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Richie walked into the campus coffee shop, ordering his usual diabetes blend. After forking over the money for the overpriced beverage, he took his usual spot in the corner, right by the window, but also by the heaters. New York got cold in the winter. Setting his coffee down, Richie reached into his satchel (Stan told him to call it a bag, but you know what? Fuck him.) and pulled out his battered Macbook, covered in stickers, ranging from pride flags to Hamilton, which really weren’t all that different if you asked him. Reaching up to his curly black hair, he used the hair-tie on his wrist to pull it all back into a fashionable man bun, adjusting his perpetually dorky glasses.
Just as was taking a sip of his hot drink, there was a crash, and the man standing behind the counter of the little shop had pulled on a look so comical that Richie couldn’t help but think he must be faking it. Cute, cute, cute! But no, there was spilled coffee all over the front of his shirt, and a rude customer demanding that he make another one immediately. The boy in question looked mortified, nodding his head toward the man yelling at him and apologizing profusely as he scrambled to make another of what seemed to be an unnecessarily complicated order.
Richie watched, enthralled, as he put several pumps of stuff from all around the kitchen area into the cup. God, he was so pretty. Fair skin and chocolate curls that tickled his ears, his eyes sparkled, even as he concentrated on making the disgusting coffee for the man that was now practically spitting about how he was going to be late. The boy sealed the cap carefully, handing it over to the man. Fuck, he had to be about Richie’s age, and definitely at least a foot shorter. The man snagged his coffee, taking a deep sip of the disgusting sludge before spewing it all over the poor barista’s face. Richie caught the tail-end of what he was saying, “...not what I ordered!” His face had turned red as a tomato and he had begun full-blown shouting at the cowering boy.
“I- I assure you,” the boy stuttered, “that is exactly what you ordered sir.”
Richie swept his gaze around the coffee shop, but no one seemed to be making any move to intervene. Fuck this. The man obviously had a couple loose screws, and his sandy hair and awful outdated suit weren’t doing him any favors either. “Hey, dude,” Richie stepped between Cute Barista and Ugly Guy, “He got you what you ordered. If you’re in such a rush, just leave.” Someone definitely had a camera up by now, but Richie really didn’t care. In fact, he was glad. He was gonna roast the hell out of this fool.
Ugly Guy glared at him, looking like he was ready to beat the crap out of whoever was interrupting his assault on Cute Barista. Richie checked his name tag. Eddie. Richie felt his heart soar. Obviously such a cute barista would have such a perfectly fitting cute name! “Hey fucko,” a sharp, businesslike voice sliced into his thoughts. “This is none of your business, so get the fuck out of my way.”
Richie practically growled back at the shorter man, holding his stance, “Dude, even if it’s not what you ordered, you can’t just spit it out all over him. Go back to whatever corporate hellhole you climbed out of.”
Ugly Guy moved right up to him, and man, Richie hadn’t been in a real fight in a while, but he was pretty sure he could take this asshole. “Back. Off. I’m getting my coffee, and then I’m leaving,” he scowled at a hyperventilating Eddie over Richie’s shoulder, “and I’m not coming back.”
Poking a finger into his chest, Richie thrust the cup into his hands. “Here’s your sludge,” he knew he was misting Ugly Guy’s face, and he took satisfaction in how he flinched away. “Now I’ll explain one more time, and I’ll be sure to use small words so that you understand dipshit. Leave. You’re not welcome here.” He gave the man a shove towards the exit, straightening his back and using his height to tower over him. He shot him one last menacing glower as Ugly Guy strutted out the door, calling an insult over his shoulder. Good riddance.
For a second Richie just stood there before he heard a wheezing sound behind him and he turned to see cute barista Eddie sitting on the ground with his head between his knees, having some sort of asthma attack. “Whoa, you okay?” Richie jumped the counter, going to the coffee-stained boy.
“Inhaler,” Eddie gasped, gesturing a shaky hand in the direction of where his coat hung on a hook.
“Right,” Richie lept into action, ignoring the fact that someone was still filming. Scrabbling at the pockets, he finally found it, whipping it out and putting it up to Eddie’s lips- he didn’t know if his trembling hands would allow him to do it himself. “Here you go.”
He triggered it, once, twice, and was gearing up to do it again before Eddie lifted a hand, “I’m fine.”
Richie smiled, handing the inhaler back to him, observing how he quickly shoved it into the back pocket of the light wash skinny jeans he was wearing. “Boy Eds, sure scared me there.”
Eddie pulled an annoyed face, causing his nose to scrunch up, and oh god, it was adorable. “Not my name.”
“Cute, cute, cute!” Richie resisted the urge to bop his nose, because, fuck, he just looked even cuter the more angry he got.
Eddie rolled his eyes, “And what’s your name asshole?”
Richie waggled his eyebrows in a goofy way, magnified by his thick lenses. “Richie Trashmouth Tozier, at your service.”
“Trashmouth?” Eddie asked, surprise crossing his face.
“My nickname. Y’know because I’m such a-”
Eddie interjected, “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard of you before. I guess you’re just… not what I expected?”
Richie laughed, “I see my reputation precedes me. You’re okay though?” He checked his watch, “I gotta get back to my dorm or my roommate Stan is gonna get all pissy with me.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he still seemed a little confused, but Richie chose to ignore it, he knew what everyone thought he was. A party boy: loud, mouthy, drunk, not the kind of person who would stand up for some random guy in a coffee shop. Even if the guy happened to be very, very, cute.
Richie stood up, then paused, feeling unsure. “Uh, can I get your number? Maybe we could hang out or something sometime.”
Eddie didn’t seem prepared for the question, but he nodded, and Richie let out a breath, relieved. “Give me your phone.” He held out a hand and Richie passed it over, standing awkwardly as Eddie typed in his number and shot himself a text. Richie caught a glimpse of what he had written before shoving his phone in his pocket. Hey Eds, it’s Richie. As Richie walked out of the shop, his phone buzzed. Hey Chee, it’s Eddie.