on edge. I can hear Miriam gasp from beside the espresso machine, where she’s taken post. Her hand falters on the group out of the corner of my eye, and it scrapes loudly on the metal of the Marzocco as the man blusters, face red.
“I cannot believe you would- I- Where’s your boss?”
“My boss?” I repeat, setting the pitcher down as gently as I can. My eyes dart to Snow, who’s eying the man. I know the look; it’s the ‘Should-I-Punch-Him’ look. I’ve been on the receiving end of it enough times to know it well.
“Yeah- I demand to speak to him!” Bold of him to assume it’d be a man , but what can you do?
“Oh, I’ll go get him.” With a sardonic smile, I pick the pitcher back up, going back at it with the rag. Again, it’s past dry, but a point must be made. I can hear Snow snicker, and Miriam is gaping at me like a fish; the man is going purple and grotesque in his rage. I keep my eyes on the pitcher, humming lowly along with the song overhead.
The man coughs, “Well?”
I blink up at the man, pretending to startle. “Yes?”
“Where’s your boss?”
“I am the boss.”
He’s incredulous, leaning over the counter towards me. The ashtray, alleyway, garbage day smell intensifies. I want to retch. “Are you, now? Don’t you think you’re a little young to be running a shitshow like this?”
“Get out.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, get out. Leave.” Snow is wide-eyed when I look at him. He tilts his head at me in that way of his, like a bird. A curl flops into his right eye, and my fingers tremble with the urge to push it out of his face.
“What’re you gonna do, pansy? Shove me out the door?” He snorts, eying me up and down. Maybe the floral shirt was a bad idea today. “Lay a hand on me and I’ll show you who’s boss. But I bet you’d like that, huh?” He’s right in my face now, and I might just throw up on him at this point. It’s too much too soon; between Snow showing up out of the blue and this man’s attitude, I’m out of my mind. Were I back at Watford, I might’ve punched him, like I used to do with Simon in fifth year. But this man is not my malnourished roommate. He’s heavyset, more fat than muscle, but he could still hurt me if he tried. Even with the counter between us, he could do some serious damage. And what about Miriam? When I flick my eyes towards her, she’s pale.
“Back off, man.” Oh yes. Him. My knight in shining armor; Snow puts his hand on the man’s shoulder, eyes hard and flinty. I flinch.
“Who the fuck’re you, anyway? This fag’s boyfriend?” He spits. He looks like a rodent, he looks like every pest in the world, like vermin. And Simon, Simon looks like every hero in every children's book and fairy tale I’ve ever heard, now more than ever. Miriam has got her phone out now, videoing the whole thing.
“Doesn’t fucking matter. He asked you to leave, so I suggest you do.” Now, Snow-- Snow could take this guy, easy. I can’t help but notice he’s put on more muscle in the past three years, and he was a good fighter even before. Now, he looks like he could knock me out with one punch.
The man seems to be weighing his options, taking Snow in. He’s still leaned over the counter, hands braced on the marble. I hear the microwave ding somewhere in the back; Frankie must be taking my advice and eating.
“Fine.” The man pushes off from the counter, shouldering his way past Snow. “I’ll be leaving a review on Yelp, asshole.”
“You do that.” I tell him, picking the rag back up again. I’m careful to keep my mask until the door closes behind him, the bell on top jingling as it slams shut. Simon looks at me quizzically.
“What the hell, Basil? I’ve never seen you like that! That was insane-” Miriam is at my side, her face at my shoulder again. She really does not understand personal space. “I’m putting that on Instagram.”
“Please don’t.” I tell her, but she’s not listening, eyes on her phone as she shuffles into the back.
I turn to Simon. “Thanks. I could have handled it just fine, but… thank you.”
He blinks at me, then squints.
“What.”
“I… don’t think you’ve ever thanked me for anything? What the fuck.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the corner of my mouth lifting up. The betrayal. “First time for everything, right?”
“Right…” He clears his throat, looking at his hands. “Are people usually... Like that? To you? For being gay, I mean.”
Oh, yes. This conversation. On our last day at Watford, just before the graduation ceremony, as we were packing the last of our things, we’d started this dialogue. I was preparing my robes for that night, folding them carefully on the bed beside my suitcase. I’d made the decision that after all the years with these people, it was time: I’d carefully pinned a scrap of rainbow ribbon to the lapel of my robes.
“What’s that?” Snow was standing over my bed as I came out of the en suite with my products.
“What’s what?” I’d sneered, though I’d known damn well what he meant. Despite myself, my hands shook as I put my shampoo in the front pocket of my suitcase.
“The little… ribbon thing.”
He blinked at me, and I stared back. My voice was steady: “A rainbow. It is June after all.”
“June?”
“Gay pride month, Snow. Keep up.” I was going to vomit. On him.
“... Oh .” The head tilt, “..Cool. That’s cool. Erm.” He stepped around me. “I’ll, uh, see you out there.”
That was the last conversation we’d had.
Now, he’s looking at me expectantly. “No,” I tell him, “Most people are cool about it. New York is cool about it.”
“Huh. That's sick.”
“‘ Sick ’?” I mimic, “What are you, twelve?”
He-- honest to god, I’m going to transcend-- he laughs at that, smiling.
“You know,” He chuckles, leaning on the counter on his elbows now, “I kinda missed you. And all your rude shit.”
“Thanks.” I deapan.
“Another thank you? Two thank yous from the Baz Pitch in one day?” He fakes praying, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and palms pressed in front of him, “I must be blessed.”
“Ha, ha. So funny, Snow.”
He grins.
“What are you doing in New York?” I ask, because I don't want him to leave. I want him to stay here and talk to me. He’s all warm smiles and soft energy, and I feel like I could fly from just being in his presence again. From talking to him, and not only that, but bantering with him. I’d always been jealous of Bunce for getting to talk to him like that, to laugh and tease and not insult. But he’s being nice to me, smiling at me, and when I look at him I can imagine the little gap he used to have between his front teeth, long gone after the headmaster forced him to get braces. I used to make fun of the lisp it gave him all those years, but it’s gone too.
“Just moved here. Scholarship at Pratt.”
“Pratt? That’s… impressive.”
He grins again. I could touch the sky. “ And a compliment? Where is the real Baz Pitch? I demand to see him.”
“Hm… Let me get back to you on that one.” And then I let myself smile at him.
“What about you? Why New York?”
I busy myself at the machine, because I can’t look at him and be coherent right now. “I was managing my father’s business here for a bit after graduating, when my stepmother was ill. But she’s recovered now, and I just couldn’t leave.” I shrug, pulling two shots. “I like New York more than I liked London, though I do miss Fiona. She visits sometimes, when she plays gigs here. Her band is really taking off.” I don’t know why I’m still talking; I need to shut up. Instead, I talk louder over the screeching of the steam wand, “She and Nicky are back together, which is cool. Did you know Ebb lives down here now, too? In Connecticut.”
“Wait, real shit?”
“Don’t say ‘real shit.’”
“Ebb’s here? I have to visit her.”
“I’ll take you sometime.” Fuck. Why did I say that? I set the finished drink down in front of him.
“What’s this?” Distraction successful; maybe he won’t say anything about me offering to take him to Connecticut.
“Flat white. Do you still drink those?”
He’s staring at me like I’ve grown another head. “...Yeah. I… You remembered.”
“Of course I did, you numpty.” I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him looking at me. I turn back to the machine, dumping the grounds. Frankie and Miriam are watching me through the doorway to the back. I glare, but it does nothing to deter them as Snow starts talking again.
“Right… Uh, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s on the house.”
“Oh….kay what the fuck. Why are you being nice to me?”
“Why not?” I shrug.
“What… the fuck.” He repeats. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him tuck the bills into the tip jar, and make a note to give it to Frankie.
“Seriously, man-” His phone goes off in his pocket, and he grumbles as he fishes it out. “Hey…”He says into the receiver, “Yeah-- Shit! Got distracted, sorry…. I know, I know. I’m sorry. Yeah, I can do five. See you.” When he looks back up at me, he’s running a hand through his hair. “I was supposed to do a study group at three…” He glances at the clock on the wall above me. “...I gotta go.”
“Seriously, Snow? You got ‘distracted’?” I chuckle, and he rolls his eyes.
“You are a very distracting person, Baz Pitch.”
I blanch. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Snow?” It comes out harsher than I mean it to, and the way he flinches makes me sick.
“Nothing! Just… you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.“ He gives me an odd look then, one I’ve never seen on him before. Almost like he’s thinking. A first. “Look, I gotta go. Um, thanks for the, uh- the coffee.” He lets out a shaky laugh, and then he’s shouldering the door open. And just like that, the love of my life walks down Third Avenue.
-------
“That’s the longest conversation I’ve seen you have with anyone, ever, Basil.”
“It most certainly is not. We have conversations all the time.”
“Me and Frank don’t count. Besides, you never like, talk to us. You just tell us what to do and secretly take care of us.”
“I do not take care of-”
“Who’s Fiona?”
“Aunt.”
“I didn't even know you had an aunt.” Miriam scoffs, passing me a to go cup. It’s gotten busy in the late rush, now that everyone is off work and ready to spend their Friday night doing who-knows-what. It’s not as if I ever do anything besides read and drink on my nights off.
“Grande breve mocha.” Frankie informs me from my left. “I didn’t know you had family at all.”
“Obviously I have a family. Where else would I have come from?”
“I dunno… a coffin? Where do cryptids usually come from?” Miriam volunteers cheekily.
I send another cup to Miriam with a glare. “Haha, very funny. Between you and Snow, I’m starting to think maybe I am some kind of supernatural being. The ability to attract such dumbasses must be something extraterrestrial, right? Two shots in this cup.”
Pouring the shots in and passing it back to me, Miriam scoffs. “I take offense to that.”
“I’d hope so.” I finish it off with the steamed cream. “Mocha breve.” The woman who takes the cup looks tired, yapping into her cell phone. I wonder if I’d look like that if I’d stayed at Father’s business.
“But anyway,” Miriam is glaring at me, “The important thing is-- who the fuck is that guy, Basil?”
I clear my throat. “No one.”
“‘ No one?’ You’ve got to be shitting me!”
“Miriam-”
“First, it was weird because he was just- just, like, staring at you the whole time, and then he was straight-up marching over here like he was gonna rip your head off or eat you or something. And then you guys were bickering and how do you know him?”
“I don’t. Drop it, Miriam.”
Frank leans over towards us, “She has a point. Twenty ounce iced vanilla.”
“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know him? Lying-ass bitch-”
“Quieter, please, Mir. There are children in line.”
She huffs, but her next outburst is much quieter as she pulls the shots. “The sexual tension was palpable , Basil-”
I spill the drink, sticky vanilla milk pouring over the counter and down my apron. Frankie snorts at the register as she takes the customer’s cash. Watching me scramble to clean up my mess, Miriam juts a hip against the bar and giggles. “I’ve been working here six months now, and I’ve never seen you lose your composure even once-”
“Shut up.”
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