Work Text:
Every morning, Dream walks into work, dons his worn apron, turns on the machines, organizes the counter and the fridge, and flips the old sign in the window of the shop to read, “Open,” all the while thinking to himself,
This is hell.
Dream would have never expected that, at the ripe age of 21, he’d be serving shitty coffee and disappointing pastries to old men and hipsters in their 20s from behind the counter of the coffee shop that had been around in his town since he could remember. He was a computer science major with a gaming setup worth thousands of dollars, and this barista job was the last thing he ever wanted to spend his time doing.
Alas, Minecraft doesn’t pay the bills.
I should start a Twitch channel , Dream thought to himself as he began to open up the register for the day, quickly dismissing the thought. He knew himself, and he knew he would never keep up with being a streamer.
The day was slow as it usually is, a few regulars popping in, ordering shots of espresso or whatever latte Quackity had added to the menu that week. He was always coming up with the most random combinations of flavors, and it always astounded Dream that every single one of Quackity’s creations seemed to work. They were always a hit, especially with the groups of gay teens that frequented the shop.
At least some of the people around the shop made the job bearable. Quackity, for one--Dream’s coworker that always seemed to have enough energy for both of them on days when Dream was dragging behind. Dream always appreciated the way his loud laughter bounced off of the old tile in the shop, bringing the dining room to life. The owner, Jack, who was always willing to put up with whatever tomfoolery Dream and the other employees concocted. Some of the customers also made Dream’s days less dull. Sapnap, his best friend since they were kids, who would usually come and sit in the shop on the days Dream worked, if even just to talk to him in his downtime. Karl, who would sometimes pop in twice a day grinning like a little kid, claiming he “needed the caffeine.” Dream never questioned it. He was always glad to see Karl.
It was a shitty job. Most jobs were. Shitty, that is. But Dream supposes there were things that made the humdrum routine of his hourly wage job less shitty.
The cheap, old bell in the shop sounded with its tinny ring, an announcement to the good people of Jack Manifold Grind that another had joined them.
Probably Karl again, Dream thought to himself as he finished restocking the syrups.
With a frustrated huff, Dream headed back to the register, locking eyes with the customer on the other side of the counter.
That’s...not Karl.
The stranger hadn’t noticed Dream return to the register, instead studying the menu above Dream’s head. His hands sat comfortably in the pocket of the light blue hoodie he was wearing. Dream noted his eyes, the color of dark cedar, of raw onyx. The kind of eyes that belonged to a person that you could trust with the darkest parts of yourself, welcoming and comforting. He had a soft, incognizant smile, like he was in his own world.
The sound of someone clearing their throat brought Dream back into the moment. He, too, was in his own world, it seemed. A second too late, Dream noticed that the stranger was looking back at him, his soft smile changing to an amused grin. Dream blushed and cleared his throat.
“Hi, what can I get you?” he asked, throwing himself back into the job at hand to move past the shifting energy that filled the air when Dream and the stranger looked at each other.
“I don’t know--” the stranger paused, glancing at the name tag on Dream’s apron. “--Dream. What do you recommend?”
Another thing about the stranger stood out: his accent. He was very distinctly English, and Dream wondered what brought him to the States.
“Well, the lattes of the week tend to be pretty big hits, but if that’s not your thing, I’m personally a big fan of our cold brews.” Dream placed his hands on the counter, leaning slightly forward.
The stranger seemed to think about it for a second. “If you like the cold brews, I think I’ll try that.” That always-there smile was still...well, there.
“Sure thing, which one?” Dream started to put the stranger’s order into the computer.
“Surprise me,” the stranger replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
His eyes are...something else.
Dream grabbed a cup for the stranger’s drink as he finished queuing up the order. “Alright, that comes out to $4.78, and can I get a name for the order?”
The stranger started to pull his card out of his wallet. “It’s George,” he replied, handing his card to Dream.
Dream charged the card and handed it back to the stranger--George--and scribbled his name on the side of the cup. “Alright, George, I’ll have that right out for you.”
Dream immediately busied himself making the drink, trying to get his mind off of the interaction he’d just had with George. This was just a regular order; why did it feel so...different? George was just a customer. Dream saw so many of them every day. So why can’t he get his mind off of George, or those eyes or his smile or his comfortable demeanor--what is it about George that makes him stand out in the lull of Dream’s day?
He grabbed a lid, placing it on the cup as he brought it back to the counter. No reason to dwell any more on it.
“Here you go, George, have a great day,” Dream said, sliding the cup across the counter.
George nodded as he picked up the drink and grabbed a straw from the holder on his side of the counter. “You too, Dream. Thanks.”
And with that, Dream’s stranger wandered out of the coffee shop and effectively out of Dream’s life. He might have stared at the door for a moment after George left.
Dream glanced around at the rest of the shop, which was empty except for Sapnap in the corner on his computer. Sapnap met Dream’s eyes and nodded in greeting.
He didn’t notice anything.
Dream sighed and walked back toward the kitchen. Glancing around, he busied himself pretending to check stock. He replayed the interaction over in his head, and like a broken record, his mind was stuck on it. George, George, George. The word bounced around in his head, and nothing else around him existed. He counted the 16 oz. lids four times.
“Dream?”
He turned quickly, lids still in hand. Quackity was looking at him like he was trying not to laugh. “You good?”
Dream shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Just...head’s somewhere else, I guess.”
Quackity narrowed his eyes, just slightly. “Right. Well, I think Karl’s out there again, if you want to go deal with that.”
Dream sighed, heading back to the register. The work day didn’t stop for his spiralling thoughts. He had to keep moving.
Dream hopes, for his own sanity, that George never shows up at the shop again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dream thinks of himself as a good person. He’s generally not a dick, he calls his mom every few days, and he’s okay enough at his job. He watches his sister when their mom needs a babysitter, and he’s nice to customers. However, no matter how good of a person he is, he must have done something in his life to royally piss off some kind of divine entity, because George shows up at the shop again the next week, wearing the same blue hoodie and sunshine smile.
It’s not that he’s not happy to see him. He is; George is pleasant enough, but he doesn’t want to deal with another spiral today. He pushes any unproductive thoughts out of his head as George makes his way to the register.
“Hey, Dream.” His corners of his eyes crease, and Dream chooses not to think about it.
“George. Nice to see you again, what can I get you?” Dream asks, customer service voice masking his anxiety.
“You remembered my name.” Dream nods. “What was it that you gave me last time?”
Dream pretends to wrack his brain as if he doesn’t remember exactly what he made for George exactly a week prior. “Just a caramel vanilla cold brew, I think.”
“Could I get that again?”
“Of course, that’s $4.78, I’ll have that right out for you.” He started making the drink, focusing most of his effort on keeping his mental barrier up and keeping any thoughts of George out. He knew it would end in flames if he let himself think too much.
As he was mixing the drink, Dream briefly looked up, locking eyes with Sapnap, who was looking at him, face twisted with some sort of skepticism. Dream shook his head. Don’t say anything. Not while George is here. Sapnap rolled his eyes, turning back to his computer screen. Dream knew he couldn’t get out of the interrogation Sapnap would certainly give him once George left.
The mundane task of making the drink didn’t occupy enough of his mind. Ice. Cold brew. Milk. Caramel. Vanilla . Slowly, thoughts of George, his dark espresso eyes and his hands always resting in his pockets, creep into his head. What was it about him that had Dream so...smitten?
He slides the drink across the counter to George with a polite smile that doesn’t reveal any more of Dream’s thoughts than he’s ready to. Their hands brush as George takes it. “Thanks, Dream. See you later.”
Dream hoped so.
Sapnap was already standing at the counter when Dream returned. “Start talking.”
Dream started wiping down the counter. “About what?” he asked, avoiding eye contact.
“ About what . About him, dumbass.” Sapnap leaned against the counter, letting Dream know that he couldn’t walk away from this conversation.
“I don’t know, he’s been in here a couple times now, and he asked for my recommendation, so I made it for him.” Dream pretended to be very interested in a spill on the counter.
“Then why did you get all weird when he came in here?”
Dream huffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The clock on the wall ticked as the seconds passed, neither of them speaking. Dream still hadn’t looked up. Sapnap still hadn’t looked away.
“Oh, my God.”
Dream mentally braced himself. “Stop.”
“You…”
“I swear to God, dude, shut the hell up.”
“Because he’s-”
“Don’t.”
“Oh, my God. You like him.”
Dream threw the washcloth aside, bracing his arms against the counter and dropping his head. “What gave it away?”
Sapnap scoffed. “Did you see yourself? You’re never that awkward around customers.”
Dream tilted his head up, just slightly, finally looking back at Sapnap. “Awkward?”
“You know. Tense.”
“Don’t call me tense.” Dream turned around. He needed to be doing something with his hands before his mind started wandering again.
“Listen. Why don’t you say something to him?”
“‘Cause. I don’t know if he’s gay.” The espresso machine probably needed to be cleaned anyway.
“You won’t know until you go for it.”
Dream didn’t respond. What was he supposed to say? Sapnap was right, technically. He wouldn’t know until he just ripped the bandaid off, but would that be worse?
Then again, there wasn’t really a relationship to ruin. But Dream didn’t know if he was willing to risk never seeing George again. He needed time to think about it.
If he said something to George, and it went well, then that’s great, isn’t it? But if it went poorly, then…
Dream didn’t know. What
would
happen if it went poorly. What was the worst case scenario? George throws his drink at Dream and never comes back?
But Dream didn’t want to think about what the shop would be like without George bringing his bright energy in every so often.
He’d give it another visit. Then he’d decide.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Like clockwork, George came into the shop the following week. Dream could feel his heart rate pick up when he heard the bell rang and saw the blue hoodie. George and that damn blue hoodie.
This was the visit that decided whether Dream was going to say anything to George.
“Caramel vanilla cold brew?” Dream asked, already reaching for the cup.
“You know me so well, Dream.” George beamed at him.
Dream expected them to move through their regular motions--Dream making the drink in silence as George waited by the register, scrolling through his phone, so Dream was surprised when George walked over to the counter and leaned against it.
“You two have been in here every time I’ve come in. Do you know each other?”
Dream tried to hide his panic. “Yeah, we’re roommates.”
Sapnap glanced up toward the counter. “Sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
He was met with a small laugh in response. “George. And you are?”
“Sapnap.”
“Well, Sapnap, it’s nice to finally meet you. How long have you and Dream known each other?”
“Forever, it seems like,” Dream answered from behind the counter.
Sapnap smiled. “Yeah, years. I don’t even know.”
Dream handed George his drink over the counter. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to the States?”
George started to unwrap his straw. “Pardon?”
“It’s just, your accent. I figured you weren’t from here.”
“No, I’m just visiting some friends,” George explained, sipping his drink.
“Gotcha.”
George briefly scanned the room. “So is it just you working or…?”
Sapnap closed his computer. “No, Quackity’s in the back.”
“Quackity?”
“Yeah, he’s the one that does the lattes of the week,” Dream explained.
“What is it this week?”
Dream started leafing through the various scraps of paper by the register--price calculations, stock lists, doodles of little ducks--until he found the receipt that the latte of the week was written on. “Caramel vanilla, funny enough. Boring one this week.”
“Are you calling my drink boring?” George joked.
“Yours is a cold brew, not a latte. It’s different.”
George laughed. “So what’s the best one he’s come up with?”
“Ooh, good question.” Dream wandered back to the counter. “Sapnap?”
Sapnap thought about it for a moment. “I have to say blueberry mocha. It’s weird, but it’s kinda good.”
“That was a good one. That, or that, like, cinnamon raspberry thing he did that one time.”
“Oh, that was so good.”
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” George was still smiling, and in the light from the window, Dream noticed that his eyes shone a rich gold color, like honey or amber. His eyes never stopped catching Dream’s attention.
“What color are your eyes?” Dream asked before he could stop himself.
“Me?” George asked. “Brown. Shit brown.”
“Don’t say that,” Dream responded, trying his best to sound lighthearted. “It’s just, in the light, they look...different. I don’t know. That probably sounds weird.”
“No, I’ve heard that before.” George glanced at his phone screen. “Well, I’ve got to get going. See you next week?”
“Same day, same time.”
Dream ignored the feeling that filled him when the bell rang as George left.
The rest of the shift was slow. Barely anyone came in, and Dream might have lost his mind if it weren’t for Sapnap and Quackity. He swore most of his job consisted of closing the shop.
As he shut the lights off and locked the door, thoughts of George came flooding back to him in full force. He was counting on the drive home to bring him back to earth. It didn’t work.
Dream was never lying to himself. He knew, from the moment that this idiot with his stupid, soft brown eyes--beautiful brown eyes, why couldn’t George see how pretty they were?-- walked into his shop and into his life, that he wouldn’t be able to forget him. Like a shift in a poem, something in his life changed, however small it was, and he knew the familiar feeling of static buzzing constantly in the back of his brain. He never understood the strong words people used. Falling. Burning. It was never like that for him. He never fell; he just sauntered vaguely downwards until he found himself far deeper than he ever meant to be.
Why , he asked himself, can I never stop myself before it’s too late?
And he knew that this would happen, that the buzzing would grow louder--not so loud that it was deafening, but loud enough to always be vaguely aware of it--and everything would be about him. The only thing he didn’t know was that it would happen so quickly. Dream sees him once a week--if he’s lucky--just to serve him coffee. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen George, so how did he become an intrusive thought so soon?
Dream stopped at a red light and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. The opening notes of “Can I Call You Tonight?” pour through the speakers of his car. He skipped the song.
And as he drove home in the dimness of Orlando just barely post-sunset, he felt the vague emptiness that filled him every time he leaves George, as if George took a piece of Dream with him every time he left the shop.
He skipped the next three songs. They’re all about George, at least in his mind. Dream wished he could stop thinking about him.
There’s my answer, then. Dream thought. I have to tell him .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dream couldn’t stop looking at the clock all morning. Today was the day George was going to come in, and Dream couldn’t stop worrying about it. It was counterproductive; there wasn’t anything he could do to change anything. All he could do was try to shoot his shot and hope he didn’t wildly miss.
It was a pretty busy morning. Dream pretended it kept his mind off of George. He didn’t do a very good job. Customers came in and out, pretty standard orders all morning. He was able to keep moving, and even if it didn’t do a good job of slowing his mind, it gave him something else to think about.
Quackity was helping him stock the bar during a slow period when the bell sounded and George came in. Dream physically flinched as if the door had jumpscared him.
George, still in his damn blue hoodie, walked up to the register.
“Same thing?” Dream asked.
“Of course.”
If George noticed Dream writing on the cup for longer than usual, he didn’t say anything.
Dream started the drink immediately, hyper-aware of his surroundings and hoping George couldn’t see the cup yet. Ice. Cold brew. Milk. Caramel. Vanilla. Don’t fuck this up. He carefully stirred the drink, stalling as long as possible.
Eventually, he handed the drink to George, writing facing out. George accepted it with his usual thanks, then a pause, then a smile brighter than Dream thought possible. George ran his thumb across the numbers sprawled in sharpie along the side of his cup.
George looked at him for a moment, unsure what to say. Glancing from the cup back to Dream, he smiled impossibly wider. “Thank you, Dream. Really.” Then, “I’ll talk to you later.”
He’d talk to him later.
That was a yes.
What was Dream even asking?
He didn’t care. George said he’d talk to him later.
The rest of the shift was a blur. Nothing else mattered but the fact that George liked him.
At the end of his shift, his phone buzzed.
It was a text.
Coffee tomorrow? I know a good place :] -George