Chapter Text
Cosmo had laughed at his poverty for so long that it was starting to feel like a running bit in a sit-com no one watched. The punchline?
He had applied to so many jobs.
And he received zero responses back. Not even a friendly decline telling him they’d found someone better suited! His email was drier than his sex life, which was impressive in its own right considering he was a twenty-five-year-old virgin.
But then, one stupidly late night lost to hallmark movies, Cosmo gave the job search one last ceremonial scroll. He typed “jobs near me”, letting his computer humor him. To his surprise, the screen vomited hundreds of listings at him. Cosmo, a seasoned job-hunting pessimist, knew better than to get excited. A hundred listings were as good as one sometimes. He scrolled with the apathy of a ghost haunting LinkedIn.
Then, he saw it.
$27 an hour. Starting. At a coffee shop. Something called Sprout’s Spot.
“Okay,” Cosmo muttered, blinking as he took in what seemed like answered prayers. “This has to be a scam. Or a cult.”
But his curiosity was stronger than his dignity, so he clicked on it. He didn’t have anything to lose but the money for his mortgage payment.
Cosmo applied quickly for shits and giggles. The questions were simple: why was he applying? He needed a job. Does he have any skills? He bakes.
But. . the questions got a little weird towards the end. “Am I comfortable around mimes?” Cosmo repeated out loud. Maybe that was their mascot. . ? Well, Cosmo didn’t discriminate. Mimes should definitely be true to themselves.
“Have you ever been to a circus?” the next question asked. Cosmo blinked. No. But it sounded cool. He clicked no and tried not to feel like he’d missed a formative childhood experience that was now weirdly relevant to his employment status.
As he finished the process, he twisted in bed, pushing the computer to the side. Time to resume his nightly ritual: doom-watching Hallmark movies and wishing he wasn’t single enough to cry at fake small-town romances where everyone had a porch swing and a failing business.
Sleep came quickly once A Cheerful Christmas started playing. The movie aggressively sucked.
He woke up the next morning to the sun stabbing directly into his eyeballs. “Why. .” Cosmo groaned, shielding his face. He knew he was nothing but a side character and shouldn’t be punished with this much sun. Still squinting, he rolled over and checked his laptop.
Two notifications in his inbox!
Cosmo chewed his lip. The excitement of having a social life drained from him the more he thought it over. Realistically, it was either overdue bills or debt collectors getting creative with burner addresses. Maybe another inspirational newsletter from that one productivity coach he followed during a manic episode.
However. . It wasn’t.
He clicked the first email that was apparently sent at three in the morning.
From: Sprout Subject: yo can u start like. . . asap?
hey cosmo—just saw your app. it’s okay that you haven’t been to a circus as long as you don’t tell yatta. can you come in? literally whenever is fine. i can train you in like five mins. please.
yay, Sprout (sent from IPhone)
Cosmo smiled and blinked. This email was downright desperate and what was with the whole circus thing? Who was Yatta?
Against his better judgement, he clicked on the other email in his inbox, which turned out to also be Sprout. It was just an apology and an address. Cosmo copy-pasted it into Google Maps, which confirmed, with pixel-perfect mockery, that this was a real place. He scrolled down, noting it opened at eight. And it was currently. . nine.
He leaped out of bed. How could he already be late? This was probably why he was so unemployed, he was so irresponsible. He taunted himself with insults as he yanked on his only clean shirt and hopped into some snazzy pants.
Cosmo took a quick look in the mirror for the first time in a long time. “Mirror me, behold—utter adequacy."
Mirror-him sighed, deadpan: "Do better."
He got in his car and drove to this so-called Sprout’s Spot, which was also only twelve minutes away from his house. There was a whole circus trailer in the parking lot, and a few cars. Interesting. He took a deep breath, and locked eyes with himself in the rearview mirror. “You got this.” He promised himself.
And then he headed inside.
He looked around, noting that everything was so colorful. Like if Lisa Frank was suddenly as broke as him and decided to take up store decoration. Those sad beige moms, the ones that dressed up their souls in neutral tones and seasonal throw pillows, would probably combust upon entry, unable to withstand the sensory orgy of glitter, jazz, and rainbows.
And then—oh, God—a nun. A real, actual nun. Not a sexy Halloween costume or a TikTok bit. A full habit, rosary swinging with the urgency of divine purpose. She ordered a latte with oat milk, crossed herself dramatically, and then turned on her heel to begin exorcising a mime.
Yes. A mime. Probably the mime from the application. Cosmo stood to the side in horror.
He was miming being trapped in a box, which was now apparently full of demons. Latin was flying. The mime began levitating. Cosmo clutched the nearest table and whispered, “Jesus Christ,” and the nun swung her head back to him, muttering, “That’s the idea.”
And then, just as he was about to elope with his fear, a man stepped out from behind the counter. A man, who was to put, scientifically hot. A man who clearly moisturized, journalled, and maybe communed with forest spirits recreationally.
His apron said manager—this was Sprout then.
He walked past the exorcism scene and straight to Cosmo. “You must be Cosmo. Please say you’re ready to start training?”
“I. .” Cosmo blinked. Once. Twice. Glanced at the nun, who was now growling scripture at the mime.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Sprout said, gesturing vaguely at the situation. “Blot is actually a Christian. He enjoys the exorcisms.”
“You say it like it happens often. . .”
Sprout tilted his head with a little glimmer in his eyes. “Well you know how Thursdays are.”
No. He didn’t. No one knew how Thursdays were. He wasn’t even sure what today was.
But Sprout shrugged casually, shooting him a starry grin, “are you ready?”
“I–I guess so.” Cosmo breathed, already questioning the integrity of every choice that led to this moment.
“Excellent!” Sprout clapped his hands together and pivoted so fast his apron twirled like a ballerina. Cosmo trailed behind meekly.
“Yatta! He’s here!” Sprout sang out. Ah, Cosmo was finally meeting this Yatta character, then.
A crash came from the breakroom. Then, a girl with the energy of a party popper burst into view, hurling confetti in the air. “WELCOME!! We’re so glad to have you!” she chirped, arms outstretched in jazz-hands glory.
Cosmo, immediately inhaling three metric tons of multicoloured confetti, blinked through the paper snowstorm and wheezed, “. . nice to meet you too. . .”
“Yatta, I told you no confetti. It's unsanitary.” Sprout chided, shaking his head.
“How else would he have felt welcome?” Yatta protested, still sparkling with never-ending enthusiasm.
Cosmo raised a trembling hand and attempted a smile. “Personally, I’d accept a hello…”
Another worker came out. Cosmo was starting to think that the only mode of transportation around these parts was crazed running. The man collapsed to his knees mid-stage, clutching the balloons on his head in a display of raw existential theater.
'It’s almost TEN!” he moaned, like the clock itself had personally betrayed him.
“Looey, are you—” Sprout began, before the word ten hit him like a sucker punch from his middle school bully. “Ten?!”
Time paused. Even Yatta stopped glowing.
“Is… is that important?” Cosmo asked, now visibly concussed from the conversational whiplash.
“Ten. . . Yes. Shrimpo arrives exactly five minutes after ten.” Sprout rubbed his face like he was trying to rub it off. Yatta leaned in, voice low and solemn, like she was breaking bad news. “Shrimpo hates everything. But he hates our coffee the most.”
Somewhere outside, a crow cawed ominously.
Everyone got to work. “I NEED the protein powder!” Yatta howled, yanking cabinet doors open in search. She pulled out many jars and started tasting each. “Uh oh. . we’re out.”
Looey took one look at her before letting out a sigh. “Fine. . I’ll get some from the freezer.”
He hurried over, but he slipped on spare confetti and came crashing down.
“MY KNEE!” he cried, face-down on the tiles.
There was a beat of silence. Then, with the grace of someone who had done this often, he popped back up, brushed imaginary dust off his apron, and declared, “I’m fine. This is fine.” He limped with purpose toward the freezer.
Sprout, who moved through chaos like he was conducting it, finally noticed him.
“Cosmo,” he said, snapping his fingers in a perfect rhythm, “come here. You can help me make the lava cake.”
He handed Cosmo a bowl, a whisk, and a sense of impending doom.
“It can’t be gummy,” Sprout said, eyes suddenly dead serious. “Shrimpo likes it hot.”
Cosmo blinked. “Hot?”
“. . .hguorht su stup eh lleh eht sa toH,” Blot mumbled from behind the counter.
Cosmo turned just in time to notice that the café was now completely empty. Not a single customer remained. It did not help his anxiety at all . . . Cosmo was starting to feel like he wasn’t going to survive this shift. Was this the five minutes of training Sprout had promised?
Another crow cawed.
Yatta gasped at the noise. “HE’S EARLY.”
Everyone stopped, looking up. From the walk-in freezer, Looey’s muffled voice echoed out: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S EARLY?!”
The door slammed open with the subtlety of a car crash. In stomped a small man, negatively glistening with anger and perspiration. He squinted around the room like the very act of seeing things offended him.
“HELLO?” he barked, flailing an accusatory hand. “I HATE BAD CUSTOMER SERVICE!”
Cosmo nearly dropped the whisk.
Sprout stepped forward immediately, placing himself squarely in front of Blot like a bodyguard.
“Good morning, Shrimpo,” he said, in a tone that was both polite and already exhausted. “How can I help you?”
Shrimpo slammed his palms on the counter. They made a sound like wet ham hitting laminate. “You can help me by taking my order!”
Cosmo, feet frozen at the oven, carefully slid the lava cake in and closed the door.
“I need a lava cake. Fresh. Not that gummy abomination you tried to gaslight me with last week.”
“Of course, Shrimpo,” Sprout said, tapping something into the register with the calmness of a man disassociating for survival. “Anything else?”
“And a protein shake. Extra protein. I swear to GOD—”
“Right,” Sprout cut in gently, smile tightening. “So… we are, um. Currently out of protein.”
A silence swept across the room. Yatta was still taking cover behind the blender, and Looey was still panicking inside the freezer. Blot started to wipe the counters, and Cosmo pretended to stare at the oven.
“What?” Shrimpo said. But not like a question—more like a threat.
Sprout flinched microscopically. “We—uh, Looey’s still looking for it, but—”
Shrimpo narrowed his eyes, glinting with the wrath of someone who once returned soup five times in a row. “Get me your manager.”
There was a pause. “Shrimpo…” Sprout said slowly, carefully, like he was defusing a very tiny, very sweaty bomb. “You know I’m the manager.”
Shrimpo’s eyes narrowed to two furious raisins, the only fruit Shrimpo tolerated.
“And I know you’re lying to me.” He jabbed a finger at Sprout’s chest like he was accusing him of war crimes. “I hate liars,” he hissed, each syllable coated in the kind of venom he usually reserved for the bad Yelp reviews he left Sprout’s Spot.
Finally, Cosmo couldn’t take it anymore. He wasn’t going to let Sprout, the super hot man, die over protein powder. He stepped forward, voice trembling but decisive: “I’m the manager.” Sprout looked at him like he was insane.
Shrimpo snorted, unimpressed. “I hate your pants.”
“Well, I think they’re snazzy. And, we’re out of protein powder. So—you can either buy the lava cake, or you can leave.”
Shrimpo gasped, like Cosmo had personally insulted his entire bloodline. “What?! I hate this!”
Sprout stepped up beside Cosmo, arms crossed and unbothered. “Well, those are your only two options.”
Shrimpo let the words hang in the air for a moment. “Fine.” He sneered, slapping cash on the counter. Sprout cashed him out and threw the receipt away because Shrimpo also hated receipts.
Cosmo got the lava cake out of the oven and bagged it up. He let out a shaky breath, wondering if he had overstepped his boundaries. God—he wasn’t even sure if he was an official employee yet!
He walked back to the counter and handed it over.
Shrimpo snatched it up and immediately bit in. “I—I hate it.” His glare intensified, but then—something strange happened—wonderful, happy tears welled up in his eyes like the tiniest fireworks.
“It’s. . . too cakey,” he sniffled, struggling to find words between his sour mood and unexpected joy. “I’ll be back tomorrow. . . for a better cake. Because I hate this one.”