Work Text:
Loud whistling fills the café as a boy practically floats in. He abandons his skateboard, parked outside, and strewn underneath the overhang. His hands are shoved in his pockets and he walks jauntily, his eyes bright and alert as he scans through his surroundings.
Ronan slouches against the counter, his long legs half sliding off the stool. Adam hovers nearby, chatting idly with Blue, using small talk when around the public eye. Ronan scrolls through his phone, ignoring the boy even when he’s stopped right in front of him.
“Hello?” He asks, and even his voice sounds contained, ready to blow. Ronan’s gaze flicks up for a moment; he’s practically shaking with the effort not to have an aneurysm and erupt the simple coffee shop, his energy tremendous.
“Yes?” Ronan drawls rudely, shoving his phone into his apron pocket. He scowls darkly, though the other doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to beam at him like it’s Christmas morning.
“I’m here to get some tea.” He announces, and Ronan doesn’t bother biting back a groan.
“Okay. And?” Ronan prompts, clenching his fists visibly on the counter. Just because it’s only twelve o’clock in the afternoon doesn’t mean he’s ready to face the worlds’—or the likes of the inept—bullshit.
“I was hoping for a recommendation?” He asks politely, and Ronan grows in his throat.
“Honestly, I’m going to pick a random tea back and slap it in some lukewarm water and call it good. Is that all right with you?” Ronan snaps, and for the first thirty seconds, the café goes deadly silent. He can feel the glare Adam’s giving him against the back of his shaved head, but…
His costumer lets out a snort, starting with his nose scrunching up and then he giggles fully, practically doubling over on the counter, to Ronan’s disgust. “You’re funny.” He points out once he’s collected himself. Ronan scoots away in fear of being poked, or anything else his childish antics might provide.
He doesn’t dignify his lightheartedness with an answer, instead stalking over to the tower of cups to snatch one up—the most expensive one, of course. “What’s your name?” He utters, for his job’s sake, not out of curiosity.
“Noah. Noah Czerny.” He provides.
“I didn’t need the last name.” Ronan grumbles.
“I just thought you’d like to know.”
Ronan very nearly tries to shove Noah’s tea all down his Blink 182 t-shirt. The other boy just laughs.
…
Their visits become regular routine, which they’ve both established after about a week. Noah appears at fluctuating times but always near morning whenever Ronan works, the abrasive boy always standing up whether he’s on his break or not to attend. With several complaints, of course, though he refuses to let anybody else serve. He hardly bothers asking for anything anymore, always varying his taste in teas, requesting subtly for new ones to keep him at ease.
Sometimes, Noah lingers and chats more often than usual, mostly blabbing away enough so that Ronan doesn’t have to contribute other than a simple grunt or a comeback in response. He misses the way their fingertips brush on brief visits where Noah tears off to wherever he works—a skateboard company, he mentioned—and fluttering eyelashes and smooth lips, not chapped and tarried like Ronan’s own.
He’ll admit that after a while, he may have grown somewhat attached to the firecracker.
…
“You’re in a rush, Czerny.” Ronan addresses, pressing his bruised elbows into the flat, pitch tile of the counter, practically leering at the paler boy with a sneer. “Got a hot date?”
“Not right now, no. That’s tonight.” Noah says, drumming his fingertips across the flat surface. Ronan nearly sloshes his tea alike to their first meeting, although it’s for a different reason. His heart lurches dangerously, and his expression shatters.
“Why’re you here, then?” He asks, his voice cutting.
“To see you and get my tea, of course.” Noah carries on, though his interest has waned. His black painted nails are still tapping, and Ronan wants to interlace their fingers, feel rough palm mirrored against his own.
Instead, he smacks his fist down as lightly as he can on top of it, retracting it as soon as he feels heat. He replaces it with the cup, turning on heel and nearly smacking into a bewildered Adam. “Have fun.” He calls over his shoulder.
He doesn’t wait for an answer in return.
…
Ronan fidgets with the flimsy fabric of his apron, rubbing a coffee stain in between the pad of his thumb and his attire anxiously. He’d abandoned his usual wrist bands of leather at home in a scurry, and he internally curses himself.
“Language, Lynch.” Adam reminds him.
Okay, so externally.
Just around Noah’s usual time, he bustles into the café, tripping over his own feet. He seems dimmer for a change, and Ronan’s heart erupts in fury. He stands up spastically, his chair clattering to the ground behind him as Noah approaches the counter.
“What happened last night?” He asks, and Noah gives him an exhausted smile.
“Bad date, that’s all.” He says with a passive wave of his hand, glancing over at the array of tea selections that Blue insisted to display to the public, explaining they weren’t ‘just for Noah.’
“I’ll fuck her up.” Ronan blurts bombastically, and Noah meets his eyes, hard brown ones against soft gray.
“Him.” He corrects, and Ronan loses his footing. He slides on a splash of coffee, which he’d forgotten to clean up earlier in has hastiness.
“Fuck!” He shouts, causing a couple of customers to turn his way and then carry on, as if the atmosphere was natural. He slams his hand against the ledge, and Noah’s arm shoots out, gripping his wrist so he doesn’t topple.
Oh, this is so much better than how it would’ve felt if Ronan hadn’t misplaced his typical bracelets, even if Noah can feel his frantic pulse…
“Well, what’s the reason for your messiness, Ronan?” Noah croons, his teasing tone back. The bags underneath his eyes look impossibly lighter, and Ronan struggles back to his feet upright, not tugging his hand back.
Ronan stares hard at him for a moment, conjuring anything sentimental to say. Eventually, his mouth formulates words as he plops himself back down on his stoop. “I guess I was a little rude yesterday.”
Noah gives him a considerate look, but he eventually shrugs his shoulders. “I hardly noticed. I had a lot on my mind.”
Before Ronan can bristle and stew even more, Noah interrupts his line of rampant thoughts. “Can I have some tea? You always know what to choose, Ronan.”
Ronan pauses, then moves jerkily to snatch a bag at random, disposing it in Noah’s cup and pouring boiling water haphazardly so that it splatters against his shoes.
“Oh, and… Would you mind writing your number down? I have a feeling I’d like to talk to someone tonight.” Despite his constant bubbliness, Noah sounds almost tentative.
Ronan peeks over his shoulder to make sure he’s not kidding before nodding mechanically and pulling out the Sharpie from behind his ear, trying to scribble his number carelessly as if it couldn’t bother him.
When Noah tries to shove money into his hands, he shakes his head. “It’s on me.” He insists gruffly.
Noah’s expression turns impossibly softer, and he squeezes the outside of his palm, turning on heel and whisking off out of the coffee shop, his scarf trailing behind him as the bell signals the door shuts.
“You’re fucked.” Blue pipes up knowledgably.
“Shut up, maggot.” He responds tiredly.
…
It turns out Noah’s typing is just as atrocious as the way he speaks, with either no capitalization or an excessive use of one. Ronan is astounded by the number of emojis used in their conversations, squinting at his screen blearily as it blares in his aching eyes, the sun starting to rise in the distance.
‘I have work this morning, you fuck.’ Ronan sends Noah. Noah replies with a number of hearts and a couple kissy faces, but Ronan can’t bring himself to chuck his phone onto the other side of the bed and get some decent shut eye.
He figures it’s better this way. He’ll get to sleep easier after work, and—well, the other benefit is obvious.
He craves talking to Noah.
…
“Last night was fun.” Noah says with a hum, fiddling with his mittens as he leans over the counter, grinning despite the slight redness in his eyes from staring at his phone so long until both fell asleep simultaneously. His attire is clearly for the colder weather, and with a semi-aware jolt of surprise, Ronan realizes that he’s know this boy for about a year now.
“Yeah, I love missing hours of precious sleep.” Ronan drawls, missing pouring water in the container a couple times, lifting a hand to rub his eyes once he’s done.
“Hey, you could’ve gone to bed.” Noah points out, accepting it graciously and slipping money across the table, though he lingers, staying closer to Ronan than usual.
“I didn’t want to.” Ronan utters absentmindedly, and Noah’s eyes crinkle when he smiles warmly.
He sets his cup to the side before placing his covered hands on the table, going on tip toes to reach Ronan’s height. He pauses, allowing their noses to brush before their lips do, his eyes half-lidded and content although Ronan’s heart spirals, as if falling down several flights of stairs.
Noah kisses slowly and languidly, as if he has all the time in the world, like nobody is watching. His mouth is warm and inviting, tasting vaguely of spices that Ronan’s positive he didn’t add, but he’s too tired to remember any coherent details. His fingers graze the nape of Noah’s neck, and he vaguely thinks about coffee grinds before Noah presses against the counter, their chins bumping as he kisses him fully.
Ronan gasps almost inaudibly, and although it’s swallowed by their lips, Noah pulls away, keeping their foreheads touching. Their eyelashes flutter in tandem, Noah licking his lips with a thoughtful expression, causing Ronan to shiver.
“Want to borrow my coat?” Noah asks, his tone just as mocking but considerate as always.
Ronan stands numbly without processing his sentence, eventually shaking his head a couple of times jerkily.
Noah giggles, having recovered much faster, going on his tiptoes again to peck his lips. “I’ll talk to you later, okay, Ronan?” He whispers privately, reaching a hand up to brush it across his buzzed scalp.
“Mhmm.” Ronan hums uselessly, diving in for one last kiss before Noah draws away, blowing another cheesy kiss over his shoulder and winking exaggeratedly, cup filled to the brim with tea in his hand.
Ronan sprawls against the counter the moment he’s out of sight, all clichés and memories that aren’t of Noah’s kisses forgotten.
“Finally.” Blue undertones.
“I know.” Adam agrees.
Ronan lifts a hand to his lips, which are still tingling mercilessly.
Pumpkin spice. He gave Noah fucking pumpkin spice, like an off brand, lousy Starbucks flavor.
It’s never tasted sweeter.