Chapter Text
“Ju…st one more…” the bleary eyed man mumbles to himself, absentmindedly reaching to adjust his headphones for the umpteenth time in twenty minutes. If a coherent thought could be had, he’d probably be curing his inner procrastinator. His hand guides the mouse, the final placements of text and pictures seemingly coming out as art itself.
Tapping softly against the silent casing of the headphones, he bops his head to nothing in particular. He probably would have noticed his playlist running out hours ago if it wasn’t his second all-nighter for this damn project. He stares blankly, moving the title of the slide a micro-fraction of a centimeter to the right, cursing himself and trying to gently move it back. Careful to not disturb the rest of the perfectly polished presentation, he slumps back in his creaky old chair.
“Fucking finally,” he can’t contain the intense emotion he’s crammed into the few words. His throat cracks around every letter, causing him to cough violently. His hand shoots out to his desk. With a small flick of the wrist he riffles through the dozens of disposable cups around him, finding one with the smallest bit of liquid within. “Come to papa, gorgeous.”
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP Clunk
A new stain graces its older counterparts on the ratty old shirt, much to the man’s annoyance. “Might as fuckin’ well.” He mumbles out a string of curses in a language no one has heard in centuries, grabbing a napkin to blot out the new companion on his ‘focus’ shirt. One glance at his snooze phone alarm, and somehow his sour mood just gets worse.
Five am already. Shit, he thought he had at least an hour and a half to nap. Noises inadvertently escape his throat as he goes through the motions of the morning. A well timed dance from his desk, to his drawers, to the small nook the damn landlord dared to call a ‘bathroom’ for higher rent. If he was a law student, he would probably sue that shitty old man, but it probably isn’t even that illegal.
What is the definition of a bathroom? His thoughts laze about in the air, almost visible in the small mirror. I guess if you call a toilet, a sink and a fucking bathtub completely sharing the space with his room, then sure. Yeah. Maybe his entire room is a bathroom. But that’s depressing. No one should call a bathroom their home. Maybe after a bad night out, but not permanently. Also, if his whole room’s a bathroom, then that would make this a two-bed, three-bath, not a three-bed, three-bath. Now that has to be illegal.
Cold water hits his face in his auto-piloted daze. He watches his thoughts fall down the drain in a swirl of his morning sugar scrub. Shaking his head, he grains control of his body, changing while observing himself in the mirror for the first time in, honestly, days. Boy howdy, is that a mistake.
A grimaces at the nearly purple dark circles forming under his eyes. Jesus, he hadn’t let it get this bad since sophomore year of high school. His green eyes seem almost sunken in and hollow, while his ivory skin seems to be stretching thin against his skull tightly. The only word he can describe himself as right now would be ‘corpse’. Not great for a customer service worker.
A deep groan escapes his mouth. Make-up again, what a joy. His hands effortlessly take up two different tasks, his left sending a quick text that he’ll probably be late, his right opening his medicine cabinet to fish out the concealer, blush, mascara and today’s pill container. His phone vibrates, with a response he can’t bring himself to read just yet, as he sets it on the sinks edge, reading up to pull his wild mess of a mane back into a simple high pony.
He enters another trance like state as his body goes back into autopilot. Dab, dab, pat, pat, swipe, swipe, pat, pop. Like a shitty shot on a half priced Thursday, he inhales before rocketing the pills into the back of his throat. Forcing his saliva to be enough, he clutches the sides of the sink to swallow the shitty concoction. It isn't easy, but when is it? Exhaling out his nose, glancing one last time at his less dead reflection, he turns on his heels and begins the final act of his morning dance. A singular motion loads his laptop, headphones and necessary notebooks into his old shoulder sling, while his feet find their way into his well worn sandals. His hand finds another take out cup with liquid left over, gracefully carrying it to his lips as he exits his room.
Stepping strategically to miss the creaking floorboards, he pit stops in the kitchen to start a brew for his housemates, dancing out the door as the smell of coffee fills the air. Auto-pilot once more kicks in, as in a simple one, two, three blinks he’s somehow arrived at his workplace. The small coffee bar right in the middle of the student union. Two figures bob around the station, engrossed in their tasks and conversation to notice him slipping into the booth.
Setting down the sling and moving towards his apron, a fresh take away cup is presented in his face. Grateful, yet also fearful, he takes the cup, draining its contents faster than any person should be able.
“And we got how much sleep last night?” The feminine voice nearly purrs out. The man rolls his eyes, crumpling the cup and throwing it into the garbage.
His eyes finally focus on the presence in front of him. He sucks in, gnawing the inside of his cheeks as emerald meets hazel. “Enough,” that has to be the singular most douchey way he could’ve delivered that line. The woman in front of him cocks an eyebrow, hands finding their place on her hips as her afro puffs joggle with the movement. Every part of her has to be dramatic, doesn’t it?
A snort comes from across the way, and he locks eyes with his other coworker. “Clearly.” Reaching into her bag, she lets her giggle freely escape her, pulling out a small cosmetics bag. A glint appears in her mischievous blue eyes. She moves with a casual urgency, pushing the taller man down onto a stool and adjusting her tools. “Philosophy or Genetics?”
“History with Professor Huffenmyer,” he says with a tired groan, closing his eyes and letting the master go to work.
His coworkers hiss in unison, making the man let out a soft whimper. “That perfectionist? I thought you had all your history credits already?”
“Bebe, we both know…”
She’s cut off the be man jerking his head to the side violently as his leg bounces up and down,” Isn’t that the fucking truth?”
“And here we go.” He can hear his manager getting comfy on a nearby counter, sipping on her own drink. She knows what’s about to happen.
“I take a history class freshman fall semester, but guess what? It’s an art history elective and falls under art, for some fucking reason. So in the spring I decide to take another to get it out of the way, ya know? But, oh golly g-geh-gee,” he cringes at the tic, knowing he’s getting too frustrated,” I happen to miss too many days of lecture because the professor decided that six pm would totally be a reasonable time for any student to attend. Ended up dropping it a-ack-ctually, but it felt the same. Freshman spring, only course happened to be an e-egyptology course, and who knew we had a fucking egyptology degree program. Because obviously it wouldn’t be a history degree with an eh-egypology focus, it has to be its own s-special fu-AH-cking thing. I didn’t even have a sophomore history lecture, too many s-stah-stupid real credits to attend. Then this past summer I try and do just a basic fucking history course to get it out of the way, but who do I end up having to work with? Cr…”
“Clyde ‘Fucking’ Donavan,” the girls chant in unison.
“Clyde ‘Fucking’ Donavan, who just couldn’t be fu-AH-cking bothered to even once show a semblance of effort i-in a-AH-nything other thank fucking football. Fuck I’m p-pretty sure he can fall asleep with his eyes open, standing up, with the sun in his eyes. Why did they force us to work in fucking pairs? Who the fuck is working, professionally, in a pair going ‘Geh-oly f-ah-king gosh, I’m sure hah-happy to…’” he pants, trying to breath in through his nose and out his mouth. His voice strains and twitches as he registers his whole body trembling. He takes in another breath.
“And he didn’t show up for your final presentation, taking your grade down to a miserable D+, so now you’re retaking the class to ‘repeat delete’ it into something that won’t tank your GPA,” Bebe finishes the often repeated story as he calms himself,” Honestly TT, you have to let it go. It was already months ago.”
“Says the girl who’s still refusing to talk to Allie because she spilled your coffee on your report,” Nichole chuckles.
Bebe swats Nichole’s leg with a huff,” When she stops being a two-faced bitch and gives me the ten fucking dollars I used on that good paper. She fucking knew I went all out for that goddamn micro final, yet she just had to buy the goddamn strawberry scone straight from the oven and eat it over the goddamn thing.”
He takes in a deep breath, holding it briefly before releasing. He manages a smile, gently batting the fellow blonde’s hands away from his face,” Yeah, yeah, that’s why you still hate-fuck her when she brings it up.” The blonde turns with such ferocity, he’s surprised he didn’t hear her vertebrae snap. Nichole bursts out laughing. “The rooms aren’t s-soundproof, Bebe. Never have been.”
“Fuuuuuuck, Tweek, stop, I can’t breathe,” Nichole gasps out from hearty bellows, clutching her stomach and trembling as the laughs continually escape her mouth. He smirks at Bebe, who just looks him over with a calculating once over. A mischievous sparkle glints in her baby blues, causing his expression to fall near instantaneously.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, TT,” she nearly purrs out, zipping up her makeup bag. He spares a glance to the espresso machine to his right, squinting to try and make out his reflection. Shuddering at the blurry image of a drag queen in front of him, he takes in another breath. “And here I was, about to let you get rid of your virginity because I’m just such a good friend.”
“Oh no, what a benevolent offer,” He says in the driest tone he can muster,” how will I ever live not being a part of your harem?”
“It’s a luxury few can afford.”
“Ok, ok, we’re stopping this,” Nichole musters, finally coming off her laughing spree. She holds up her hands between the bickering blondes, giving both of them a well-meaning stern glance,” It’s nearly six. Tweekers, you remember to bring your meds? You’re here til Stoley shows up.”
Exaggerating his sigh, he reaches into his bag, fumbling about the bottom of the bag. Pausing, moving his hand more rapidly and pausing once more. He can’t help the look that graces his face. Looking at his coworkers, he sees the worry present on their faces. It’s too much. Their pity. He feels his heart rate get faster with every second.
“I-i-it’ll be o-okay,” he lies, hoping to trick himself too,” I-I’ll te-AH-xt Red, she c-can make K-eh-vin bring them.” Shakily he takes out his phone, his eyes barely able to make out his lock screen with the blur of panic surging through his veins.
“Tweek, are you sure you’ll be ok? You’re twitching a lot.” Bebe’s voice almost cuts his heart like a knife. He needs to pull himself together, he can’t go worrying his friends like this. He’s got a job to do damnit. It’s just going to be four hours. Enough time for Kevin to take his test and resume his shift. Just four hours.
He takes a deep breath in. Shove it down. This can happen later. Out goes the breath. You’ve dealt with this before. You can freak out when you’re at home. You have a job to do. Deep breath in. You’ve got a job to do. A job. At the coffee stand. Deep breath out. Coffee. Like a smooth sunrise over a relaxing river. Have a cup of Tweek Brand Coffee today.
He slowly opens his eyes. Everything seems to be in a shade of gray. He feels the smile on his lips, but that’s about the only thing he can feel. He looks at the worried blonde and brunette, gently nodding his head. He can't make out their facial expressions, but he can’t hope to even interpret what they mean in this state. If there was one thing his damn parents taught him, it’s how to perfect his customer service mode.
“Oh, ok,” Nichole’s voice seems distant and muffled, but it’s not like he’s never heard it this way before,” Tweek, let’s have you start on the bar. Think you can handle making some drinks for me, honey?”
Coffee. The only thing he needs to worry about is coffee. Time blends together as his hands blur in and out of his vision. Short dark-roast with a splash of almond milk, tall blonde with vanilla and caramel added, hot water and a shot of espresso, tall americano with two dollops of heavy whipping cream and two shots of vanilla flavoring. The orders blur past him, yet he feels nothing. Like a third person observer of a robot, programmed only to make the right cup of coffee every time. It’s peaceful in its own right, but also so horrifyingly lonely. Maybe this will be the time he can’t shake loose. Maybe he won’t get out of the trance this time. Maybe he’ll be stuck like his bastard of a father, or even worse, like his mannequin of a mother. Shit, he’s beginning to freak out. He can’t freak out, otherwise he might break the trance. He might lose it in public. He can’t do that. He’ll die. It’s too much pressure.
“Tweek!” the voice snaps him into a near conscious state again, not fully in control but not fully robotic. He turns to look at Nichole. “I just got a text from the boss to help her unload some supplies from her car. Bebe had to use the restroom, so can I leave the register to you for like, ten minutes, tops?”
She’s speaking quickly. Even in this state he can sense her panic. He forces his smile once more, hoping to bring her a semblance of relief, before nodding. He’s been able to run the register before like this. It’ll just be a little tricky. He can go back to drinking once Bebe gets back. He’ll be fine.
Nichole disappears from his sight as he absently finishes the drink he was working on, presenting it to the customer. Two steps to the left, he takes his position at the empty cash register, ready for a customer. He risks a glance at the time, 7:43, about ten minutes til the first class rush. His heart pitter patters in his chest, but he forces the calm down again, smothering it for later.
I’ve been in worse situations. This is easy. It’s always been easy. He replays the mantra in his head, trying to keep enough consciousness. I can do this. I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Nothing will be able to stop me. I’m unstoppable. I’m strong. I’m…
“Tweek?!?” The voice nearly shatters the calm veil around him.
I’m completely fucked, aren’t I?
As his illusion crumbles around him, the figure of his least favorite person on the planet appears in its detestable glory. Ok, maybe not least favorite, but goddamn he’s down there. He feels his hands crumple the simple order pad next to the register as his heart rate begins to speed up. Because, of course, Clyde Donovan would want a cup of joe for the only early class he’ll probably ever attend at this god forsaken university.
“Good morning, Sir ,” Tweek can feel the venom dripping into the words, biting the inside of his cheek to try and force his facade once more,” What can I get started for you?”
“Oh my god, Tweekers, I had no idea you worked here!” His enthusiasm is nausea inducing. How dare he even try to talk to me like we’re old fr… ” I thought for sure Bebe would be on shift right now.”... of fucking course.
“Haha, isn’t that fun. Just me, sorry,” he shouldn’t have to say sorry to this man-child,” What can I get started for you?”
“Any idea when she’ll be in?” God he’s persistent.
“When who will be in?” If I play dumb, maybe he’ll go away.
“Uh, Bebe? Doesn’t she work here?”
“Does who work here?”
“Bebe!”
“Oh, I know her, she’s lovely.” He can feel traces of a true smile playing on his lips as Clyde’s expression begins to morph into confusion and anger,” Had her in freshman biology, she certainly knows her way around a cell.”
“Yeah, well does she work here?!?”
“Does who work here?” The snap of Clyde’s sanity is near audible as his face changes hues. Tweek has to tap his foot rapidly to keep his expression straight,” What can I get started for you?”
“Give it up, dumbass.” The new voice pauses the blond. A new figure appears in Tweek’s line of sight. He stands a couple inches above the football player, decked out in some rough looking black jeans, a well-worn navy hoodie with a busted zipper, a faded NASA t-shirt and navy blue chullo. The man turns his attention from the football player to the blond and the world seems to pause.
Tweek can’t feel his heartbeat. He feels frozen, staring into the depths of the ocean blue irises in front of him. They’re deep and faded, looking like they’d be nearly black in the shade, but there’s something there. There’s a strange warmth Tweek can’t help but focus on, utterly transfixed on the other person.
With a blink, reality comes back to him, along with the sounds and colors of the world. Sucking in a large breath, he forces a smile once more and addresses Mr. Blue Eyes,” What can I get started for you today?” Mr. Blue Eyes doesn’t speak. He just stares at the blond.
Every nerve in his being begins to hum. He doesn’t know what to do. A violent twitch shakes him, as his left shoulder meets his ear. He can feel his left eye twitching uncontrollably, as his heart begins to race. God, he’s about to freak out. Maybe if he breaks the silence,” F-first time? It can be q-AH-uiet overwhelming. If y-you don’t know a lot I-AH-I can suggest something. Do you like sweets or b-b-bitt-AH?” he bites his tongue on the last word, desperately hoping Mr. Blue Eyes doesn’t notice.
The large man continues to stare at Tweek, his lips parting slightly. “Sweet.” One word comes out in a deep, monotonous syllable. Tweek twitches as it rumbles his being. What type of siren song bullshit is happening right now?
“O-k, fruity or creamy?” Tweek has to downcast his eyes at the question, staring daggers into the order pad. Bebe would be all over his ass on the question, trying to make it sound as sexual as possible. He shoves down those thoughts as quickly as they appear.
“Lemon or honey,” the man says. Tweek can’t help but peek up at the imposing figure once more. Mr. Blue Eyes has yet to break his stare.
“Alright, I’ll get you a le-eh-mon honey latte then.” Tweek scribbles down the order and presses the buttons on the cash register,” Sounds interesting. What's the name for this?”
“Fucker.”
The area goes silent.
Tweek looks up from the ordering pad to look at Mr. Blue Eyes, seemingly unphased by what he’s just said. Was that aimed at me? Was I being annoying? Shit, did I piss him off? Tweek’s perspective changes without his consent as he looks the man up and down. He’s tall, and he looks like he might be hiding some muscle under there. But, yeah, no, yeah, I could take him in a fight.
“Pardon me?” Even Tweek is startled by the cool tone of his voice. Mr. Blue Eyes blinks twice, before raising a single eyebrow, almost like a challenge.
Tweek’s calculating stare goes over the tall man, then over to Clyde. Right, he’s one of Clyde’s friends. Tweek forces on a customer service smile, writing ‘Fucker’ on the order sheet, then on a small latte cup. With a measured tone, he reads out the total and takes the money, giving back the change and motioning to the pick-up window. He stares at Clyde, who still seems to be doing mental math on their exchange, then at the empty que.
Down the hall, a mass of blonde curls emerges from the restroom, so Tweek turns around to make the concoction he decided to make Mr. Blue Eyes. Seems easy enough, just not really a combo he’s tried himself. I guess I prefer a straight cup of light-roast , he thinks as his hands guide him around the bar for ingredients. Bebe makes her way into the stand, and Clyde’s outburst of emotion registers in Tweek’s ears. He can’t help the small chuckles that cross his mouth. As he finishes the drink, he caps it off and turns to the pick up window, where ‘Fucker’ is standing. With a cheshire-esque smile he can’t help the words that come out of his mouth.
“Enjoy your latte, Fucker.” Fucker pauses, looking between the drink and Tweek, who just smiles innocently at him. “Please come again!”
Clyde laughs out, and Tweek can hear Bebe trying to stifle a laugh, but his eyes remain locked into a silent battle of wills with Mr. Blue Eyes. He can see words bouncing around in his head, trying to be forced out of the man’s stoic and vacant expression. They both seem to be waiting for the pin to drop.
Mr. Blue Eyes clears his throat and mutters,” Thanks.” before grabbing a protesting Clyde by the arm and effortlessly dragging him away and out the door. Bebe turns to Tweek, a question in her cocked eyebrows.
Tweek shrugs, motioning to the line beginning to form. Nichole shortly joins the pair, helping to ease the rush through with as much efficiency as possible. As Tweek makes drink after drink, his thoughts can’t help but wonder back to Mr. Blue Eyes. He can’t help but notice the panic from earlier has nearly all disappeared, and he can;t help but wonder if it was Mr. Blue Eyes who made that happen, or the shock of being told ‘Fucker’ is a valid name apparently. He smiles to himself, thinking if that really was his name, and how fucked up that would be. Rich coming from someone named Tweek Tweak, he knows, but still. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who can relate to him like that. If only.
For right now, though, he’s got a job to do, and he fades back into auto-pilot.