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James held back a sigh as he heard the bell of the café door tingle, almost preceded by the familiar chatter of one Alexander Hamilton. Wearily, he turned around to face the approaching student, and fixed a neutral expression onto his face.
"... and he said that we risked not only our safety, but the dilution of our culture, by allowing 'any poor immigrant with nothing but a bad attitude to offer' to cross the borders..." Hamilton ranted as he walked up to the counter, gesticulating wildly with both arms as he illustrated his point.
His friend - or boyfriend, maybe, given he never ordered anything of his own, and James couldn't imagine anyone but the most devoted hanging around Hamilton just to listen to him for hours - leaned back subtly to avoid the flapping limbs, and offered James his usual apologetic smile. John, he seemed to remember the poor man being called, from the name that had been appealed to the day before in another of Hamilton's impassioned speeches.
"...That damned Thomas Jefferson knows full well that I'm an immigrant! Sometimes I'm convinced he only takes that ridiculous opinion to rile me up..." Did the man ever stop? James pushed down the groan that threatened to vocalise itself, and set up the payment for Hamilton's usual order of a large black coffee on the card reader. He twisted it around to face the customer, then turned around to make the drink. The usual routine.
It wasn't the first time he'd heard the name Thomas Jefferson from that particular man - in fact, he'd heard it slip off many tongues in the almost-year since he had started working at the second-most popular café on campus. Always charming and never at a loss for words, seemed to be the general consensus for the man (the exception to the consensus being Hamilton, but James had learnt long ago that he was the exception to most rules anyway).
He couldn't say anything from his own personal experience, of course, having never met him, but still he couldn't help but admire the figure he imagined of him in his head. If James' knowledge of Jefferson's political opinions had come solely from Hamilton, he was sure he would never have come to develop that view, but as it was he was more aware of the nuances of the man's stances on various topics - and while he wasn't a whole-hearted supporter of many, preferring to stay largely on the fence unless a subject particularly called for his attention, he had to admit his sympathies generally leaned in Jefferson's direction.
Though that made it seem as if he had put a lot of thought into the matter. Truth be told, he believed himself more an observer of the drama than anything. His mind had better things to occupy itself with than some faceless campus celebratory.
He barely noticed himself going through the motions as he finished the drink and slid it to the end of the counter towards the waiting hand of Hamilton - who had, as usual, not ceased his incessant noise for a single moment - his attention immediately arrested by the figure that was at that moment walking in.
Tom - or so it said on the cup every morning. An order that had somehow succeeded in being consistently different every day for the past three months and two weeks exactly (no, James hadn't been counting), but a name that he had uttered once, on the first day, and then never again after James remembered.
Or, well, he had uttered it twice. But only because James had convinced himself that it would have been weird for him to remember the name of a customer who had done little more than stutter through his drink order, state his name, and then look at James for barely a second with those - well, it was an abominable cliché, but - eyes of concentrated honey and chocolate and coffee all at once, before moving away to leave the counter open for others.
The almost-stranger approached. Quickly, James turned away and pretended to fiddle with the hot drinks machine so as not to be caught staring.
Hearing the footsteps pause in front of the counter, he turned back, and met those beautiful dark eyes. "Good morning," he said carefully, as he always did. No need to creep the customer out with to much enthusiasm, he had convinced himself after his very first over-the-top greeting.
"M-Morning," Tom stuttered in reply. His face seemed to heat up - with embarrassment, maybe? James could have died on the spot. How could one individual sound so cute in only one word?
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"M-Morning," Thomas stuttered. Inwardly, he cursed. It's been three months and two weeks, he berated himself. Why can't you just say one word in front of him without tripping over your own tongue?
He wasn't a coward, and he wasn't an idiot either - Thomas was perfectly willing to admit that he had a raging crush on the cute barista who served him every morning. No, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that it had been almost four months, and he still found himself unable to speak smoothly in front of the man.
Still, he tried again. "Morning." That was better. "Can I- have a- Can I have a-" The logic side of his brain sighed at itself.
Oh. Oh. What was he going to order, again? He'd chosen - he remembered having chosen outside. But those stunning sunlight-on-the-water blue eyes were on his, and suddenly he couldn't remember the difference between coffee and milk.
"A- A spiced chai latte, please?" he practically spat out. Well. He supposed that was an order, if not the one he had decided on. And at least he hadn't tripped over himself ordering it again. Lafayette would be proud of the almost-rap, a part of him thought darkly.
The barista gave him a small, slightly strained smile as he typed in the order and tilted the card reader his way. Thomas resisted the urge to sigh outwardly. He was sure - almost certain - that the poor man was fed up with his pitiful attempts at communication throughout the months. What does he think, he considered, of the great Thomas Jefferson, reduced to nothing but a stuttering fool over something as simple as a coffee order?
A thought occurred to him. But then again, he might not know who I am. After all, he had only managed to stammer out the first half of his given name when asked, curse his useless tongue. If James - Lord be praised for the singular day, a week prior, that he had worn his name tag - had never seen him outside of their interactions, and never heard a description of him, perhaps he was only Tom, the customer who won't just spit out his order.
He shrugged to himself. There were worst things to be known as.
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James turned away to hide the unstoppable smile growing on his face before it became obvious. It was, frankly, quite embarrassing, the strength of his urge to just giggle and swoon like a teenage girl at the incomprehensible endearingness of his returning customer. He knew he shouldn't - heck, Tom was too cute to be single - but he had tried to squash the thoughts too many times now to bear any lingering hopes that they might be persuaded to go away. The best he could do now was accept the silly, useless little crush for what it was, and enjoy it.
He became all too quickly wrapped up in new orders to notice that Tom had, for once, not bolted out of the door at the first opportunity. It was only when the sound of raised voices from one side of the shop, one recognisable as belonging to a particular Alexander Hamilton, alerted him to some sort of argument, that he snapped his attention to what was actually happening outside of his immediate area behind the counter.
In the moment it took him to direct himself towards the heated interlocutors, his mind drifted to contemplation of the secondary voice in the argument. It was hot, in more than one sense of the word, and as passionate as Hamilton's - layered with a thick Southern drawl that sounded ticklingly familiar to James' subconscious, though he couldn't quite place it. It was rather attractive, though he felt his face heating up to admit it.
With that established, he had a hard time keeping his jaw firmly shut and not on the floor at all when, finally locating the source of the two raised voices, he recognised them both. The first, unsurprisingly, was Hamilton. But the second...
Tom.
His voice, his body language, his entire attitude has flipped completely from how he had been only seconds before. With his feet set comfortably shoulder-width apart on the floor, one hand resting casually on his hip, he practically radiated an aura of full confidence and self-assurance. His voice carried from the corner where he stood to sound out around the rest of the shop, ringing clear and sure in the inflection of every syllable.
"As much as I would love wiping the floor with you right here and now, Hamilton," he drawled in that incredible accent of his, "I wouldn't want dear Jem to have to clear up any more of your mess than he already has."
At that, Hamilton snorted. " 'Dear Jem'?" he said incredulously. "You say that as if you've done anything more to him than just make awkward eye contact every morning and flush darker than your political future. You're pathetic, Jefferson. Admit it, and stop bringing your little crush into our debates."
James' head was spinning. He was too caught up in registering dear Jem and Jefferson and crush and oh my goodness how can one man be so cute and so hot at the same time and holy heck was he hearing this right, was his Tom actually the acclaimed Thomas Jefferson, did Thomas Jefferson have a crush on him? that he didn't notice the man in question spinning on his heels with an exclamation of "I'll show you pathetic, Hamilton," and marching over to the counter, until he was right in front of him.
Ocean blue eyes met honey brown ones. For a reason he didn't know, James found himself holding his breath.
With barely a pause to take a breath for himself, Tom - Thomas, Thomas Jefferson - said, "James, I find you overwhelmingly attractive and I would like to get to know you better. Would you go on a date with me?"
James left a moment before he spoke, hoping for it to calm the frantic beating of his heart. It did nothing. "I'm on my shift now..." he said slowly, at last. Thomas deflated all at once, all his seemingly effortless confidence evaporating as he adopted an expression not unlike that of a kicked puppy. James hastily continued, "but I get off at one for my lunch break, if you want to- I don't know, take a walk around campus together? Given... You know... Coffee might be a bit inappropriate for the circumstances..."
That was all it took for the blazing heat in the other man's eyes to return. He rewarded James with a beaming smile that, cliché or not, would have completely outshone the sun, had it been present on that cloudy day.
"A walk," he exclaimed dreamily, gazing into James' eyes with an expression of pure bliss on his face. "A walk sounds nice..."
James was perfectly contented to stay there just like that, but only a moment later, Thomas spun around again. "Hamilton!" he bellowed. "I'm not quite finished with you yet."
James watched him go, a lovesick smile on his face. He didn't even care about the noise as the two began to argue louder and louder - even despite the many potential customers they were most likely scaring away. His eyes were fixed instead on Thomas' passionate figure as he fought for what he believed in.
He recalled the first time the man had come in, stuttering half his name in what James now realised in retrospect was romantic fluster, and compared it to the sight in front of him. He smiled again.
I could fall in love with both of them, he thought. Tom and Thomas.
I look forward to seeing more of them.