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The guy who’s been making his lattes lately is literally the worst barista ever, and Brandon would know from awful baristas, because his college’s work-study program meant that, his freshman year, he was one. And this guy’s always working when Brandon comes in, without fail, which means he always makes Brandon’s order. For a given value of ‘makes’. And a given value of ‘order’.
He should really just go somewhere else, but this is the only coffee shop on the way to the rink where the peewee team he’s coaching this season practices, and fuck if he’s getting up that much earlier on a Saturday to drive across town for slightly less shitty coffee.
So instead, today he just rocks on up to the counter and says, “So you think you can try not to scorch the shit out of the espresso this time?”
The guy - his name tag says ‘Andy’ - pointedly looks over his shoulder at the espresso machine, and then back at Brandon. “Attitude like that, you’ll be lucky if I don’t spit in it.”
He’s grinning, though, almost flirtatiously. And the coffee is a little less charred-tasting this morning.
:::
Unfortunately, it’s like now that he’s talked to the guy, the seal has been broken. His terrible lattes now come in a variety of un-asked-for flavors and are accompanied by not only flirty smiles through lowered eyelashes, but obnoxious as shit small talk too. Brandon walks in one Saturday morning and Andy doesn’t even wait for him to make it to the counter before he asks, “So where are you always going, anyway? That toque makes you look like a tool.”
Brandon blinks. “Toque? It’s a beanie, dumbass.”
“Canadian,” Andy says with a shrug. He doesn’t even bother actually taking Brandon’s order anymore, just starts making something when he sees him walk in.
Brandon snorts. “Say ‘about’.”
“Fuck you,” Andy says good-naturedly. “And fuck your Blues hat, St. Louis boy.” He pushes the coffee across the counter, pulls off his apron, and tosses it to the side. “Going on break!” he yells to no one in particular, and heads to the back, but not before flashing Brandon a cocky-ass smirk and flipping him off.
Brandon’s cup has “Go Leafs go!” scrawled on the side. He briefly considers throwing it away without even drinking it, but can’t bring himself to part with his precious caffeine.
:::
They have a tournament the next weekend, which means he’s stuck going through a Starbucks drive-thru on his way to meet a bunch of crazy peewee players and their stage parents at an out-of-town rink.
He scowls when he takes a sip of his drink and it doesn’t taste right. Fucker’s getting him used to bad coffee.
:::
“But seriously, where are you always going on Saturdays? And where were you last week?” Andy asks practically the second Brandon walks in the next weekend, hungover as fuck. For some reason, going out with Jeremy and the other Brandon had sounded like a fantastic idea last night. It’s not sounding so great now.
“What?” he grinds out, blinking against his headache. “You my mother or something?”
“Just curious.” Andy shrugs, putting way too many pumps of hazelnut into the cup.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Just trust me,” Andy tells him.
“Why would I do that, you make the worst coffee ever.” The counter looks nice and cool. He will not shame himself by laying his forehead down on it. God, how is going to make it through this practice?
“Here.” Andy pushes the drink across the counter at him. “It’ll fix whatever ails you.”
“Oh, sure, cure my hangover by ensuring that I’ll have a violent sugar crash later.” Brandon takes the cup anyway.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. Just try it.”
Brandon just scowls and walks out.
He pointedly does not try the drink until he gets in his car, which is a good decision, because if that half-moan had escaped when Andy was in earshot, the guy never would’ve let it go.
:::
Chris is riding with him to the rink this morning, because that’s what happens when you date the hot mom of a kid on your team and then stay friends with said hot mom after you break up. You get roped into driving the kid to practice when the mom can’t.
“Can I get coffee?” Chris asks as they walk in. Brandon snorts.
“You’re ten.”
“So?”
“So the last thing that you need is extra manic energy,” Brandon tells him as they reach the counter. He sends Andy his best wolfish grin. “What kind of weird-ass concoction are you forcing on me today, mutt?”
“Ah, where’s the fun in telling?” Andy blinks when he sees Chris. “Kid of yours?”
Now it’s Chris’s turn to snort. “He wishes. He’s my hockey coach. We’re on our way to practice. Can you make me something with coffee in it?”
“No can do. Don’t sell caffeine to shorties like you,” Andy says easily. “I can do hot chocolate, though.”
“That works.”
Andy doesn’t say anything while he’s making the drinks, but he does keep sneaking little glances at Brandon like he’s trying not to get caught. Brandon smirks at him every time so that he knows he has, in fact, been caught, and if he didn’t know any better he’d say Andy’s cheeks were turning red. Probably it’s just from working around the steamers and espresso machines and stuff.
“Hockey coach, huh?” he says finally while he’s ringing the drinks up. “That where you’re always going when you leave here?”
“Yeah. You play, Leafs fan?”
“Obviously. Played my way through college. Grad school guys have a pick-up league going.” Andy slides the cups across the counter, and there’s a phone number scrawled on the side of Brandon’s. “In case you ever wanna come play.”
Brandon stares at the cup for a second. “Yeah, thanks. Sounds great.”
It’s not till they’re at the rink that he realizes Andy gave him a hot chocolate too. Not cute.
:::
So the thing about your barista giving you his phone number is that you have to be the one to actually initiate the conversation, because he doesn’t have yours. And Brandon’s really bad at that.
Hey, mutt, he finally sends one Thursday evening when he’s bored out of his mind.
No game today, fucker, he gets back a couple minutes later. But I’m running if you wanna come.
Brandon weighs how much energy he has right now against how much he really needs to get out of the house, and also maybe how much he’d like to see Andy.
Sure. Where?
:::
So running on Thursdays, after Brandon leaves his faculty meetings at the elementary school and before Andy has night class, becomes a thing. Between that and the pickup games (which apparently already include Mo and the other Brandon, and how the fuck does Andy even know his friends, how small is this city) he’s seeing Andy like, all the damn time these days. It should be weird, but it’s like there were Andy-shaped holes in his life and he didn’t even realize they existed until they were filled.
In his life, and in his couch, it seems.
Andy got a call before they ran about his night class being cancelled, so now he’s sprawled half over Brandon’s couch, half over Brandon, the remnants of the Chinese food they ordered littering the coffee table. There’s a shitty Judd Apatow movie on the tv, but Brandon is watching Andy instead, and wondering just how the hell he ended up here.
“God, you’re thinking loud. Chill out.” Andy cranes his neck to look at him from where he’s slumped against Brandon’s shoulder, blinking lazily. “What’s your deal?”
Instead of answering him, Brandon slides a hand around the back of Andy’s head and draws him in so he can fit their mouths together. Part of him expects to get punched in the gut for this, so it’s a pleasant surprise when Andy pulls back long enough to say, “shit, yes” and twist so he’s sitting less awkwardly before he dives right back in.
“Thank fuck,” Brandon groans, one hand sliding down Andy’s side to settle on his waist, pulling him closer so that their hips are fitting more snugly together. Andy actually whines, rocking down against him, and Brandon would be more smug about this if he wasn’t well on his way to being ready to come in his jeans like a fucking fourteen-year-old.
“Wait.” Andy pulls back. His lips are already puffy, face wrecked. “You’re gonna date me, right? Because I’m not that kind of girl.”
Brandon just stares at him. Andy cracks almost shamelessly easily. Brandon muffles his cackling with another bruising kiss.
“No, seriously,” Andy says a minute later.
“Tell you what, mutt, I’ll take you on a date when you say ‘about’,” Brandon says, grinning as he sucks a bruise right under Andy’s jaw.
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Thought you weren’t that kind of girl.”
“You know wh-- mmph.”