Chapter Text
It was never truly quiet in New York City. Even now, rain pattered down outside, a constant track of white noise only interrupted by the occasional car speeding by, sending a spray of rainwater onto the sidewalk. The machines behind the counter hummed and sputtered, as they tended to. A young couple shared murmured words over a forgotten muffin, punctuated by the periodic turn of a page from the corner where the student was curled up in an armchair, lost in a novel, coffee cooling beside her.
John Laurens closed his eyes, and breathed.
The little coffee shop had become something of a haven for him, since he'd started working the evening shift. He caught the tail end of the lunch rush, sure, but beyond that, he mainly dealt with college students who'd procrastinated papers or revision, and then cleaned, and closed up at 10:30. After a morning of draining lectures, he'd learned to appreciate little moments like this, these pockets of muffled silence in the evening, cast in the soft yellow light of the shop.
The door swung open loudly, effectively popping the bubble, and John had to bite his cheek to stop himself from scowling at the man who stumbled into the shop.
Well, actually looking at him, perhaps 'man' was a bit of a stretch; the dude was nineteen maybe. He looked like a drowned rat as well, dark hair plastered to his head in wild directions by the rain, slim figure absolutely drowning in a massive blue hoodie. With the visible shadows under his dark eyes, the bulging messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and the bundle of paperwork clutched protectively to his chest, he looked the very picture of an exhausted college student.
Something seemed off about him, though. Something about the eyes, like he was looking at John, but not really seeing him, flitting about, focused on something that wasn't there, or something that was invisible to John, at least. Still, John put on his best friendly customer smile, and, trying to preserve some of the shop's previous peace, asked quietly, "Hey, what can I get for you?"
Almost instantly, the man responded, "Espresso." Then, distractedly, almost as an afterthought, "Please. Do you have an outlet?"
John nodded. "Over there," he said, pointing behind the man to the armchair by the door. "That's four bucks." The man rummaged in his jean pockets for a moment, before putting four crumpled ones on the counter, barely offering John an absent smile before he was settling himself in the armchair, pulling out a battered-looking laptop and plugging it into the wall.
Usually, John would've asked for his name, but an hour before closing, there wasn't likely to be a sudden rush of customers, and John didn't trust himself not to make a friendly introduction awkward. He set about making the man's coffee, the motions practiced, mindless, and relaxing. The man was already typing when John set the mug down next to him, so intensely focused on the harsh light of the screen, John didn't receive so much as a nod of acknowledgment. The clattering of the keys was a little irritating at first, but as he walked around, wiping the empty tables and the counter, he found that it eventually faded into the background, an addition to the little soundtrack of the shop. It was fascinating, how fast the guy was typing. His fingers never stopped for an instant. John saw his left hand typing out some new thought even as his right insistently tapped on the backspace key.
For ten minutes, he didn't touch his coffee. He only stopped typing when the couple finally finished off their muffin and left, waving goodbye to John politely. The man started at the sound of the door to his right, then blinked, looking around as if he wasn't quite sure where he was, or how he'd ended up there. This absent state of confusion lasted for all of ten seconds before the guy grabbed the coffee from the table next to him, downed it in one go, and went straight back to typing. John winced in sympathy; it must've been cold by now, or at least unpleasantly lukewarm. The dark circles under his eyes, the way he kept forcefully blinking, as if shaking himself awake, though… Looked like the poor guy needed it.
He set about making two more drinks. The hot chocolate was set down next to the student, to replace her coffee, and she rewarded him with a grateful grin before diving back into her book, mug curled to her chest. He set the espresso on the table beside the man, in place of the empty mug. The guy, once more, didn't acknowledge him, but did grab the mug almost as soon as it was set down, sipping it while continuing to type with one hand. The laptop was balanced precariously on his knees, shaking with each forceful jab at the keys.
At ten o'clock, the student left, sliding a twenty across the counter to pay for the drinks he'd been giving her. John shook his head and slid it back, waving her out of the door with a grin. He probably shouldn't be so easygoing with the free refills, considering how broke he was himself, but hey, it was November, John was allowed to be nice sometimes.
The man didn't so much as blink when the door opened this time, didn't seem to notice that he was the only customer still in the shop. Instead, John saw him enter a state of hyperfocus, a chilling intensity in his dark eyes, fingers moving at an inhuman speed. His lips moved as he wrote, and when John walked by to sweep near him, he heard him muttering, too quietly for John to hear exactly what he was saying, but the forceful emotion behind the words crystal clear. John replaced his drink again at 10:10.
By 10:30, the coffee shop was spotless, and John was just about ready to lock up. The man was still typing.
John really should tell the guy that the shop was closed now, that he had to go, but somewhere around the third replacement two minutes ago, the man's eyes had lit up, a soft smile tugging at his lips that made something in John's chest jump, and he'd started typing with renewed energy, his entire body curling in around the laptop, almost shaking with the energy of his words.
John pulled his anatomy textbook out of his bag, settled himself at the counter, and began to read, with the frantic tapping of keys filling the shop, lulling him to sleep.
At 11:45, the sound of a laptop slamming shut startled him awake. The man chuckled quietly, grinning down at his laptop. "Done," he whispered. "Done!" He looked up, making eye contact with John. The man's excitement was tangible, infectious, and John found himself returning the smile, even as he blinked the remains of his nap out of his eyes.
The man froze as soon as John smiled at him, mouth half open, still grinning, eyes actually shining in the warm light, and John had the semi-coherent notion that he was probably the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.
"Oh my god," the man said, eyebrows furrowing. "What time is it?"
John glanced at his watch. "11:46," he replied.
Pure, unrestrained panic flew across the man's features. "Uh, what… What time do you close?" There was a hopeful, bordering on desperate note in the question, that made John laugh as he answered.
"Uh, 10:30, dude."
The man scrambled to pack up his things, frantically shoving the laptop into the overpacked messenger bag, and nearly knocking the empty mug off of the table in the process. All the while, he apologized profusely, repeating, "Sorry, god, sorry, you shoulda kicked me out, didn't even realize what time it was, I swear-"
John slid off of the bar stool slowly, smiling in a way he hoped was reassuring. "No trouble, man, really. It was, uh, nice. The company, I mean. It gets quiet."
The man gave him an odd look, expression unreadable. John had to stop himself from flinching away from the intensity of his dark eyes. Eventually, he stuck out a hand. "Alex Hamilton," he said with an easy smile.
John returned it, taking his hand. Soft, the drowsy part of his brain noted, entirely without his permission. "John Laurens," he replied.
John did one last round of the shop, turning off the lights as he went, and grabbing his bag. He was surprised to see Alex waiting for him at the door, holding it open with that same little smile that made John's breath catch in the back of his throat. It probably should've been awkward, the silence, but instead it felt oddly intimate, the way Alex was looking at him almost… fondly?
As they stepped out into the street together, John locking the door behind them, John realized that it had stopped raining. He hadn't even noticed; the sound had been replaced at some point by Alex's typing.
The street was deserted, and pitch black, Alex and John standing under the only streetlight until the end of the block. John turned to Alex, suddenly concerned. "Do you-" the question got caught somewhere between his brain and his mouth, abruptly afraid of coming off as overbearing, or creepy, or something. Alex was looking at him expectantly, though, so John feigned some semblance of calm, and asked, "Do you have a ride home? It's, uh, dangerous to walk around this time of night, and I have a car-"
Alex laughed, this little huff like he had an inside joke with himself. "Thanks, Laurens, but my friend is just down the street," he pointed to an apartment building across the street, beside a little bookstore, "and I'm sure she won't mind me staying the night."
With that, Alex adjusted the messenger bag on his shoulder and set off at a brisk pace. Alex, John thought, with a small smile, walked like he typed: shoulders set, looking straight ahead, without any hesitation, dead set on his goal, and only the slightest bounce to his step betraying any of his boundless enthusiasm.
John stood by his car, hesitating before he got in. Was it creepy if he made sure Alex got inside safe? Almost as if he could read minds, Alex looked over his shoulder, throwing John one last wave and a grin, before disappearing into the shadows on the other side of the street.
The cold was piercing, creeping, making him shudder as if he weren't wearing a coat at all. The air was sharp, yet still heavy with rain, and he could see his breath in front of him, coming in little white puffs of steam.
John Laurens closed his eyes, and breathed.