Chapter Text
The peak of the Christmas season is simultaneously the peak of Gerard’s seasonal depression. When most people are crooning along to “Last Christmas” by Wham! and stuffing their faces with gingerbread cookies, Gerard is driving alone to and from work, getting by on depression meals, and spending weekends in bed, crying. The cold, melted snow that penetrates through his fingerless gloves while he spends 15 minutes cleaning off his car and that soaks his decidedly not waterproof leather boots only exacerbates his anger at the time of year, his current life choices, and the fact that it’s 7 in the morning and still fucking dark outside because America can’t Get It Together and do away with daylight savings. His only twice-weekly salvation is Starbucks on Mondays and Fridays. He gets in his car and blasts the heat, turning both dials up and angling the vents to hit his ice-cold and wet digits. Throwing on some David Bowie, Gerard backs out of his spot and drives the few streets over, and encounters the absolute worst sight a coffee-addict could ever see: a Starbucks without any lights on.
“What the FUCK!” Gerard starts to throw what can only be described as a tantrum, punching his dash and turning recklessly into the lot, not throwing his turning signal on and earning a weak beep from the Honda Civic behind him. He drives up to the front, hoping that magically there will be workers inside and lights glowing golden, but all he can see is the reflection of his Saturn and the faint outline of his head in the front windows. He squints his eyes and sees the sign posted on the door:
CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS 11/25 - 01/15
“Why do they never WARN people ahead of time?” Gerard asks, to himself, the ether, God, Santa, who-have-you. He grabs his phone from its cradle on the dashboard, and punches in “coffee,” selecting the closest shop that can hopefully fill the venti-sized hole in his stomach.
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It’s just another beautifully busy morning--Frank’s hands methodically pulling espresso, steaming milk, and pumping syrup for order after order--when Bob calls Frank over to the register.
“Hey, Frank? How do I charge for the pancake latte again?”
Frank runs over, signaling at Bob to lower his voice, are you crazy?
“Dude, whisper...it’s a secret item for a reason.”
“You never used to complain about my volume level before. In the bedroom.” Frank treats Bob with a stern look, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Shut the fuck up, oh my God, Bob. I’ll do it, switch over to prep?” He says, sliding past to punch in the correct item and process the customer’s payment.
Bob laughs.
“Yeah of course. I promise I’ll get a handle on that damn register one day.”
“Sure you wi-” Frank replies, eyes locked on the man in a Thursday hoodie walking in the door and up to the counter. His hair is a bit messy, like he brushed his fingers through it and the dark circles under his eyes are screaming “large colombian roast with two shots of espresso"--
Wait.
“Um, hello?” Mystery man waves his hand in front of himself, pulling Frank out of his stupor.
Frank is in love. Head over heels, in love at first sight. How can a human being so pretty exist in real life?
Pretty man is still staring. Frank shakes his head to clear it of his hopeless romantic thoughts.
“Sorry! What did you say you would like?”
“Large colombian roast with two shots of espresso, please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Extra cream, no sugar.”
Frank knows that he should just finish the expected transaction, but he wants to milk this moment with the hottest man on Earth as long as he can, so he decides to actually do something he’s never done before: upsell.
“Would you like a bakery item? They’re all vegan and homemade by yours truly.”
“No, thank you.” Well that was a total failure...
“Okay. Your total is $2, your order will be out shortly. Can I ask for the name?”
“Gerard,” Frank writes the name on the cup and hands it to Bob as Gerard pays for his large coffee.
“Thank you.”
“No problem, have a good day!” Frank replies, just as Bob finishes placing the filled cup on the service counter.
Gerard grabs the cup without so much as a second glance towards Frank at the register who watches him leave, resigned to the fact that he’ll get to spend the next month thinking about what-if situations.