Work Text:
Ian had been going to the same coffee shop on his way to work every morning for a whole year. He loved the place; they had these cranberry-orange scones that were to die for, and their french vanilla cappuccinos weren't bad either. He'd gotten to know the baristas there, and he didn't even need to give his order; they knew his "usual" and had it ready for him by the time he got to the front of the line to pay.
Unfortunately, his schedule unexpectedly changed and he had to go in to work on the weekend for the first time. Everything about his morning routine was different, starting with waking up late because he forgot to set a new alarm. He was forced to skip his morning run, and by the time he showered and got out of the house, he was still behind schedule.
The coffee shop was normally pretty empty in the morning, but, as if the whole universe was conspiring against him, it was full of people for the weekend breakfast rush when Ian walked in. All of the couches and tables were taken by hipsters and their laptops, banking on the free wifi the place offered to their customers. Even though the line was about the same length as it normally was, it seemed to be moving a lot slower than usual.
It took twenty minutes for Ian to get to the register to order, and when he did, he was able to see that the weekend staff was new. Well, new to him, at least.
“What’ll it be?” the barista asked him casually. No wonder the line was moving slowly, what with the employees being so relaxed.
“One cranberry-orange scone and a large french vanilla cappuccino to go,” Ian said.
The barista picked up a large cup and held his marker up to it, poised and ready. “Name?”
“Ian,” he answered before passing him his debit card. He finished his transaction and walked over to the small counter to grab some napkins, sugar packets and a stirrer to save some time while waiting for his order to come up.
The guy who had taken his order passed the empty cup to the other employee who started making the coffee while the first one put the scone into a paper bag. A couple of minutes later, he saw the second guy put a lid on his drink, so he walked to the pick-up side of counter.
“Liam?” the second barista asked.
Ian hesitated before taking the drink, but he was sure that the order was his. The guy at the register must have just heard his name wrong. Just to be safe, he checked the paper bag before leaving and confirmed that his scone was there. He was already beyond late so he rushed out of the coffee house and didn’t give the name mishap another thought…
...until it happened again the following weekend.
Ian’s morning had started off a lot better than the previous week. He’d remembered to set a proper alarm and had been able to get a quick run in before his shower. He got to the coffee shop earlier, planning ahead for the wait.
The same barista took Ian’s order. He recognized him by his brown hair and bright, blue eyes. He got his coffee with a bagel this time, since he always felt hungrier on mornings when he exercised, and he made sure to enunciate his name properly to avoid any confusion.
When his order was ready, the other employee called out the name “Ian,” so he accepted his drink and his breakfast with a smile, even dropping a small tip into the jar before heading out.
Ian regretted leaving the tip when he got to work and noticed the name on the cup was spelled “Eeyan.” He stared at the gross misspelling with disdain after every sip he took of the delicious cappuccino.
In the weeks that followed, Ian would apprehensively pick up his order each Saturday morning to discover the absolute mess that was his name. It ranged from ridiculous spellings such as E-anne, Ion and Eon, to names that only vaguely sounding like his own, like Ryan and Juan. One time the cup even read “Semen.”
He didn’t understand how his name could be butchered so badly. He didn’t think Ian was an unpopular name, but week after week, they somehow managed to fuck it up. He decided he’d had enough, so the next time he went in on the weekend and the same pale-skinned barista asked for his name with that relaxed, I-don’t-actually-give-a-shit-about-how-long-the-line-is attitude of his, Ian spelled it out for him.
“It’s Ian,” he said. “I-A-N.”
And when he received his drink, the cup said just that: “Eye-Aye-En.” There was no winning, and Ian finally accepted that fact.
The next week, when the barista asked him for his name, Ian just shrugged. “Write whatever you want,” he told him.
He waited by the counter until his order was up, then looked down at the cup, feeling completely defeated. The name he saw actually surprised him.
He walked back to the register, annoyed. “Come on,” he said to the brunet barista, putting the cup down and pointing to the name written on it in the same sloppy script he’d become accustomed to seeing. “‘Mickey’ doesn’t even sound close to ‘Ian’! How’s that funny?” he demanded.
The barista looked up at Ian and huffed out a short laugh. “It’s actually hilarious,” he said, offering no other explanation. Instead, he reached for the cup and held it up, then slowly rotated it until Ian could see the other side. There, in that same messy handwriting, was a phone number.
When Ian only narrowed his eyes in confusion, the barista shook his head and tapped at the nametag on his apron.
“Oh,” Ian muttered, seeing that the guy’s name was Mickey. He felt like an ass for ordering from the same man every week for almost three months and never even having noticed his name; but then again, Mickey had been fucking with him on purpose the entire time.
“So you’re Mickey…” he said, more to himself than to the barista, his brain not really functioning quickly enough to come up with anything better to say. “I’m Ian,” he said, feeling like he should introduce himself now that he knew that Mickey was interested in him.
“Yeah, smartass. I know,” Mickey teased.
Ian felt a blush starting to creep up his cheeks. “So, uh... yeah. I’m gonna leave now… before I say something else stupid,” he told Mickey.
The brunet laughed. “Make sure you spell out your name again when you call me,” Mickey told him with a smirk. Ian hurried out of the coffee shop feeling equal parts mortified and excited.