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The job was not so bad itself.
Of course, it became a bit monotone but Fugo had to admit he appreciated the routine of brewing coffee and signing paper cups with the names of strangers behind the counter. The smell of coffee was also specifically comforting for him. All of those things that came with working in the coffee shop gave him a sense of stability, almost like coming back from an eccentric trip to the comfort of your home. It was just a part time job to earn some money while he was still in school, but it was quite important to him.
What was also important was his companion’s presence. After all, Bucciarati not only got him the job, but got him the job when he realized his parents might not support him financially anymore, and if he worked hard enough, he could distract himself from all the anger he felt toward his family piling up inside him.
Fugo couldn’t be more grateful for Bruno and all the things he had done for him. Bruno made the most stressful and rowdy days didn’t get to him at all because he was there for him. Bruno was the one to calm him down when a customer was particularly short-tempered and Fugo could feel his heart beat out of his chest and he desperately gritted his teeth, hoping this will not be the moment he snaps.
Bucciarati met him back in high school, when Pannacotta was strolling around the corridor, late for his classes. Who would have known back then that the two would grow so close together?
Regardless of how close they were, you could notice they were different at first glance.
And Bruno had his fuss and shenanigans. Fugo wasn’t seeing eye to eye with him, but he put up with them.
He put up with the chatting borderline flirting with complete strangers. He put up with the jazz records playing in the background, he didn’t have the heart to tell Bruno to turn them off. He always put up with everything Bucciarati did.
But not today.
Today, he felt like he had to teach some kid a lesson on what he should and shouldn’t do.
Except the kid was four years older than him.
All of this because of some fair-haired stranger in a black leather coat.
_
Bruno could notice himself how the people stumbling into their cafe perceived him. Fugo always said that the regulars adore him, he usually laughed it off, but there was something adorable about Bruno Bucciarati. The sparkle in his eyes, his welcoming smile, the warm tone of his voice made the customers feel almost at home in the four walls of the cozy café, even if they were just grabbing their morning coffee before heading to work, and eventually, they smiled themselves.
Fugo also said that he’s a flirt. At that, his face curved in an expression of someone who is not sure who is he kidding, and a quick response somewhere along the lines of “I call it gallant” let out of his mouth.
Alright, he was a bit of a flirt but this was not the case.
Usually, when a customer approached, Bruno was just kind. Sometimes, the being kind turned into small talk, and if the person behind the counter was enthusiastic, he threw a heartwarming line. Still, it was sheer congeniality.
This was very far from sheer congeniality.
All of this started with a fair-haired stranger in a black leather coat.
Usually, Bucciarati paid attention only to the regular customers, but there was something about this man that made him unable to take his eyes off of him ever since the tall, firm figure clad in black clothing walked into the coffee shop.
He made his way to the counter and leaned against a wall, reading the headboard as he fixed a strand of his hair, in the color of light silver, hanging over his collarbones. An opportunity for Bruno to take a closer look of his face, the sharp edges of his jaw, cheekbones, and finally his nose, long and a bit crooked at the end but this only made his face even more memorable and made Bucciarati so drawn to it. He tried his best not to gawk at the gorgeous stranger, so he only curved his lips into a warm smile and waited patiently. Then his eyes crossed his so Bruno could spot his amethyst-shaded ones peering coldly at him from under an arched brow.
“Morning,” he finally muttered, stepping forward and just now Bucciarati has realized how much taller he is than he thought “Americano, two shots of espresso,” his plump lips covered in a dark shade of lipstick shifted as he spoke.
The man behind the counter nodded. God, it was bad. He wasn’t even going to have small talk, let alone anything beyond that, “Good morning. And your name?”
“Abbacchio.”
When he scribbled the name, gave Abbacchio a quick “thank you” and passed the cup to Fugo, that’s when the idea struck him.
Occasionally, he would draw a smiley face next to the customer’s name.
This time, what awaited Abbacchio next to his name was a ten digit number.
The stranger took his order from the counter, mumbled a “thank you” and suddenly turned back. Bruno felt a wave of heat rise to his face. Some kind of unknown thrill buzzed through his spine. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to do.
“You misspelled my name,” the stranger scoffed, “Two c’s.”
It felt like a slap across Bucciarati’s face. Did he not see it? Did he pretend he didn’t see it? What kind of response is that?
He only managed to reply “Well, sorry.”
_
Leone stared at the number on the empty cup set on the scratched surface of the table in his apartment.
What was going on with him?
Normally he would just ignore it, sneer at the sight of it and throw it away.
But there was something deep inside him that couldn’t let him do that, something that drawn his attention to the guy from the coffee shop.
Why did he even think it was a good idea? Seriously, he didn’t seem stupid, didn’t seem like the type who would just give his cell phone number to a complete stranger. Yet, he did. Would he do that with everyone who caught his eye? Or was Abbacchio, in some way, special? Why was he even thinking about it? It’s not like he has the guts to do anything.
Although he wished he did. His mind brought back the memory of when a sweet girl with waves of auburn hair asked him out in high school and he lied about being sick just because he got so terribly nervous. He couldn’t do that now. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, and to be honest, he really wanted this. Scolding himself internally wasn’t enough, he didn’t even know his fucking name, and for Leone, who usually was completely detached from his feelings, this was sudden and unexpected.
All of this just because of some way too friendly, beautiful barista. Screw that guy. Screw his beaming smile and his bright eyes glowing in that morning light and his agile, perfect palms sliding across the buttons of the checkout.
He had no idea what to do now, texting him first wasn’t an option, because what would he say to him? Hi, I don’t know anything about you but you’re so hot, wanna go out? God, he always hated interpersonal contacts. Abbacchio planned to do what he always did – repress the fuck out of his feelings until he feels a pang of conscience and thinks it through with a little help from a bottle of gin.
Right now, he’s going to have to just leave it alone, and temporarily find a new café. There was no way he would swallow his pride, make his way to the counter and look him in those eyes again.
_
The next day, Fugo decided to stop pretending that he didn’t see it.
“You seem a little distracted today,” he acknowledged, gazing at his friend from behind the coffee machine, but Bruno only adjusted his position on the stool in the back of the room and hummed, as an expression of acknowledging his words.
“What did you write on that cup?”
“What?”
Suddenly, Bruno realized how uncomfortable that tiny stool was, or maybe it was the few beats of silence before he heard his friend speak. He had to make the quickest decision, so he decided to play dumb.
“The order was ready,” Fugo’s eyebrow raised, his voice calm, “You could have just called his name, but you took extra long.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bucciarati frowned and raised his hand above his chest in feigned confusion, but he knew that wouldn’t work on Fugo, on the bright Fugo who saw everything even before Bruno did, who has now tilted his head and stared at him in disbelief, so then he sighed and spoke, “Observant as always.”
“Cut the crap, Bucciarati, and tell me.”
He was obviously getting impatient and it was too petty to have an argument over.
“That gentleman got an Americano,” if only Bruno could keep that stupid grin off his face, “with an extra espresso and an extra my number.”
Bucciarati kept a smile on his face but in reality, seeing Pannacotta’s reaction, he wanted to sink through the floor. Fugo frowned so hard his wide eyes looked like they were stuck to his eyebrows.
“You gave your number to a random guy on a coffee cup? Bucciarati, what the fuck were you thinking?” he wanted to yell, but realized the customers could have heard him easily.
“What, do you think he’s straight?” Bruno chimed in, as if he didn’t see anything wrong with it, but he was only playing cool.
“I- I don’t care!” Fugo snorted, almost offended, “Now get over here and take some orders before Polpo comes back and yells his guts out,” Bucciarati got up from his seat and shuffled lazily to the register, he was in the doorway already when Pannacotta added, “Oh, and be cautious not to accidentally leave your number on any of these cups”, he turned back just to roll his eyes at him and the next moment he was next to the counter.
_
A quick glance at his watch. He was running late once again and once again he was contemplating if that will be the last time his boss lets him slide, and Abbacchio will have no excuse this time. I was getting coffee two blocks away because I’m avoiding a barista I have a blatant crush on. “Over my dead body,” he said to himself.
Rushing through the door of the shop, he could already see Risotto waiting for him, he had a few seconds to make up an excuse.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, setting down the cup and fixing the stray pieces of hair falling on his face, “Got stuck in traffic.”
“Oh, I thought you take the metro.”
Risotto really had to remember everything, “Not today.”
He tried to get to work peacefully, but constantly felt the piercing gaze of his boss on him. Risotto wouldn’t let you hide anything from him, he was so carefully perceptive, apparently he was planning to become a pathologist and Leone knew right away that he would make a great one. In the thick, heavy silence between them the long-haired man glanced back at him, as his eyebrow twitched suspiciously.
“Is something bothering you?” his voice, low and calm as always, had a hint of sincere concern. Leone didn’t like that, the last thing he wanted was for his boss to be worried or pitying him.
“It’s nothing,” he brushed it off, hoping this conversation would be over, god, all he wanted to do was just get the work done, “Some stupid personal stuff.”
But Risotto wasn’t on the same page, clearly, “Well, apparently I give good personal advice,” when the fuck did he get so talkative? His tone was still stone cold, but Abbacchio was genuinely surprised, “Maybe I could help you.”
“You really don’t want to, trust me. It’s embarrassing.”
“Come on,” the taller man’s bright hair fell onto his face as his head shifted, he loosened up, and crossed his buff arms across his torso, “I’m friends with Melone,” the memory of one of Risotto’s friends, Melone, who was… obnoxious, to say the least, flashed through Leone’s mind, “I can handle embarrassing.”
“You’re really not gonna take no for an answer, huh?” violet eyes rolled in the direction of thick eyelashes.
Risotto let out a bark of laughter, turning to face Leone, as his red irises sparkled under his half-lidded eyes. What Abbacchio couldn’t wrap his head around was that this even more intimidating, tall goth was simply trying to be a friend to him, not a boss, not a co-worker, a friend.
“Look, a distressed employee is not an efficient employee,” he claimed, after his attempt at being friendly didn’t sit well with Leone, “I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Comfortable? I thought capitalism was about exploiting your subordinates”, a sneer rolled from the violet lips.
The boss shot him a deadpan stare, “You’re changing the subject.”
“Right,” Abbacchio averted his gaze to collect his thoughts while gazing at the shop window. Maybe this wasn’t so bad, and maybe Risotto could really help him, he seemed like a confident guy. Or maybe everyone was just scared of him. A pained sigh escaped his mouth before he gathered the courage to speak, “How are you supposed to text someone you, well, hypothetically, like?”
Nero raised his eyebrow, “You mean, like as in fancy?”
“Like as in just being attracted to someone,” he cut him off, bluntly.
Fair, almost white eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. He really asked his boss for fucking dating advice, like a shy schoolgirl swooning over some heart-throb, he could feel that was the memory he’s going to come back to in times such as when he’s trying to fall asleep and his head rewinds some twisted compilation of the most cringe-worthy moments of his life.
But honestly, what else was he supposed to do? Abbacchio always preferred to give himself over to his loneliness, so he couldn’t have much of experience. Especially relationship experience. The closest moments he got to that type of experience were buried deep in his memories.
“You have to take it easy,” as if that was so simple, “But don’t go with a Hey, what’s up, that’s dry, and you have to be smooth, like, what’s their name?”
“You have enough information already,” he had to cover up for the fact that he didn’t even know his name.
“Okay, okay,” his hands raised to his chest as he sighed at Leone’s attitude and he shrugged, “Just ask if they want to hang out. Make it personal, play it cool. Unless somebody likes that twisted humor of yours. Then I guess you’re really lucky.”
What left Abbacchio’s mouth was just a prolonged sigh and a quiet “Thanks”. Risotto made it sound so simple and that made him cringe at himself even harder. He really was at an impasse, or so he thought, when an idea has just struck his mind, “Make it personal”, he repeated, more lively than the last time.
That evening, after coming back to his apartment, the first thing Leone did was set that well-deserved bottle of gin on his kitchen table. The second, type in the number from the cup standing right next to it.
_
Fugo has really tried his best. He tried to be as calm and polite as he could, but anyone could see with the naked eye how fed up and tired he was of this situation. It was obvious nothing is going to work out of it, and he was sure even Bruno knew it, he just had a stifled spark of hope. If the circumstances weren’t so… improper, immature, he would feel more sorry for his friend, but that plan of his was just bound to fail. What were you thinking, Bucciarati?
Bucciarati slumped against the fridge, tapping his foot on the floor, already a bit sticky from some spilled liquid and side-eyeing his phone, of course, that’s what he has been doing for the past few days every time Fugo spotted him without his hands full.
The ring of the bell on the front door interrupted his train of thoughts and he got his mind off the still empty screen of his cell phone as he strolled to the register. For the entire early morning Bruno has busied himself with new tasks to keep his mind distracted, something that Fugo could not criticize, as it was too familiar for him. So he made cappuccinos, lattes, served sweet snacks, babbled with a polite old lady who was a regular customer, cleaned the tables, put on some records, sat down on the stool for a decently interesting conversation with his co-worker. Exactly what he always did.
The ring of a bell. This time, not the one attached to the front door.
Bruno and Fugo threw their gaze at the phone’s screen in unison.
[Unknown number]: wanna grab a coffee sometime?