Chapter Text
The smell of grease, and some kind of industrial-strength cleaner- or well, at this point it's a fucking makeshift air freshener only a sleep deprived, broke college student like Damon Maitsu could appreciate- Wait, appreciate is too strong of a word. Tolerate.
He can almost quite literally, taste it actually. The blend of McChicken and whatever it is they keep using to mop floors. His dreams of rousing debates and shaping the future of the nation has to take an agonizing, long, detour, as he somehow, lands himself in the realm of.... McDonald's!
Well, it won't have to be long, but if he wants to continue debating policy in lecture halls, he first, has to debate the merits of extra napkins and extra ketchup- with some customer they call 'Karen,' who by the way, was convinced it was a basic human right. And shit, really, Damon's political science degree really is paying off.
For now, he has to endure it. It's nothing that borders on Katy Perry's E.T as in extraterrestrial, the late night shifts however, was.... well, a different story.
There were the regulars, like this guy who keeps ordering Ten orders of McNuggets bundle, then, some college students who treated the McDonald's drive-thru like their own, personal town hall, arguing about the most complex issues of the present, (AKA, which fast-food has the best fries) and there's this one time, a car full of... vloggers? Influencers? Unskilled deadweights of the society who convince themselves that documenting their lives, and occasionally, messing with the minimum wage earner at the McDonald's joint is peak employment- shows up, and honestly, Damon was too tired to even think of what to call them.
Even so, he learned valuable life skills- some were from watching his coworkers, like, learning how to dodge a McNugget which he thinks is an effective form of conflict resolution, how to decipher orders barked through the utterly grating broken speaker—could be useful for understanding constituents, and finally! How to make a Big Mac so fast—the most crucial skill—for dealing with the fast-paced world of politics he'll soon join.
But then, to his absolute horror, his parents found out!
Damon had tried to keep this McEmployment a secret, because his mother had always envisioned Damon networking at galas, and certainly not navigating the fry station. Appalled was an understatement, she gasped— clutched her Akoya pearls necklace, and declared it's an utter TRAVESTY! And naturally, given their Asian heritage, it was her instinct to launch into a long lecture about wasting his potential, and the importance of connections, or a fancy word to disguise nepotism.
“Make friends, sweetheart!” Mama Maitsu had insisted, as if he were on a reality show and not, you know, trying to pay rent. “These are your constituents now! Charm them! Win them over! Think of it as... fieldwork!” Her worries, which might have been exaggerated and unnecessary, especially considering his limited experience in making friends growing up.
Damon’s advanced intellect created a clear social gap as he grew older, it was like an unseen barrier that kept his peers away. Most kids, sensing his different and slightly intimidating nature, decided to keep their distance to avoid any interaction, especially arguments.
A few kids, who were either brave, or very bold, or just didn't know better, still tried to talk to him. Some simply tried to be friendly or would ask to trade snacks, which was a normal thing. Other kids were probably checking to see if he was an alien, which, to be fair, given his social interactions made it seem plausible.
Regardless of whether they were trying to be his friend or just studying him like a guinea pig from a science lab experiment, Damon really didn't care. He would just raise an eyebrow, seeing their efforts as pointless, and not noticing any difference between their reasons.
He considered all approaches unimportant, as he felt nothing, and remained completely alone.
Despite his mother’s concerns, Damon was content with how things were. His intimidating presence kept unwanted people away, exactly how he liked it. He knew how to keep those bothersome idiots at a distance.
“Hey!” Pipes the kind of bothersome idiot Damon wants to stray far away from, “still not wearing a nametag, huh?”
Damon pointedly ignores the comment. “May I take your order.”
“Man, you could definitely sound brighter than that. It's like you're not happy to see me at all!”
Damon internally debates to seal himself inside the McFreezer, he could definitely join the burgers that are falsely advertised as fresh— and maybe well, he can stay there for fuck knows how long until this…gaudy bastard takes a hint.
This had been the 4th time this week this guy went here, only to leave empty handed.
“Anyway, guess what I’m about to get!”
“On my nerves,” Damon mutters under his breath.
The non-customer squints, before erupting into laughter, as if Damon said something funny.
“Haha, you're funny! I like that! Though, to be honest? That's not exactly the level of service I expect from such a fine establishment.”
Damon’s eye twitches.
Fine. Establishment?
Damon spares a split-second to glance around at the bustling 'fine establishment' in question, the plastic trays, the families with screaming kids, the... EXTRAVAGANT aroma from repeated deep-frying- everything!
This is where dreams of culinary students go to die. Having a toned-down version of Pennywise as the mascot? The napkins thinner than his patience? The so-called ambiance that is flickering fluorescent lights and the roaring of their ice cream machine, which- by the fucking way, is STILL BROKEN.
“Sir,” Damon emphasizes, feeling the need to reiterate, in case the pink-haired imbecile somehow wandered into the wrong place. “this is a McDonald’s. May I take your order?”
The non-customer hums, then approaches the counter, propping an arm up, looking at Damon with the most striking, beautiful, yellow eyes he's ever seen. “Hmm, depends! Does it come with your number on the side?”
Damon forcibly restrains himself from grabbing the nearby plastic tray and smacking it straight to the good looking idiot's face. “No.”
“Wha—? But—”
Damon doesn’t let him utter whatever it is he has to say. “Next.”
“Huh?” The non-customer blinks, and cranes his neck behind him to look, “but there’s no one next to me, though?”
“Next,” Damon repeats, a bit desperately.
Damon was so tired, he wished he was anywhere else. However if he wants to continue living independently, he has to slave his ass off to capitalism, which is called a job, and suffer the consequences.
To make matters worse, this customer, who had been a regular non-customer, was back again. All this guy ever wanted was Damon’s name and number, which Damon refuses to give, even though he was a little bit attractive.
Okay, not little.
The attractive bastard in question sighs.
It's a waste of good looks, really. The guy was undeniably attractive, even if he desperately needs a decent hair job. But then, his exposed collarbones more than made up for it - it's quite nice, actually, with that gold chain, lock pendant nestling there, his collar was unbuttoned unnecessarily low, though. Damon has to fight the urge to squirm out of the counter and personally button it himself, 'you'll get a fucking cold,' he wants to reason.
The guy was exactly Damon's type, looks-wise. If only he would just stop talking and leave Damon alone, once and for all.
The non-customer's voice trails off, now sounding pure despair. “Look,” he said, “I kind of made a bet with my friend over there. She said that I couldn't like, get anyone's number, and I’m about to get like, MC Hammer broke if this fails. Can you please just write down any number? It doesn't even have to be yours, just...!”
“No.”
“Wha—”
“That's not my problem,” Damon mutters, because it's true- it has nothing to do with him. And he's also insulted by this imbecile assuming a minimum wage worker would so readily disregard their work ethic and give out his number easily, even to someone attractive with that ridiculous cotton candy hair.
“If you're not going to order, please leave.”
Damon tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when he sees the pretty stranger's defeated eyes, it's probably all the fumes he's inhaled from that awful floor disinfectant- it has to be.
As the pretty stranger bids his 'goodbye,' Damon bites back his words, 'don't come back,' this is exactly the kind of situation his minimum-wage job description did not cover. Minimum wage, minimum effort!
There is making it to the dean's list, then there is the payday, then there is the real good news. The new semester is starting soon, and unsurprisingly, he's aced most of his subjects, he had every right to be proud, given all the suffering he's endured at the fine establishment called McDonald's.
Anyway, off to the actual good news: he's accepted to work at StellaDolla, a cafe on campus. FINALLY! He no longer has to work those awful, late-night shifts! Sure, it's slightly lower pay, but it's worth it to escape his current misery, and maybe, even to avoid encountering that flashy, pink-haired guy with the nice collarbones.
It's more of the former, however- since the pink-haired guy never did return, and Damon reminds himself to thank Archon Barbatos for this freedom.
So, he submits his resignation letter to Ingrid, because apparently, e-mails aren't a thing here. Ingrid, his manager, is one of the kindest people he knows, and it's not because he doesn't know a lot of people. She's naturally, incredibly sweet.
She's even expressed her sadness at his leaving, but she is glad that he's progressing to a better opportunity, even if she’s unaware that she's subtly insulting their current employer.
On Damon's last day, Ingrid arranges a small farewell party with his McColleagues, and the celebration proceeds smoothly, that is until, the 'Manager Manager' shows up, and demands to know why Damon is leaving.
The Manager Manager is truly the most deranged of them all, a walking example of McDeranged, between his... goat-mask and oversized polyester McDonald's uniform, he's the picture of derangement - if that doesn't make it clear, Damon doesn't know what will.
“I. Am. Aghast! Such.... UTTER.... disrespect!! To turn your back on the McLoyalty! How dare you abandon this fine establishment?! The very place that granted you a McFamily?! Your audacity truly, knows no bounds! No BOUNDS!”
Needless to say, the party is cut short because Damon isn't about to waste any more of his brain cells trying to make sense of this lunatic.
When Damon arrives at StellaDolla for his first day, he is greeted by a senior who introduces himself as Desmond Hall, Desmond , Damon repeats the name in his mind- it's only been about 2 minutes and 38 seconds since he's entered StellaDolla, and Desmond's intense charisma is already defying the laws of gravity. Then, Desmond flashes him a grin that Damon thinks, perhaps too literally, strikes as an arrow to his chest. FUCK.
Desmond starts to explain Damon's duties, and Damon is struggling to pay attention. He's too busy noticing the effect of Desmond's voice with the customers, their pupils dilate into heart shapes, and Damon curses inwardly, knowing why. He forces himself to concentrate, otherwise, he'll be back to frying burgers.
Damon picks up on his job duties quickly and gets the hang of things in no time. Then, one random Wednesday, his past comes back to haunt him, and by that, he means the pink-haired non-customer from McDonald's appear at the counter, grinning at Damon in that same way back then. Damon wishes the ground would magically open up and swallow him whole.
“Damon,” the pink-haired guy speaks his name, and Damon tenses. He's forgotten about the mandatory name tag at StellaDolla until he sees the striking, golden eyes fixing on his nametag. Then, the stranger's smile widens, a soft hum accompanies, “Damon, it suits you.”
Damon inhales sharply, confused. What's that supposed to mean? How could his name suit him? Was that an attempt at flirting? Because if it is, then it's a ridiculous attempt, yet, it still made his heart flutter.
Composing himself, he retorts, “...So, now, you're stalking me?”
The pink-haired guy seem as though he's genuinely offended, letting out a choked, mocking laugh as he clutches his chest, “Excuse you—” he starts, then scoffs, “as attractive as you are, I'm not that hard up! My sights are like, set on... grander things now, so alas, my interest has diminished!”
Damon is too irritated by the way the pink-haired guy talked, and so he fails to notice the strange feeling in his gut again. Damon rolls his eyes, grabs his notepad, and curtly demands, "Then hurry up and order."
“Jeez, could you try to sound a little enthusiastic?” The pink-haired guy sighs, rolling his eyes. “Did you ever stop to look in the mirror and think, wow, maybe, customer service isn't my calling?”
That's definitely something Damon doesn’t need a mirror to know that customer service is definitely not his strong suit.
“Alright, fine! I'd like a Frappuccino, please. Half-caf, extra ice, almond milk, three pumps of white mocha, one pump of hazelnut, blend in java chips and also sprinkle some on top! Oh, and add some vanilla bean powder, as well!”
Damon struggles to note down the pink-haired guy's ridiculous coffee order, but just when he thought he's finished, the guy adds more, “for toppings, whipped cream on the bottom and top, extra caramel drizzle in a spiral pattern, mocha drizzle in a grid pattern, and a sprinkle of sea salt. And, if you have those chocolate-covered espresso beans, put it in the very center, please! Thanks!”
That—That is probably the most preposterous customized coffee order to exist. It was screaming a pretentious air, and a certain stereotype possibly stemming from a liberal arts background.
It took him a long time to finish noting down the atrocity of the coffee order, and when he’s done, he asks, “Name?”
“Kai,” the pink-haired guy responds, and Damon notes. Kai, At last, Damon knows his name, and it definitely isn't a matter of attraction or interest; he just thinks it's preferable to have a name for this nuisance rather than always think of him as 'the pink-haired guy.'
Since the coffee order was ridiculously long, it takes Damon longer than normal to finish. True to his work ethic, he made the beverage meticulously. When he's done, he scans the cafe, and finds Kai already looking at him, in spite of this, he still calls his name to the counter.
Kai's approach to the counter is just as slow as the coffee order is to make. At the counter, Damon hands him the drink, dismissing the shivers the brief touch of their fingers sent through his system.
Approaching the kitchen, Desmond strolls over, his eyebrows shooting up at the sight of their newcomer, washing dishes with such... enthusiasm… that Desmond was almost expecting the plate to disintegrate into its constituent atoms.