Work Text:
Wriothesley stared unseeingly at the blank cup clasped in the curve of his broad palm; the other hand waggled a black marker thoughtfully, sketching vague ideas into the air as he chewed pensively at the inside of his lip.
Behind him, one of his coworkers groaned.
“Archons,” Monglane whinged. “He’s not even here yet.”
“No,” Wriothesley agreed pleasantly, checking his watch. “But give it five more minutes. He’s a pretty –”
“Pretty punctual guy, yeah, you’ve said,” Galvana griped.
“Like, twice a day, every day, for the last month,” Galvaryet added with a roll of her eyes, pivoting around her twin to stack clean ivory plates beside their behemoth of an espresso machine.
Wriothesley crossed his arms, turning to face the exasperated trio with a good-humored quirk of his eyebrow. “C’mon, I haven’t been that bad.”
Galvana ignored him. “How soon is Sigewinne back? I feel like we need an intervention.”
“Not soon enough,” Monglane snorted, leaning against the back counter. “Maybe we can call her.”
“Then he can wax poetic about Hot Corner Guy to someone else for a bit.” Galvaryet smirked, planting her feet shoulder-width apart in a solid and grounded stance only to slump dramatically on the metal prep table, propping her cheek in one palm with a mockingly awe-struck look. “‘Wow –’”
“All right, all right.” Wriothesley interrupted what was sure to be a terrifically unflattering imitation of himself with a wave of his hand. “Galvana, shouldn’t you be restocking the case? And Monglane, I needed those refill coffee beans ten minutes ago. Galvaryet, make sure we have enough milk; I think the morning rush left us low on oat.”
The three of them scurried off amidst gales of laughter. Staring down at the still-blank to-go cup, Wriothesley couldn’t help his own rueful chuckle. He spun the beverage container idly between his fingers, cocking his head consideringly, until light sparked in his ice-blue eyes, and he halted its rotation in favor of hastily scribbling across its surface.
He’d managed to finish right on the dot, too. The hands of the clock chimed the hour, and, with the perfect timing of a well-oiled machine, the door to the Fortress of MeroTea swung open.
For all this was a now-daily occurrence, Wriothesley liked to imagine the gust of wind sweeping out the entrance was his breath being stolen away at the vision set before him. And, yes, the man who stood there wasn’t really glowing, just backlit by the morning sun, but, well. A barista could daydream.
Today, Hot Corner Man’s hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, a few moonlight strands left out to frame his elegant face. One stray lock fell nearly into lavender eyes, and Wriothesley found himself yearning, with every fiber of his being, to reach out and brush it away. Per usual, Hot Corner Man wore an impeccably-tailored suit, this one navy, with a double-breasted waistcoat and a jacket resting atop his shoulders in a way that should look stupid but, somehow, managed to be absolutely devastating. One gloved hand curled around an ornate and gilded cane that tapped authoritatively with each step; the other remained tucked away in the man’s pocket. More than he’d care to admit, Wriothesley had pictured those same hands catching at his waist in greeting, smoothing the soft leather of the gloves across his bare skin, lips following soon in their wake until he couldn’t think of anything else.
As always, though, the counter maintained a stark barrier between them; instead of any of those lurid imaginings, Wriothesley merely grinned his friendliest grin and offered a cheery, “Good morning! The usual?”
‘The usual’ was a mild white tea, a little floral and a little sweet, brewed with hot water still shy of boiling and steeped with Wriothesley’s hawk-eyed precision. Of course, all of that particularity came from the barista himself; Hot Corner Man seemed sweetly befuddled by the intricacies of tea. Even so, Wriothesley couldn’t exactly sit back and offer his customer anything less than the café’s best.
“Yes, please,” Hot Corner Man agreed, already pulling out his wallet and selecting a few bills. His expression remained, as ever, placid like a pristine lake, beyond even Wriothesley’s immense skills at comprehension. “But no –”
“No milk or sugar?” Wriothesley nodded, fingers flying over the register in a familiar rhythm. “Anything else I can get you today?” he offered a little hopefully, despite already knowing the answer.
Predictably, the man shook his head, as he had done every single other time Wriothesley had asked. “Not in this moment.” He would spend precisely thirty minutes in the café, Wriothesley knew, and then return to the register for the exact same order before leaving for good.
At this point, the two of them had this routine down to a science, and Wriothesley wouldn’t miss a moment of it.
Wriothesley accepted the man’s cash payment with a customer service smile and a ramrod-straight spine that did not disclose the sparks that shot along his arm as their fingers ever-so-briefly brushed. The fine leather of the other man’s gloves was warm from his body heat, and Wriothesley couldn’t help but relish that glancing bit of contact. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears, nearly enough to drown out the clatter of coins as he handed back Hot Corner Man’s change. He set to steeping the tea in something of a daze, and, tempting as it may have been, was mindful not to repeat the mistake when he handed the cup over.
Hot Corner Man thanked him, and Wriothesley floated on that as he busied himself tidying up. His distractingly handsome customer, meanwhile, headed back to his customary and eponymous table, a booth tucked neatly into a nook at the front of the shop. As he sat, something clearly caught his eye; crystalflies fluttered in Wriothesley’s stomach as the man rotated his cup until he landed on the scrawl along the side. He examined it carefully for a long moment, and then glanced towards Wriothesley with an inscrutable arc to his eyebrow and what the barista thought might have been a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
No more perturbed than he had been the myriad other times he’d gotten the same uninterpretable response, Wriothesley grinned and gave a small salute of a wave before going back to his work. Tapping his toe to an invisible melody, he bustled about, making lattes and helping other customers on a sort of autopilot as he considered what, exactly, he’d like to write on the next cup – and what expression he might manage to draw from Hot Corner Man then.
Spreading his files out upon the table around him, Neuvillette glanced once more at the turned back of the barista, smiling faintly as the man smoothly stole a precariously-perched pan of sweets from his coworker and began to restock the enormous glass display case. Lilac eyes drifted to the untouched tea sitting abandoned to his right, lingering again on the message left there in sharp black print.
Your presence is a gift. I guess that's why they call right now the present. ;)
The whole mess had started on a day like any other. Perhaps, in retrospect, the foreboding gray clouds should have heralded the coming storm in Wriothesley life, but at the time, he hadn’t thought much of them as he’d clocked in, thrown on his apron, and begun an exceptionally ordinary shift. With Sigewinne, the lead baker and Wriothesley’s dearest friend, away on a lengthy vacation, he’d started off prepping a variety of delicate pastries. They’d turned out particularly well, with not a mistake to be found in glaze nor garnish. Bursting with immense pride, he had heaved the tray up on one muscular shoulder to bring his bounty to the case, sauntering to the front just as his coworkers ding-ed the domed bell to the back signaling for a manger.
Even that had been normal enough – just a drink made not quite how the customer had wanted it, which was apparently worth throwing a fit over. Somehow, though, the woman managed to swallow her complaints whole at the sight of Wriothesley’s enormous bulk, any lingering wisps of a tantrum wilting in the face of his chilly smile and stark professionalism.
She’d gotten her re-brewed drink, of course, and walked back out the way she came with the dazed expression of someone not quite sure what had just happened and nary another word about getting Wriothesley’s poor, trembling coworker fired.
So, yeah. It’d been a perfectly bog-standard day at Fontaine’s best little bakery and café.
And then.
It had been mid-morning, just after the start-of-the-day rush, and Wriothesley had been at the register, cheerily chatting with one of the shop’s regulars. The door had creaked open, and in had walked a man with hair like moonlight, a person of such porcelain perfection he seemed to have stepped straight from a storybook.
Ever so abruptly, Wriothesley’s heart stuttered in a decidedly unhealthy way.
The man strode up to the register, shoes and cane clipping in the sharp one-two-three of a waltz against the wood flooring. As he approached, Wriothesley got a better look at his eyes, the pale lilac of fresh spring buds and fixed in a furrowed stare on the screen of his phone. Only once his footsteps stalled at the counter did he look up from the device, gaze honing in on the barista to offer a precise and brusque, “Good morning.”
Archons, even his voice was gorgeous, low and smooth and rolling over Wriothesley’s ears like honey. Who in the whole of Celestia allowed that?
Unfair.
Wriothesley cleared his throat. “Morning,” he managed, and then, more professionally, “What can I get for you today?”
The man’s gaze had already slid up to the menu board, scanning it with a rapid back-and-forth flick. None of the words found there seemed to satisfy him, though, and he turned his attention back with a little sigh that huffed out through his nose. “It was…” He paused, ruminating over his words with a distinct air of exasperation before settling on, “…strenuously suggested to me this morning that I requisition refreshments for a rather impending meeting amongst my colleagues. However, as coffee is not my usual fare, I am rather at a lost regarding what to purchase for such a group.”
“Oof.” Wriothesley made a show of his sympathetic wince. “So, big order, not a lot of time. Do you want my suggestion?”
Glancing back at his phone again, the man nodded, his shoulders sinking in relief. “I would be most appreciative, yes.”
Pulling out one of the café’s paper menus, Wriothesley unfolded it, pointing to their catering options. “I’d suggest one of our Traveler packages – that’s coffee with all the fixings, plus our Paimon Pastry Platter for people to snack on. Normally, we only offer these if you order ahead, but given the circumstances, I think I can make a special exception if you’re willing to wait on us to get brewing.” He offered his most devastating wink the man’s way, and found himself equally desolate in turn when the recipient missed it entirely, distracted once more checking his phone.
“Yes, I think that will do nicely,” the man murmured distantly, stowing his device with a furrowed brow and turning his attention belatedly back to Wriothesley. “Thank you. I am most grateful to have that settled easily.”
“No problem,” Wriothesley lied, pretending for a moment his coworkers wouldn’t want to murder him for wiping out half their product in one go and making them brew an obscene amount of coffee to boot. “And what about for you?” He only asked because the man had mentioned not being much of a coffee drinker. What beverage suited this stranger more, Wriothesley didn’t yet know, but it definitely wasn’t any of the java-based brews from his endless mental list. When he received only a mildly-baffled blink in return, he clarified, “If you’re not a coffee drinker. Consider it on the house.” He offered his most charming smile. “A gift, for your first time ordering with us.”
(He’d ring it in later, with his own money. Same difference.)
Another blink, this one with a little more understanding. “Ah. Hm. I suppose…” After another thoughtful scan of the menu, the man concluded, “….A tea, then? Something light.”
And he liked tea, too. Be still Wriothesley’s hastily-beating heart.
The man had paid in cash, gotten his receipt, and gone to settle in the corner booth, tapping away at his phone with increasing speed. Wriothesley, meanwhile, had practically floated back to their stock of teas, selecting his favorite of their white tea blends and setting it to steep. Curiously, he kept half an eye across the room as he packed a perfect platter of profiteroles, danishes, and other desserts, determined to delight and impress.
This newcomer, regrettably, did not look particularly impressed or delighted. In fact, he didn’t look much of any way at all.
Now, normally, Wriothesley prided himself on his ability to read people, but this guy was tough. Those elegant features stayed as still and stiff as marble, placid and unreadable no matter no matter how long the barista stared. Even so, all of the context clues he’d seen so far were adding up to the start of a bad day barely concealed by a veneer of composure.
In a fit of inspiration, or perhaps insanity, and determination to be some small light in this man’s day, Wriothesley had scribbled a little note on the side of the paper cup for the tea.
Hey there! Hope you have a sencha-tional day! <3
The man had been halfway out the door, his shoulder pressed against the glass, when he’d noticed the writing. Wriothesley had watched on eagerly, and then with dread, as that lake-smooth expression morphed to narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow and lips mouthing silently over nonsensical syllables. As realization dawned, faintly perplexion fell away, replaced with the soul-deep pain only puns could inflict.
And then he was gone.
Well, Wriothesley had thought, with no small resignation. That was, he supposed, the last he’d see of the beautiful stranger.
That had not been the last Wriothesley had seen of the beautiful stranger, not by a long shot.
In fact, Tall, Stern, and Gorgeous walked right back into the café the very next day, striding in with the same exhilarating authority underscored by the metronomic tap of his impeccably-polished shoes and that uncompromising cane. He stepped up to the counter without any hesitation or fanfare, ordered the same white tea, and disappeared to his corner booth, only to reappear precisely half an hour later requesting a refill to-go. The same thing happened the day after, and the one following it, and again and again, until he’d become folded into the routine of MeroTea like another gear in a perfectly-oiled meka.
Soon, Wriothesley had wrangled his own schedule in line, always conveniently managing to find himself manning the front precisely five minutes before the man’s arrival in anticipation. Oh, he was never idle, and kept conveniently busy with this-and-that until the door swung open. Then he was at the register as though he’d always been, a welcome on his tongue and a charming smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and filling his face with warmth. Once their efficient little repartee was over, he occupied himself doing whatever odd jobs needed handling in the front of house, taking what excuse he could to stay where he could easily sneak a glimpse of silvery-white hair and a severe but lovely face.
The man was a creature of habit, Wriothesley quickly observed, and not a person with an impulsive nature. He never lingered at the register, not really, merely arrived, paid for his same drink, and then sat in that booth at the corner with papers spread in meticulous piles around him until the beep of his phone alerted him that it was time to pack up and leave. Nonetheless, the barista relished the few drips of conversation he did manage to draw from the other – wry observations on the weather, idle thoughts on the classical music playing from the speakers, and one precious time, something nearing a laugh at a well-timed joke, though the expression was quickly hidden behind a gloved hand. After a whole month, he could tell himself Hot Corner Man was, maybe, starting to warm up to him a bit.
To Wriothesley’s great relief, the man was never quite as harried as he’d been that first day they’d met. Still, the barista built on what he considered his greatest success, and left a little note on every cup that passed through his hands. Some were simple, wishes for a good day; sometimes, when he was feeling bolder, he’d dare to border on blatant and shameless flirtation. Once, when Wriothesley had noticed the man poring over a finely-bound volume of Remuria poetry, he’d attached a whole sticky note of recommendations and related titles; the next week, one such book from his list sat in gloved hands, and he’d nearly glowed with joy. And of course, every so often, he pushed his luck with another tea-lightful pun, just to watch the man’s face pinch in a distinct attempt to suppress amusement.
Besides, Wriothesley had to take what chance he could to keep the man’s attention. Once sitting, the guy’s focus on his work was, as far as the barista could tell, as strict and unyielding as his dedication to a timetable. Not once, in months of repeat encounters, did Wriothesley ever notice those lilac eyes stray from whatever papers or project the man had brought along with him that day. For all his chosen booth offered a spectacular view, both of the tree-lined streets outside and the café’s eclectic and art-strewn interior, he seemed decidedly uninterested in making anything of the fine vista, his concentration unimpeachable and resolute.
“Do you think he’s a workaholic?” he asked absently one afternoon, addressing the question to the back room at large as he cut dough into neat triangles for cranberry-orange scones. “Or is his boss is just a tyrant?”
Monglane groaned before he even finished speaking, rolling her eyes with such force he feared they might detach themselves entirely; she pulled out her phone, probably to text Galvana and Galvaryet that they were so lucky to be off for the day. Estienne merely sighed, stripping off his gloves and going to grab a flat of eggs from the walk-in fridge.
Wolsey, at least, feigned some passing amount of sympathy, clapping a hand on Wriothesley’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just go ask the guy?”
Wriothesley frowned at the pastries laid in precise rows on the baking sheet before him. “I’m not going to bother him while he’s busy.”
“He’s not that busy,” Monglane snorted. “Not if he’s reading that entire novel you wrote him on ancient Remurian literature, Wriothesley. He took your book recommendation; he can spare the five minutes it’ll take for you to tell him you think he’s hot and you want to suck his –”
Wriothesley, conveniently, slammed the oven doors shut just as she reached the end of her sentence, allowing him to pretend he hadn’t heard it. “Not the point,” he emphasized. “He’s working – and I’m at work.”
“So you’re not going to do anything?” Estienne asked, exchanging an exasperated look with the other two that was in no way subtle.
“I’ll keep doing what I’m doing,” Wriothesley told them with an easy smile and a lazy shrug, feigning nonchalance. “And we’ll see what happens.”
Monglane threw up her hands and stomped away; a moment later, Wriothesley heard the slam of the walk-in door, followed by the muffled sound of someone screaming the word “IDIOTS!”
Wriothesley ignored her, and instead began to brush a second batch of unbaked scones with an egg wash; next, he’d toss some coarse sugar on the now-sticky tops.
The truth was, for all Hot Corner Man was, well, hot, and interesting, and had excellent tastes in reading material, Wriothesley didn’t know if he should disturb the equilibrium they had established. Pushing on that in an attempt to tilt the balance could shatter whatever this was entirely. After all, he didn’t have any reason to think his little notes were appreciated as anything more than a friendly gesture; there was no indication, as far as he had seen, that his own ardent interest was reciprocated. As much as he wasn’t averse to taking risks, he liked to make sure they were, at least, well-calculated ones.
Besides, he hadn’t been that bad. He was well past the age of mournful sighs, and limited himself to three longing glances a day, so, truly, it could be quite a bit worse. And, yeah, maybe he talked about Hot Corner Man more than might be considered a healthily average amount, but the guy was an alluring combination of both handsome and precisely direct, in a way that pleasantly twisted Wriothesley’s stomach.
How could anyone resist that?
Regrettably, Wriothesley’s colleagues did not agree, and he suffered for it. Every word he uttered, even thoughtlessly, about Hot Corner Man, was met with good-natured groans and wisecracks ribbing him about having a cute little crush. His subsequent empty threats to fire them for their cheek, delivered with half-hearted flippancy, proved no deterrent, and led only to more laughter.
Fortunately, Wriothesley was given a temporary reprieve from his coworkers’ merciless teasing by Sigewinne’s return the bakery. Unfortunately, as soon as they’d finished hearing all about her trip to visit her sisters in their little home village by the sea, that miscreant batch of ne’er-do-wells he worked with saw fit to tattle on him to the one person who had no compunctions about meddling in his life. Sigewinne had jumped onto the news of his not-a-crush with the terrifying, bright-eyed glee of a rifthound spotting weakened prey, and immediately demanded she be shown Hot Corner Man at the next possible opportunity.
So, of course, the next time the moonlight-haired-man strolled through the café’s door, Wriothesley summoned her – after he’d handed off the requisite white tea, and given the poor guy some time to settle in.
“Back left corner,” he murmured, busying himself brewing a quintuple-shot latte for the harried-looking college student barely balancing an enormous stack of books in her arms. “By the window.”
“That’s him?” Sigewinne asked, peeking over the counter with a bounce of her pigtails. “Interesting.”
Wriothesley tamped down on the espresso in the portafilter a little harder than necessary, keeping his eyes determinedly fixed on his task. “Don’t stare,” he hissed through gritted teeth, but Sigewinne had already turned and skipped back to his side. “And whadya mean, ‘interesting’?”
“Nothing,” she sang out.
He eyed her up and down, taking in her too-chipper smile and the way she bounced jauntily in place as she bagged a bulle fruit danish and an almond poppyseed muffin. “Sure.”
“Nothing,” she emphasized again with a giggle and another mischievous peek over her shoulder. “Nothing bad, anyway,” she clarified more seriously, and Wriothesley’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Right. Okay, then.” Ominous, but not in the red-flag-bodies-in-the-basement kind of way – not that Wriothesley and his own criminal record had a huge amount of room to judge in that department. “So, you see my point?” He glanced at the solitary silver-haired figure reflected with wild distortion in the chrome side of the espresso machine.
Sigewinne hummed, grabbing a rag and a step stool so she could wipe down the counters. “I really don’t, honestly, but try and explain it to me anyway.”
Wriothesley groaned, setting the milk to steam. “It’s just – he’s just – ” He rubbed at his chin, watching froth form in the metal container. “The man’s got assets.” Sigewinne snorted. “Not like that. Well, yes, that too, but also – he reads Remurian literature for fun, Sigewinne.” He kept his voice low, hoping that the hiss of the steamer and the general bustle of the café would prevent his words from traveling to anyone not in his immediate vicinity. “For fuck’s sake, he looks like a Remurian artist carved him.” No real, breathing person could have such a perfectly sloped nose, or lips that kissable. “His fingers – fuck.” Wriothesley pulled away one pitcher and set a second under the wand, just so he could continue to wax poetic. “They’re so long. Graceful.” Good for holding, the barista was sure, laced together loosely on a walk or tight enough to bruise in bed. “I think he’d have a nice laugh, and I want to see it. He’s always so serious.” He was barely even looking Sigewinne’s way any more, ice-blue eyes staring down at the foaming white liquid as he listed off his endless litany of observations. “That’s kind of hot, too, though. I mean, his voice when he orders – Archons. I know it’s just tea, but that voice could have me on my knees in an instant. I’d be so good for him –”
At that moment, Wriothesley caught sight of Sigewinne’s wide carmine eyes, darting from him to the register and back again. A chill ran up his spine, frigid air freezing him in place and halting the forward progress of time entirely. Behind him, the barista heard the sound of a throat clearing, followed by a terribly familiar voice.
“Excuse me?”
If the ground had opened up to swallow him whole in that moment, Wriothesley wouldn’t have just let it; he would have dived in. As it was, the blush that screamed up the back of his neck and over his ears nearly had him self-immolating where he stood. Given that, he allowed himself a full five-count before he plastered on his biggest, most inoffensive grin and pivoted; Sigewinne, the little traitor, abandoned him entirely, scampering away to hide in the back rooms with a giggle.
“Hey there!” he greeted, glancing over Hot Corner Man’s unreadable expression and wondering, with a pounding heart, how badly he’d just screwed himself. Had the guy even heard him? With the steamer going, it was possible Wriothesley’s ribald words had been obscured entirely. Or maybe, just maybe, the man hadn’t yet made it to the counter before Wriothesley stopped talking. In a thought-spinning panic, the barista reached for the familiar and the safe, some modicum of normal conversation to tilt the scales back towards normal. “Water you having?”
Well, almost normal. It wasn’t a tea pun, but it would have to do.
The laugh that followed shocked Wriothesley like a bucket of cold water, momentarily quenching his anxiety in favor of gobsmacked, starry-eyed admiration. “I do think that was my favorite yet,” Hot Corner Man admitted. “Thank you. I believe I needed that.”
Now that he mentioned it, Wriothesley could see the dark smudges under those stunning lilac eyes, the slightly sallow cast atop stately cheekbones and the slump to normally-straight shoulders, as though the weight of the world had crashed down on this man all at once. “Rough day?” he asked sympathetically, ringing in the order.
“Quite,” Hot Corner Man sighed morosely, picking a nonexistent piece of lint from his lapel and flicking it away. “And I do expect it to continue as such, so I appreciate this moment of levity more than I can say...” For a moment, that sharp lilac gaze honed in on Wriothesley’s face with blazing intensity, pinning the barista in place, before it drifted to somewhere south. “…Wriothesley.”
Wriothesley swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his toes curled in his boots as that soft, low voice wrapped around his name like a treat. “Happy to be of service,” he responded, managed to sound only slightly strangled as he whipped back around to begin brewing. “Your tea will be right out.”
“Good,” Hot Corner Man answered, and Wriothesley’s face burned again.
Coincidence. It had to be. With all of the background noise of the café and, mired as he was in his own problems, there was no chance this guy had heard him before.
‘Good’ was, after all, a common, ordinary, word.
Wriothesley could consider all the horrible implications of that whole situation later, when he could close himself in the walk-in fridge and have a nice, cathartic scream. For now, whether Hot Corner Man had heard the conversation or not didn’t matter, the barista decided, sliding the over-caffeinated horror of a latte to the college student hovering nearby. Either way, the guy was having an admittedly bad day, and Wriothesley wanted, more than anything, to coax another smile onto that pretty face.
That in mind, he applied his marker judiciously over the cup, doodling a seashell here and a crude imitation of a jellyfish there, and, perhaps a bit wishfully, two otters drifting atop the waves holding hands. On the lid, he crafted eyes and a mouth, making the whole thing the face of a very goofy-looking blubberbeast. Amidst his questionably artistic renderings, he scrawled, Keep your head above water – we’ll help you stay afloat!
When he handed the cup over, Hot Corner Man took it gently, as though it were some precious work of real art. He surveyed it with a considering air, turning it this way and that in shrewd appraisal before looking back to Wriothesley. “How lovely,” he murmured, tracing a finger over the pair of besotted otters before glancing up, locking his eyes with Wriothesley’s. “I do appreciate the gesture.”
“’Course,” Wriothesley answered roughly, rubbing his hand sheepishly over his mouth to hide his own too-pleased smile. “Anytime.”
Hot Corner Man hummed, lilac gaze traveling over Wriothesley in as much a caress as those gloved fingers along the surface of the paper cup; the barista tried not to shiver. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied thoughtfully; Wriothesley couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, the other man found as he searched the barista’s face. “Though I’ll endeavor not to take advantage of such a privilege.”
Oh.
Oh.
“I think you can.” Wriothesley dared what he hoped was a charming smirk, leaning forward and dropping his voice as if he were telling a secret. “Just a bit. I won’t tell,” he added with a cheeky wink, quickly gratified at the longer once-over he received in return; there’d been no chance for the other to miss it this time.
“Is that so?” Hot Corner Man hummed again, amusement curling his mouth and wrinkling the corners of his eyes, settling sweetness where sadness and exhaustion had once sat. “In that case –”
A beep, strident and demanding, from within the man’s pocket, yanked them both back to reality, out of the momentary bubble they had found themselves in. Fatigue resettled itself over Hot Corner Man like a cape, resting atop weary shoulders and swirling like shadows through tired eyes as he opened his phone to check messages only to receive three more alerts as he did.
“Duty calls, huh?” Wriothesley asked.
“Indeed,” the man sighed. “My apologies.” He paused, before adding, more tentatively, “Perhaps we might continue this conversation at a later date…?”
Wriothesley offered him a thumbs-up and a smirk. “Rain check. You got it.”
It only occurred to Wriothesley, about five minutes after Hot Corner Man had sweep out the door and another two minutes in which he’d sighed dreamily about how well the suit pants fit over said man’s ass, that this would have been the perfect chance to ask for the guy’s name.
Dammit.
Thankfully, that rain check got cashed in sooner rather than later.
Ding!
“Just a sec!” Wriothesley called from the back, slicing neatly through the last of the profiteroles and flipping the top upside-down with practice ease, leaving the hollowed insides bare.
Ding!
He hoisted the piping bag, adjusting his grip carefully before squeezing the first perfect swirl right in the center of the pastry. “I said hold your horses, I’m piping here –”
A flurry of aggressive pings, plinks, and dings cut off his response. Startled by the sudden cacophony, his fingers clenched just a hair too tight; with no warning, a seam burst on the bag in his hands, launching its creamy load across his face and chest. “Fuck,” Wriothesley muttered. Then, louder, he called out, “Someone better be dying.”
Sigewinne’s tightly-wound space buns preceded her into the back room, her carmine eyes brimming with tiny mischief as she peeked sideways through the doorway. “Wriothesley, a customer has a question!”
“Then answer it,” he retorted, yanking off his gloves and grabbing a towel in an attempt to mop up the mess.
“But Wriothesley –” Sigewinne’s voice dropped into the worst stage whisper he’d ever heard. He was pretty sure she was audible all the way in Mondstadt. “It’s your favorite customer.”
The barista inhaled sharply, twisting to look at his watch even as his body made an almost automatic about-face.
Early. The handsome, otherworldly man, who had stuck adamantly to invariable routine every single other Archons-damned day he’d patronized the café, was early. And here Wriothesley was, mid-project, apron splattered with suggestive-looking smears of pastry cream. The barista let out a noise that bore a startling resemblance to the espresso machine’s milk steamer. “I’ll be out in just a sec, can you just – keep him occupied?”
“Okay, but don’t keep him waiting!” Sigewinne warned, far too chipper for the current unmitigated disaster.
He wasn’t ready.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Wriothesley took a slow, deep breath, rolling his shoulders like he did right before squaring up when boxing at the gym and waiting until his rabbiting heartbeat slowed some.
He’d have to face Hot Corner Man sometime. It may as well be now.
He could do this.
Giving himself another perfunctory wipe and deeming his apron as good as it was going to get under the circumstances, he tossed the towel over one shoulder and sauntered out to the front of the café, head held high. As he emerged, that unreadable lavender gaze turned to him; today, something had left it petal-soft, and Wriothesley had to force his knees not to weaken at the sight. “Sorry for the wait, I heard there was a question?”
“Took you long enough!” Sigewinne chirruped, throwing a mock-reproachful pout at him over one shoulder. “I’d almost finished talking about my trip, and then you’d have been in big trouble.”
“I was working on the profiteroles,” he returned. “Speaking of which, someone needs to fill them, so why don’t you see about finishing that up while I help this fine gentleman?”
Sigewinne puffed out her cheeks at him, saluting with affected seriousness. “Whatever you say, boss!”
There was a twinkle Wriothesley had never seen in Hot Corner Man’s eye as he observed their interaction, and as Sigewinne hopped down from her stool, he chuckled. “Then I suppose we’ll say farewell for now, Sigewinne. Thank you for fetching him.”
She gave another salute, this one bigger and with a bright smile. “Of course, monsieur! I’ll call you later so we can catch up properly.” Elbowing Wriothesley in the thigh, she added, “And let me know if he gives you any trouble so I can make him regret it!”
“Hey, now!” Wriothesley cried in mock offense. Then her words processed, and his head whipped from Sigewinne’s retreating back to Hot Corner Man to Sigewinne again in what he was sure was a horrifically comedic double take, his heart and stomach sinking to somewhere around his toes. “Wait, do you two know each other?”
Hot Corner Man sighed, rueful and fond all at once. “Yes, actually. Sigewinne is an old friend. I hadn’t realized she worked here.”
“Is that so?” Wriothesley croaked, expression frozen in what he was certain was some terrible and obvious mix of surprise and horror. His life flashed before his eyes, kindly reminding him of the many obscene things he’d told the little menace he wanted her old friend to do to him.
Said menace was practically bouncing with glee, turning around with her hands clasped behind her back and a wide, innocent grin plastered across her adorable, devious face. “Yep! Wriothesley, meet Monsieur Neuvillette!”
That was it. Wriothesley was setting all of her baking tools in blocks of jello at the next possible opportunity. Different ones, even, that he could hide around the various fridges, so she’d really have to look to find them.
Neuvillette – and, okay, it was nice to stop referring to him as ‘Hot Corner Man’ – extended his hand across the counter. “It’s my pleasure to meet you – officially,” he murmured, and was Wriothesley imagining the slow drift of lilac eyes, down then up again, pausing to linger somewhere around his lips?
A little dazed, the barista slid his palm into the other man’s, registering the brush of butter-soft leather against his own calluses through a stunned fog. “Yeah.” Belatedly, he realized he needed to let go of Neuvillette’s hand, dropping the offending appendage quickly with a sheepish laugh.
“Well, it was about time you met,” Sigewinne scoffed, somewhere in the background. “Or I thought so. Wriothesley, Neuvillette’s a big fan of your cake. AN-yways,” she sang cheerily, “I’m going to do those profiteroles now, bye!”
Wriothesley frowned, turning to stare at the empty doorway and then back to Neuvillette with a questioning stare, searching for some passing explanation of what in the ever-loving Abyss was going on. His normally fast-moving mind felt wiped clean as a corrupted disc, unable to process what was happening around him in real time. “We don’t sell cake here?”
Neuvillette stifled what Wriothesley thought might have been a laugh behind a closed fist, poorly disguising his amusement as a cough. The attempt at camouflage only worsened as lilac eyes flickered over Wriothesley’s shoulder; when the barista glanced back, he caught just a flash of cornflower space buns ducking behind the door frame.
“She’s certainly something, isn’t she?” Neuvillette murmured with another fond chuckle.
“That’s definitely one way of putting it,” Wriothesley managed, trying to hide his embarrassment with a grin. “Better be careful, though, or she’ll work her wicked mischief on you next.” The expression Neuvillette leveled his way was doubtful, and so Wriothesley leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Trust me, I know she may look like cotton candy come to life, but she’s a real rapscallion. Has she ever told you about the Fungus Fiasco?” When Neuvillette shook his head, Wriothesley’s grin widened, sharklike. “So, we were making muffins for a customer, real piece of work who kept changing what he wanted in his order and asking for stuff we just don’t have. Sigewinne goes and adds extra sugar to the batter, which, for this recipe, makes the muffins deflate on top. She even added food coloring to some of them, so when they came out of the oven, boy, did they look like real little shrooms. And this guy, he’d ordered eighty of these muffins, so when he showed up, all he sees are boxes and boxes full of what look like real, miniature fungi. I had to come out and explain what had happened,” the barista concluded, with a rueful shake of his head. “Eventually – I did let him sweat for a bit, and, of course, he threw a fit. But that was all her, every bit of it.”
That pulled a full, shoulder-shaking chortle from the other man. “Is that so? I can hardly imagine.”
“Oh, it’s true, every word,” Wriothesley assured him earnestly. “Now, did you actually have a question for me, or was Sigewinne just messing around?” Thankfully, Wolsey had stepped up beside him to take the occasionally customer while he chatted, with only a little side-eye, but he did, regrettably, have to return to work at some point.
“Ah, yes.” Neuvillette cleared his throat as his expression hastily rearranged itself with some new emotion, his mouth twisting at the corners in something like chagrin. “Well, admittedly, I am not much of a tea drinker –”
Wriothesley stared at him. “Really?” Neuvillette nodded, and the neurons in Wriothesley’s brain about fried themselves trying to reorient to a new reality. “Wait, but you’ve come here every day to order –”
“Yes, well,” Neuvillette began; then he paused, as though ruminating on his words, before pinning Wriothesley with that sharp and knowing stare. “I suppose I really stayed more for the view.” Heat flooded Wriothesley’s face, and suspicion and hope in equal measure crashed down on him like a tsunami; the rush of blood storming through his ears nearly drowned Neuvillette’s next words. “In any case, I find I should like a recommendation for tea. From you,” he clarified, as if it needed doing.
Wriothesley thought he might combust from joy. “Well, the white tea I chose for you is picked from younger leaves...” And off he went, tumbling into a tangent of rambling speculation, percolating on the various types of tea and their respective flavor profiles, caffeine content, as well as his preferred blends and those he felt showcased each varietal to best effect.
Throughout the whole tirade, Neuvillette stayed rapt and alert, never yawning or checking his phone; he asked probing questions and, for the most part, proved an engaged and attentive audience the likes of which Wriothesley rarely experienced. Still, there was one oddity to the other man’s behavior, something the barista couldn’t quite place: throughout their conversation, Neuvillette’s eyes kept drifting down Wriothesley’s face and, if he wasn’t mistaken, fixing somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth.
Maybe that was just his own optimistic delusions at play, but, well. A man could dream.
“So,” he concluded, cocking his head, “I’m thinking maybe I whip you up a custom blend – something flavorful without being too astringent. Sound good?”
“How can I refuse such a generous offer?” Neuvillette went to pull out his wallet, but Wriothesley waved him off.
“My treat. You just stay right there and let me steep. Oh, want any pastries? I know you don’t get anything, but Sigewinne said you liked cake – not that we sell full cakes,” he amended, acutely aware of the fact that Neuvillette was laughing and not entirely sure why. Maybe it was his uncontrolled and enthusiastic babbling, but, well, sue him, he was excited. “Maybe a muffin? Promise it’ll be a normal one. No fungus, guaranteed.”
“I’m quite all right without,” Neuvillette demurred, “but thank you. Perhaps next time.”
The future implied in those words had Wriothesley glowing as he got down to business. He found himself humming under his breath, measuring out these leaves and those petals to some inaudible tune and pouring perfect-temperature water over the whole concoction to coax it into bloom. When he poured out his brew, he admired the amber color, wafting the steam towards his nose and sighing in contentment at the subtly sweet fragrance. More than satisfied, he secured the lid, and offered the cup to Neuvillette.
This time, when their fingers brushed, he was ready for the sparks that flew along his arm, and he allowed himself to idle there, with Neuvillette’s hand atop his own, a moment longer than necessary. Neuvillette seemed just as reluctant to part ways, searching Wriothesley’s face with a keen and obvious stare. When he at long last drew his arm back, it was only to set the cup on the counter. Once more, his eyes fell, landing, clear as day, on Wriothesley’s lips.
Wriothesley’s heart leapt into his throat, nearly exploding from his chest on the way.
“Apologies,” Neuvillette began, a new sort of smile forming on his lips. “But you have…” He indicated Wriothesley’s mouth. Stomach dropping in utter dismay, Wriothesley hurriedly wiped at the spot, evidently to no avail; Neuvillette caught his wrist to sooth his frantic motions, and asked, raising his own hand, “May I?”
Oh.
When Wriothesley nodded, too gobsmacked to speak, Neuvillette neared, leaning in over the counter. The barista held himself as still as a marble statue, not even daring to breathe for fear of shattering the impossible moment. Only his eyes moved, flicking frantically over that handsome face so near now to his own, close enough to notice that Neuvillette had specks of carmine streaked throughout his lilac eyes.
Heartstopping, Wriothesley thought. Maybe literally.
Gently, as light as a moth’s wing, Neuvillette brushed his thumb along the corner of Wriothesley’s lips. Had he lingered a bit? Wriothesley couldn’t tell. Time seemed to have stopped for a moment, only starting again as the beautiful man drew back. With a shrewd gaze, he examined the white dollop sitting atop his finger, curiously bringing it to his nose to sniff.
“Chantilly cream,” Wriothesley explained weakly.
Neuvillette gave a small hum of acknowledgment. Still, he stared a moment longer, thoughtful, before his eyes flicked up to meet Wriothesley’s own.
Then he licked the morsel right off his finger, and Wriothesley nearly combusted.
“Delicious,” Neuvillette pronounced, his voice low and soft and as sweet as the cream he’d just eaten.
The first noise Wriothesley managed wasn’t words. He didn’t think it was even in a human’s normal audible register; if anything, it sounded more like the whistle of his tea kettle. His second attempt was better, and at least sounded like stammered syllables, but it took him until the third try to form the word “Thanks.” Mortified, he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to recover some semblance of his absolutely shredding dignity. “I’m glad you think so.”
Nope, that just made it worse.
Through it all, Neuvillette watched him with a pensive expression, sharp eyes flicking over the barista’s flustered form. Wriothesley wished he could read whatever thoughts were written in his placid mien, but the man was, somehow, more inscrutable than ever, and silence stretched between them as the second ticked by. “Was there something I can help you with?”
Finally, finally, Neuvillette moved, ducking his head with a small chuckle and breaking the tension settled thick as gelatin in the air between them. “Yes, I do believe there is.” Eyes like stained glass twinkled with quiet merriment as the man continued, “I have observed that some employee of this establishment has been adding… additional comments, shall we say, to my usual beverage order.” Wriothesley’s stomach dropped like a stone off a cliff, sinking to somewhere by his toes as relief rapidly turned to panic. “If I may be so bold as to offer unsolicited advice,” Neuvillette continued, and – oh, was that a smile, teasing up the corner of his mouth as he leaned back in? “If there is something you want, Mr. Wriothesley, rather than approaching the matter sideways, perhaps you ought to be a good boy and ask for it outright.”
Wriothesley’s mouth tasted as dry as the desert in Sumeru. Blood pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out his own reply. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that you do,” Neuvillette instructed, and, yep, that was definitely a smile, and something that could be fondness warming his face. “I am of the opinion hard work deserves a reward – and I should hate to see such valiant effort go unrecognized.”
“Is that so?” Wriothesley cleared his throat, perching himself half-on the counter and crossing his well-muscled arms. In the background, somewhere, he heard Sigewinne giggle, and tried his best to ignore her. “What kind of reward are we talking here?”
One immaculate eyebrow arched. “I suppose that depends. Dinner, perhaps.” That lilac gaze roved over Wriothesley with a knowing glint, as though he could see every fantasy the barista had every harbored tucked neatly beneath his skin. “Perhaps more.” He picked up his cup, turning away, but he glanced over his shoulder, leveling one final, devastating look at Wriothesley as he went. “I do hope I have the opportunity to find out.”
That day, when Neuvillette came up to the counter for his refill, Wriothesley had his order ready. On the side, in tiny print, he’d written his phone number, alongside his longest note yet.
I guess I should stop being so chai, and just tell you that I’ve thought you were beau-tea-ful for oolong time now. You really steeped me off my feet today, and I think I might like you a latte, so don’t play with my pour heart. Let’s see if we’d make a good matcha.
Yours brewly,
Wriothestea