Work Text:
Life could honestly have been worse for John.
He’s got a stable job, a roof over his head, a decent boss—really, what else could he ask for? He may have had to drop out of college because his financial status was more crooked than the tower of Pisa, but at least he could live more comfortably now that he didn’t have piling college fees haunting him at night.
He couldn’t afford free time, hobbies beyond drawing, take-out, clothes that weren’t thrifted, but you know? That’s okay. As long as he has food and can survive, everything is fine.
He works at a local cafe that can get overcrowded real quick, especially on weekdays. That was because of the sheer traffic of students, who attended college further down the block, that enjoyed spending their free periods or after school hours here to drink their daily caffeine shots and overtly sweet pastries they served.
Some stayed late into the evening until closing time, sat behind their bright-screened laptops or hunched over piled-up papers and books. Seeing their miserable state every day relieved John of missing his study, honestly. He can’t see himself stressing over school so much for extended periods of time.
Some of the students he knows by face now, but sometimes he wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him by making him think every customer looks familiar. He never even pays attention to whoever he’s serving (eye contact is fucking awkward) and just gets to preparing the drinks.
He doesn’t enjoy interaction much, either. His coworkers handle the servicing, he’s mostly taking orders and handling it. He will not yell out random names in a crowd where everybody can perceive him.
At least most of the customers don’t try to strike up a conversation with him. Rarely does one wanna-be nice girl ask him about whatever. He can appreciate the thought behind it but. Nope. Not it for him. His colleagues might love it, but him? I mean, honestly, come on. He’s just here for the money, not to make memories.
He’s used to feeling miserable, anyway. He’s pretty lonely, pushing thirty with no friends, no family, a depressing apartment, no ambitions or goals whatsoever.
At least he’s getting paid good for making lattes with caramel shots and extra sugar every day.
Weekends are pretty bearable, not many customers, which means no over-crowding. Which means relative peace and quiet. People probably prefer to stay home, or go elsewhere than the cafe they visit every week anyway. Weekdays are just the hell he has to push through to get to the light at the end.
And today, unfortunately, is one of those days of hell.
The place is filled to the brim, people are talking over each other, it’s loud, the register is acting bitchy, it’s too much. He’s had three rude customers just this morning demanding their money back for bad coffee or mistaken orders that weren’t mistaken at all (curse this customer service policy bullshit, why can’t he just cut assholes some slack?) and another who spilled an entire cup of latte he had prepared so precisely, only to have to mop it, have strangers brush at him, and manage an entire line on his own because his colleagues were taking way too long smoking cigs in the back.
Basically, it sucked ass.
It was past noon and it was crowded. Another line was starting to form as he took a ridiculously long order from a guy that looked about as old as him, making change after change, completely disregarding his order and starting again—he was about ninety percent sure the guy didn’t even know what he wanted himself and was just wasting his time.
“Look, dude,” he interrupts the endless thinking time, “how about you think of what you really want first, and then come back to order? You’re kind of holding up the line.”
Which was true, he’s been watching several of them tap their foot, check their watches. The people are impatient.
“I know what I want to order!” the guy replies rather aggressively. “Don’t rush me.”
He feels annoyance prick under his skin. “If I don’t rush you, they are going to rush me!” And impatient customers are the last thing he wants right now.
The guy scoffs. “You’re lucky I’m tight on schedule, or I would’ve asked to see your manager.”
If this was him on a tight schedule, he does not want to know what he is like when not on a tight schedule, what the fuck?
“Fine,” he grumbles, “What do you want?”
The guy scans the menu for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes. “…An Americano.”
Finally, he thinks, relieved. “Alright. One Americano. It will be ready shortly.”
The dude gives him one last glare as he pays, before he walks over to a table. John takes a deep breath through his nose. He already forgot what his ugly mug looked like. Everything is fine.
It’s all fine when he continuously takes orders, and his co-workers finally emerge from the back to help prepare the drinks. The line quickly dies out until there’s just one person left.
It’s pretty loud around him and he kind of wants to go home and curl up in a ball on his bed until his next shift. He shakes his hands out and lifts his gaze to catch a glimpse of the last customer in line (he always thought it would be considered rude if he didn’t look at all, so he usually casts a glance before focusing on the screen of the register so he could avoid having to stare) when he’s met with quite the sight.
The guy in front of him looked pretty average, but for some reason, John couldn’t tear his gaze away. He had a bit of flesh to him, nothing like John’s skin-and-bones, soft like his gaze. He was dressed average, a black cap over his curly hair and a bland tee, sporting a backpack over his shoulder. He was smiling at John, not quite beaming. It was shy and tiny.
John adored it.
“Pretty intense, huh?” chuckles the guy and John is certain that he’s been shot dead. That voice could lull him to the depths of hell like a siren’s call and he’d listen to it a million times. It could bring him to sleep, curl around him and keep him warm like a blanket.
This random guy in his shop was an incredible being. He looked so intriguing even if there seemed to be nothing intriguing about him.
“Yeah,” he hears himself agree. Jesus Christ, was that his own voice? He sounded so fucking weak. “It tends to be on weekdays.”
The stranger hums. “Maybe next time I’ll come on a saturday, or something, if it isn’t as crowded as now.”
John, for some reason, fixates on the part of his sentence that said next time. He would get to see him again!
“That’s probably better,” he drawls. “What can I get for you?”
The guy taps his chin. He looks up at John, meeting his gaze. He feels chills run up his spine. “Do you guys have oat milk, perhaps?”
John briefly checks inside the fridge behind him. And surely, there is.
“We do,” he says.
The guy grins. “Oh, that’s good. It really sucks to be lactose intolerant,” he continues, “but be completely dependent on caffeine. I love having lattes, they’re really good, but most cafes I’ve been to don’t have oat milk. They either have almond or coconut milk. Or soy milk, once. Absolutely disgusting. Nothing can top oats for me.”
John listens to him ramble. “I guess you are lucky now.”
“I really am,” replies the guy. “Usually, I’d make them myself, but with exams coming up along with dozens of assignments, I barely have time to really take my time to make a good latte. And since most cafes don’t have the milk I like, I figured I’d try this place. It looks pretty cozy so far, by the way, I like the atmosphere.
John hums. The rumbling of his vocal cords itch an itch in his brain he didn’t realize he had, and it’s nice. He stares at his hands that animatedly move in the air. He watches the twinkle in his eyes, the beaming face.
He looked cute like this.
“I’m assuming you want a latte, then?” He asks.
The guy nods, bouncy. “Yep. Can you do it with an extra shot of espresso? And some caramel if you can.”
John taps on his screen, barely able to tear his gaze from the customer, who was looking around in bewilderment, admiring every little detail of the shop.
“A name?” He asks. Too eager.
The guy blinks at him.
“Smitty.”
John nods.
Smitty pays and gets to a table, and if John purposefully made a heart on top with the cream, nobody had to know. If the beam Smitty gave him made his heart flip, nobody had to know.
If he was filled with excitement when Smitty told him he loved his drink and promised to drop by more often, for more lattes while he worked on some schoolwork, nobody had to know.
If he looked forward to seeing Smitty walk in every Saturday ever since, to watch him for hours, to talk to him, to help him if he could, nobody had to know. If he memorized Smitty’s regular order so he could immediately start preparing it, nobody had to know.
If his bad days were cured by Smitty’s smiles and encouraging touches and glinting eyes and patient understanding, nobody had to know. If John felt less lonely with Smitty around, nobody had to know.
If John gave Smitty gifts of his portraits, if John cried when Smitty eventually asked him out, nobody but the two of them had to know.
If Smitty fixed his shitty life, moving in with him, convincing him to pick up his studies again, helping him into financial stability (with the help of his own parents) again, reminding him of his childhood dreams, it was between the two of them.
If they cuddled in bed together for hours after sharing a long, comforting kiss, it was tucked into the darkness of the night. It all was between them and the stars watching from above.
After so long of working as a barista and seeing it as the only future for himself, such big changes took a toll on him, but in a good way.
In a way, Smitty saved him, even if John had to become a cry baby for it.
Life could definitely be way worse.