Chapter Text
“Naim, go tell the cunts vaping out back to fuck off, yeah? I’ll give you a smoke break.”
Naim blinked, sluggish. He had a 4 am start that day - an opener he couldn’t decline, judging by the pitiful state of his own wallet. “Huh? Uh.. Sure,” Naim rubbed tiredly at his eyes, “Can I bum one?”
His manager, a balding guy pretentiously called Brent in his mid-forties who refused to use deodorant and wore a scowl as his natural look, let out an exasperated huff before digging around in his pockets.
Naim shook himself awake, trying to recall exactly where he was. On inspection, he was met with familiar wallpaper lined with different cracks that could’ve resided there for months or years - reminiscent of the constantly rotating faces within his place of work. He didn’t really care though; a job was a job despite the synchronised rotting of his soul adjacent to the spanning cracks in the walls. He knew he probably had the same capabilities as a corpse with his absolute lack of talent in the same way he selfishly knew he was meant for more than this. She had instilled that into his brain. Arlene had believed that by moulding his brain into something morbid and all-fearing of a man that had maybe never existed, she had guaranteed him success, juxtaposing the current condemnation to his future limited to passive yearning with no motivation to fuel.
Well, at least there was a smoke break every few hours; Brent tossed him the cigarette and gestured hurriedly for him to get on with his assigned duty. Naim didn’t offer a goodbye, and Brent hadn’t even bothered to look back before trudging down the hallway to go make another teenage worker’s life miserable, head held down as they were berated. Naim didn’t mind Brent; he knew that Brent probably shared the common belief that they were exceptional and stuck in a bad situation - in another world maybe they had won Oscars, or Grammys, or, hell, even a Nobel Peace Prize. A world where they had actually chosen to put in the effort like they had told themselves they would years ago. But Brent was out of time, and Naim- well, Naim had to prioritise surviving before pursuing his true passion as a porn star. He followed down the same path and refused to comment on how metaphorical it felt- taking a sharp left towards the exit.
He chuckled to himself at the porn-star comment, tried not to kill himself for giggling in public, alone, and kicked the backdoor open, then tried to morph his expression into something that others would fear. He never quite got it, unfortunately. His wide eyes just teared up for whatever reason, red-rimmed and dreary, and his co-worker, Danja - who was one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen with her loose dark curls, stacks of gold and an unapologetic stare intertwined with piercing blue eyeliner - had compared him to a ‘wet dog’ through gleeful tears. Naim wondered why he didn’t want to kiss her when she laughed, and squashed the thought down just as fast.
Peeking outside, he was met with one of the most undesirable sights ever to exist.
He fought back a loud groan - failed. It blended in with the useless yammering outside.
“Oi, shut up cunts! It’s Naim!” Hunter whistled gleefully, trying poorly to conceal the stereotypically feminine strawberry-guava vape in his hand. Naim wondered if this was an intentional way that Hunter chose to express himself, by choosing a bright pink vape- and then decided that he should probably stop assigning genders to vapes and do his job. Hunter’s goons cackled - high and unsettling - from where the duo surrounded their self-appointed God. Naim thought it was a little too intimate for his own taste.
Naim flipped Hunter and his stupid girly vape off. “Fuck off. Find a job on your way out, unemployed cunt.”
One of Hunter’s clones scoffed and stepped in what the goon probably thought was intimidatingly closer to Naim, burly hand coming to grab a fistful of Naim’s worn uniform. “What was that, mate?”
He wondered briefly if he just apologised, he’d maybe get away with scurrying back inside, all fingers attached and head still firmly on his shoulders. Passive suicidal tendencies were sort of his brand by this point, he thought morbidly, so he doubled down, wondering if the smoke break was even worth the hassle. The sun hadn’t even begun to breach the sky yet.
“Is Hunter’s dick so far up your ass it’s blocking your hearing? I said to fuck off.”
Naim could claim he tried to avoid the fist that suddenly flew at his face, but he’d be lying. It connected with a crunch that would’ve been sickening if he hadn’t craved the pain like oxygen. He wasn’t sure why he was wired like this. The spiking heat exploded through his cheekbone and temple, causing his hand to fly up, instinctively cradling his bleeding face. Clone #1 was wearing rings, apparently.
He wondered whether Arlene ever thought of him, or if she had used God to fill the son-spaced hole in her life just as she had done with Dad’s death. Probably the latter. Bandee had a boy called Naim who had left just as quickly as he came. The servo worker hadn’t even had time to recognise his name.
The door creaked open behind them, a disapproving sigh on the other end. Naim struggled to lift his head to acknowledge the face, but he would recognise Ryan from the sigh alone. It was his it’s-too-early-for-this-bullshit, the one that was also interchangeable for the you-have-to-stop-smoking-naim sigh.
Ryan waved a towel threateningly at Hunter, squinting as he called grimly. “Hunter, for fuck’s sake. I’ll tell your dad you’ve been tonguing down this dickhead here if you don’t stop picking on Naim.”
Hunter made a nervous noise. Being the pastor’s son wasn’t really an advantage when you were getting Eiffel-towered every night, Naim thought immaturely- and a little devilishly.
The goon that punched Naim frowned, biceps flexing as he crossed his arms. “My name’s Caleb.”
Ryan, who had made his way over to Naim and delicately pulled him up to his feet, shrugged nonchalantly while a supportive hand wrapped around Naim’s bicep.
Hunter snapped his fingers at Caleb, disgust evident in his sneer when he glared down at where Ryan and Naim were connected. “Shut up, let’s ditch.”
Naim watched smugly as they marched off, blowing thick clouds of vape smoke as they left. He also kind of wondered where they were going to go at 5 in the morning. The pulsing pain that felt to him like it was travelling through every tendon in his face had nothing on the victory of having Ryan’s broad arms holding him up, letting out little disgruntled huffs directly into Naim’s ear.
Oh. Yeah. Naim had what the records could accurately depict as the world’s fattest boner for this guy.
“Stupid. Why didn’t you duck?” Ryan chuckled gently, manoeuvring him- no, manhandling him back into the building with a firm grip on his shoulders; Naim kind of wanted to bend over and then blamed the thought on the possible concussion.
Why didn’t he duck? Naim didn’t really understand himself. He shrugged, hoping Ryan wouldn’t question the sudden mutism. Ryan never did; he was just patient like that; attentive to all of Naim’s strange quirks. He sat Naim down on a chair in their tiny, crowded break room, and a calloused hand came to settle, holding his chin possessively and turning Naim’s head back and forth to examine the damage. He felt perverted and deluded for enjoying the touch so much, but whatever.
The grip on his chin tightened along with Ryan’s jaw, the muscle twitching in tense, stiff movements. “He did a fucking number on your cheek, Naim. Customers are gonna stare like crazy.”
“Whatever. They stare anyway.” Naim shrugged and winced at the movement, stomach churning uneasily as Ryan stepped away to grab a washcloth. He knew he wasn’t a looker in the first place, with his gaunt figure and the miserable glint in his eyes whenever he had the unfortunate decision to look into a mirror.
But Ryan was attractive in the same way the sky was blue. Naim knew it; Hunter knew it if the thirsty looks meant anything; even his 80-year-old neighbour Marcella, who was seconds from croaking, knew that Ryan was a beautiful man. What had cemented Naim’s massive crush, though, was that, along with the boyish charm of his dimples and his obnoxiously sculpted chest, he had a heart of gold as well.
Ryan brought him Panadol when he mentioned feeling off in a throwaway sentence; Ryan would write positive post-it notes and leave them on Naim’s register in the mornings and make sure Naim took his breaks on time; Ryan always had a hand on his back, or shoulder- sometimes his waist- walking Naim around like he didn’t want him to get lost.
They were close, he guessed. But unlike Ryan, who probably saw Naim in a strictly platonic light, Naim wanted to jump the blonde’s bones so badly that it sometimes hurt just to look at him.
“Not whatever. What’s the year right now?” Ryan crouched in front of him, evening out their heights. Naim felt kind of condescended with the way the other was still barely shorter when kneeling, and then the feeling manifested into his cheeks reddening - Ryan was on his knees in front of him.
“20…20-...” He fumbled, the heat in his cheeks worsening as he struggled to pull out the now crumpled cigarette, “2026. Can you get up? I’m fine. I got a smoke break out of this.”
Ryan sighed - there was the naim-stop-smoking sigh that he remembered before - and brought the washcloth up to tenderly dab at the already crusted blood on his cheekbone. “And lost your pretty privilege- maybe the few brain cells left in there too. Entertain me. Who’s the president?”
Naim scoffed against the washcloth. “Prime minister, dickhead. You watch too much American shit.”
Ryan pressed firmer into his cheek, sending fresh waves of pain through Naim’s aching head. He groaned, attempting weakly to push Ryan’s unrelenting hand off. “What’s his fucking name- Guy who shit himself in the Maccas.”
“I don’t know if it’s worse that you got it wrong or that’s the only way you knew Scomo.”
“Well, the other guy just fucked off into the middle of the ocean and never came back.” Naim blushed, embarrassed. Who knew that his concerning lack of knowledge about political parties would come back to haunt him sooner than he thought. He tried again. “Albo?”
Ryan gave him a small, relieved smile, ruffling his hair affectionately. The action felt intimate, and Naim immediately craved more of it, pathetically. “There you are. Do you need a minute?”
Naim didn’t need a minute. He needed to kiss Ryan on his perfectly shaped lips so bad he was going to die. Was wanting to make him bleed too far? Maybe he was ovulating. No- that was for biological women.
“Nah. Grind never ends.” Naim leaned ever-so-slightly into Ryan’s hold, and Ryan didn’t budge, holding him up.
He could’ve sworn Ryan’s eyes dropped to Naim’s lips for a second before shooting back up. “Never.”
-
When Naim pulled himself together enough to return to his register, there was a large coffee cup he had definitely not placed there previously, and the expected post-it note. He unfolded it with a private quirk of his lips, wondering what today’s affirmation was.
stop being so cheeky and rate the coffee
Naim let himself laugh and indulge in a slow sip of Ryan’s ethereal brewing. There was a reason that their customers kept returning, and it definitely wasn’t Naim’s hospitality.
He set the caramelly goodness down and turned to where Ryan was multitasking - humming along to the music blasting through his headphones and meticulously cleaning his espresso grinder.
Naim struggled to refrain from ogling Ryan’s grip on the machine and instead mouthed ‘five stars’ at him when he looked up.
Ryan beamed at him, pumping his fists in the air lamely.
Letting his hand fall back to his sides, he turned back to his register and opened up the machine with a grin; fuck the rest of the day. The morning had done enough for him.