Work Text:
“12 or 16 ounces?”
Huh?
Hm.
When Sergio’s counselor sat him down at her aged desk, stacks of papers chaotically organized, Sergio took one look at her office and decided: I can trust this woman.
Her perky attitude, the messy look of her greying hair Sergio’s learned in high school girls spend hours choosing strands for but from her looked effortless, the pale blue doe eyes that lured him in like a deer in headlights… she seemed trustworthy, and who was he to not take her word?
“You need these courses for next semester,” she pulled up a tab on her monitor, and he barely had time to adjust to the painful brightness change before she was circling over a course title with her cursor. “I recommend it now rather than later. Classes will get harder when you get to your junior year, Sergio. You need a lot of time to do this class, and now you have that.”
No, no, not really, he wanted to argue. He’s still in football season, tournament semi-finals coming up and all. He still has classes he needs to take midterms for, but as soon as he opened his mouth, she gave him a sharp look.
“Soccer doesn’t go into Spring, correct? I know you, Sergio, you’ll do great in these classes. You just need to face them head on. You’re smart.”
He clenched his fists under the table – praise always got to him.
“Okay.”
She gave him a sharky grin and selected ‘Add course to schedule.’
.
“Let me know whenever you're ready.”
But his desire for praise often bit him in the ass, because now, now Sergio is here, in front of the library, finding every possible way to avoid actually walking in.
What he thought was simply an Introductory course proved faulty, a joke orchestrated by the entire Business center and his stupid, kind counselor. She manipulated him too well, messy hair bun and all, and now he was squinting up at a poorly written cafe menu board to find anything he could possibly enjoy.
At least it wasn't during football season. Ending football season with a win made going into this hellish semester a lot easier, yet turns out it wasn't so easy after all.
Scanning the board quickly for any terms he would know, his head clouds with the despair of studying. It's annoying. It's tasking. There's no fulfillment like there is on the field – grass under his cleats, sweat dripping down his back, legs screaming at him for more and none at the same damn time. Instead, studying gave him a headache, leg cramps, and sore eyes.
And nightmares about macroeconomics. Tons of nightmares. He doesn't want to talk about it.
Right. The coffee. Focus, Sergio.
Eh… Half of these drinks are made up. Too American, and he doesn't do coffee. That’s a Miriam thing, but she hasn’t even seen his quick spam texts asking for help, for whatever the name of the drink is that she gets him whenever he goes back home.
Can’t she tell this is serious? Urgent? An SOS?! Brushing his finger against his chin, Sergio plays with his bottom lip as he contemplates over the words written in pink cursive: ‘specials this week’.
Ir…Irish cream – what flavor is that? Surely he isn’t drinking the Irish? And strawberry matcha? Last time he tried that green stuff, he felt grossed out by the after taste.
…Hm. He’s doing a great job avoiding the library.
Sergio fully intends to spend a few more minutes just glancing over the menu, a repeated offense in the past two minutes. But, maybe he’s starting to creep out the girl at the register. A quick glance confirms it – she’s trying to appear busy, playing with whatever props up behind the tablet but it’s obviously an act that says ‘I’m waiting for you, slowpoke.’ Wincing at his own inability to choose, knowing Miriam would be slapping his wrist by now, he makes an executive decision: I’ll just ask her. But when he steps forward, the uninteresting girl abruptly escapes to the back when another student scuttles towards the stand.
Rude! He thinks, but doesn’t have time to process as he turns his head to the cause of her runaway.
Gripping the shit out of red backpack straps, a shorter student looks around warily and hides his gaze away from Sergio’s once they make eye contact. He’s still walking here, but with a little less enthusiasm in his steps and there’s no doubt in Sergio’s mind that the boy’s confidence faltered once he noticed another person waiting for a drink.
And oh! Sergio’s experienced enough relationships – included or not included – to know about this sort of stuff. Surely, the student must be an ex, or some weird classmate who took the worker’s kindness as a ‘let’s go on a date’ or a ‘I’m in love with you’ sort of thing. Surely, he must’ve figured out the location of her work, and now agonizes her here because the past is not enough for him.
He evidently takes this as an awkward situation for her and makes a thoughtful noise. Previously intent on becoming an actual customer with a real purchase – after all the little corner cafe does need to be profitable at the end of the day. It wouldn’t do the building any good if they ended breakeven, and yes Sergio believes he’s the customer to crush that point for them – he struggles with actually approaching the register now. If he stays, she's forced to come back out from the back and take his order. If he leaves, then the boy might eventually get tired of waiting and leave, or he'll stay to harass her for the rest of the night. Shit.
“Are you in line?”
“Sure,” easy, smooth, confident. The boy’s shoulders shrink a little, and Sergio puffs his chest out. Doing his duty here, no worries, uninteresting girl. His smooth voice will overpower this nasally twinge anytime. “Studying tonight?”
“Oh, um,” fidgeting, anxious, a shell of the student a minute earlier. Almost laughable, “I was just here to see someone.”
“Hmm.”
Don’t give him too much, Sergio reminds himself to calm down. Just enough to make him second guess why he’s there in the first place. But the boy parts his lips anyways, and Sergio has to brace himself for what’ll come out of his high-pitched twangy voice.
“What can I get you?” A new voice calls.
Huh.
That wasn’t high-pitched, nor an annoying nasally pitch. It was deeper, smoother, richer. Like the taste of coffee, freshly grinded with the best beans from the South. Floral accents, woody even. Set for Spring. On second note, maybe that’s the cologne of the voice. Shifting the balance of his feet, Sergio tilts his nose towards the register and meets eyes with a man who’s vastly different from the boring girl before.
For one, the height. She was about, what, up to his chest? But the barista in front of him breaks even – level! He is level! – with his nose, with paler skin which has undoubtedly seen time in the sun, and rich blondish locks that have Sergio stunned in place.
Oh, his eyes. Deep, a crinkle at the sides that has Sergio repeatedly tracing over every line, and sunken in like an angel’s pressed one too many kisses on top of his eyelids and pressed their thumbs down to form his grace.
Adapting to the fine beauty in front of him – yes! A solid distraction, the library study era will never happen, – he responds quickly, “Not sure,” and because he’s smooth like that, a real charmer, “any recommendations?”
The barista keeps a disinterested aura, putting on a front like he was seriously considering it. Sergio feels a grin etching onto his face – interesting. Not only is he cute, but he’s got some feistiness to him.
“Depends,” he exudes a confident vibe, but it’s cut back enough it doesn’t come off as arrogant. Sucking in the inner of his cheek, Sergio decides he likes it. On the field, he’s seen too many players whose feet drip with overconfidence but their kicks don’t match the ego. It’s embarrassing to see, and as the captain of his team he always makes a note of who to scold afterwards. But he does it just right. The barista balances on his right and the fabric at his waist pinches, and Sergio is just a man, okay? He looks.
His throat dries up.
“Do you like the taste of coffee?”
“Eh,” Taking a second to recall every instance he’s had coffee and failing, he shrugs. Miriam gets him something and he drinks it, doesn't matter if it’s good or not. The drink his sister gets him is a safety net, but seeing as he can’t remember the name of it, he responds with no real usefulness, “I just drink anything even if it’s good or not. I’m open to anything.”
The worker lifts his brows up, and the way his deep brown eyes look up at Sergio through his lashes has his heart stuttering. It feels sultry almost, like he was intentionally dragging his gaze over Sergio’s face before landing on his staring eyes. Breaking eye contact to check on the boy next to them, he realizes the student had taken a step back and is now lingering stiffly in the hall as if he’s deciding whether or not he should stay here.
Seems like the male barista makes him uncomfortable. It’s two versus one now, and he’s still here? A creep, but Sergio has to admire his impending confidence just a little.
“To anything?” Eyes darting back to sunken sparkles, Sergio forgets everything and anything about the boy.
And because knowing how small the waist of the man is not enough, the barista starts to rub his hand against his side thoughtfully, and all the wires in Sergio’s head shuts down. Fuck, he swallows, hard, like something’s stuck and he’s barely able to breathe around it. He’s hot.
“Yes,” he chokes out.
“Hmm,” a hum, and his mind goes to naughty things. Would he make that sort of noise in bed? If Sergio noses at his jaw? At his cute face? If he wraps his hand around that petite waist, covering most of the skin with his own? Oh, God, how would the difference in tones look? Sunkissed Sergio, out in the sun all day and this much paler barista whose hands have only seen warm cups and latte art? Dropping his hand to grip his tablet, the barista leans forward, smiles into his words and asks, “Do you like nuts?”
Fuck.
Sergio almost just popped a hardon in his pants.
Okay.
Okay, Sergio can work with this. He’s flirting, flirting. He can do this.
He hasn’t dated since highschool, but fuck it. Hasn’t hooked up with anyone since freshman year, hasn’t had experience in at least half a year, but he knows an opportunity when he sees it. So fuck it.
“Yes,” again, because he’s not being creative right now. Sue him. Put yourself in his shoes, you wouldn’t be able to do half of this. Little underconfident boy behind him wouldn’t be able to do any of this, shit, he’s probably gone by now. Don't see how appealing gay flirting is when you're not either of the parties involved. Pushing his words out slowly, suggestively, as much like a vixen as possible, “I like nuts.”
The barista’s eyes sparkle and he leans back, his whole stature relaxing once Sergio’s made it clear that he received the message.
Sergio feels like a dog, waiting for the conversation to move forward, to flirt more and end up in this guy’s pants by the end of the night and kick Marcelo out of their shared room but –
“I recommend our pistachio cortado.”
Eh?
“Lots of caffeine and small. Has a good kick to it. Perfect to stay up.”
“Oh,” dumbfoundedly. “...Small?”
“Or would you rather have a pistachio latte?”
“Can I sip that more?”
“Mmn.” Shit. His noises. “12 or 16 ounces?”
Sergio takes the unspoken cue as it is, and pulls his bag forward onto his chest. Unzipping the small pouch, he fumbles searching for his wallet, “16.”
As soon as the tablet confirms the payment, Sergio takes a few much needed breaths, stepping away from the counter to look around him. No boy. He ran away. Sergio wonders if it was the awful flirting between two men or the lack of girl that did it for him.
But the girl doesn’t come out from the back door yet, so he assumes she’s on break now, or using the remainder of her hidden time to do fuck all. Time fraud doesn’t matter to him that much anyway, he’s too busy eyefucking the barista in front of him.
He’s quiet, is one thing Sergio notices. His energy earlier quickly took Sergio for a ride, but it is eight at night, and his reserved attitude reflects the nature of the time. Maybe he just wanted to confirm Sergio’s gay too, just to eyefuck him back.
Like a peacock, Sergio puffs up.
“Did you know that guy?”
Face framing locks are tucked behind an ear, and the barista looks up from behind the steel machine separating them, “Hmm?”
“The guy with the red bag. She hid as soon as he appeared.” Squinting at the nametag plated on a beige apron, a wave of frustration rolls over Sergio’s head when he can’t fucking read it.
Ugh, American cursive. Looks like a child did it. The pink is too much, and it strains behind the beige so much that Sergio considers it could induce a headache if he was feeling worse.
“Uh, yes.” Sergio lifts a brow, prompting for more. He didn't take the barista for a gossip girl. Regardless he continues, “My coworker doesn’t like him. Good thing you were here.”
“Yeah?” Praise! That’s praise. Not exactly the way Sergio would want it – he wants something more like ‘you’re smart, aren’t you? Noticing that, protecting us? Cute. You're so hot by the way.’ – but he got it anyway. He’ll take it.
“Yeah,” barista boy bites his lower lip, and shit, his teeth. Cute. Everything’s cute about him. Sergio’s stomach stirs. “He’s been getting used to me, but I think your height scared him off.”
The honesty makes Sergio bark out a laugh, “Ah, really? Glad I’m here tonight then… uh…” He makes an act out of trying to mouth the words on his name tag.
“Luka.”
“Luka,” all teeth in his newly forming smile. All 32. Luka. Luuu-ka. Yeah, that’s a moanable name. Sergio can see his night clearly: some unfortunate hours of studying, and a good thirty minutes of moaning that two syllable name until he comes and falls asleep.
“And you?”
“Sergio.” He responds after a slight pause. It’s instinct to say his last name, so used to being called it on the field after all. But he doesn’t want to introduce himself to the cute barista as Ramos, fuck, what type of first name is that? Actually, he prays for a moment that Luka is his first name, because he wouldn’t want to hump his pillow to a guy’s last name. That’s not attractive.
“Sergio?” His accent. The way he says it. Luka speaks like a cunning little fox with the face of a pure, sweet bunny. Sergio wants him as much as he wants all the trophies and medals in the world. Luka would be his favorite. “Is that really your name?”
“You don’t believe me?” Teases, peering over the machine now that he’s gained enough confidence to do so. Luka’s engaging in him right now, so it must not be weird to just… stare at him making his drink, yeah? “Why not?”
“You stuttered.”
“That,” he breathes, following Luka’s slender fingers as he slowly finishes Sergio’s drink. He needs to hurry up, make his move. “That’s because I use my last name, usually.”
“Any reason?” Luka peers up and nods, immediately returning to lidding the drink. He’s bold and blunt, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy eye contact all that much. That’s okay, Sergio will find a way to make him look at him.
“I play sports.”
“Ah.” That explains it.
Luka motions for Sergio to follow him on the opposite side of the counter, back to the register, so he dutifully returns to the position and waits as Luka places a sleeve on his drink. It hides the logo of the cafe, which is shitty advertising in Sergio’s opinion because the sleeve doesn’t have any logo on it, so how will someone know that his yummy coffee is the one from the library and they must go get it? The drink is totally finished, all steps completed and Luka even threw in a stopper to plug the lid but he still isn’t passing it over. Sergio’s hand hovers awkwardly at the ledge of the counter, wondering if he has to reach over for it himself.
Surely not.
“Do you think I should get a name tag like yours?” He quips, because he’s not ready for the conversation to end yet. Luka looks relieved, like he was waiting for Sergio to go on. He places the latte between them, but none of them make any more to end this just yet.
“Might be unreadable,” Luka’s lips twitch into a smile as he glances down to nudge at his own, “Not sure if you want that.”
Sergio almost wants to giggle. There’s perfect chemistry between them. Luka’s cute, small, with a sarcastic and dry flair to him. It’s very American of him, but yet, his accent says otherwise. It’s hot, he’s hot. Sergio lets out a chuckle instead, because giggling is probably a turn-off for Luka. He’s trying to appear as a dreamboy – acting like a giggly young teenager would just shatter the image entirely. “Be honest… Did you write that?” he asks, pointing his finger to the illegible menu board above them.
Luka giggles. Fuck everything he’s ever said.
“I can barely read it!” And the boy laughs some more. Fives across the board, Sergio. Patting himself on the back, he continues, “Ah, but seriously, Luka. Is that your handwriting?”
“My coworker,” lips quivering at Luka’s failed attempts to stop laughing, Sergio nods to give Luka time. He worries that if he says something else, Luka might just laugh again. Which, not a bad thing, but. You know. He wants an answer, actually. But he appreciates Luka’s nonchalant act crumbling to pieces in front of him. “I write much better than that.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll show you.” Luka picks up the cup between them, hides the cup against his stomach at an angle. It blocks Sergio’s line of sight, and if this night went worse, he would be concerned that the barista was actively attempting to spit in his drink. He barely sees a marker in between Luka’s nimble fingers, but it’s hard to make out what exactly he’s doing.
“What did you do?” Because there’s nothing different when he puts it back down, this time right in Sergio's reach. Luka lifts his shoulders, and Sergio pouts because he thinks he’s been allowed to.
Also, he thinks Luka might like it. Luka’s eyes flash down to his lips, and yea, he’s ninety-nine percent sure he was right.
“You’ll see.”
It feels like a natural ending to their conversation, and as much as Sergio wants to cling onto this, it’s been twenty minutes. The library closes at midnight, and he really is hoping for at least two hours of studying, maybe three now that he feels motivated to. Pistachio flavoring hits his taste buds, and he lets out a dramatic ‘ahh’ after his first swallow. Luka hides his smile behind his sleeve as Sergio lifts his cup to salute him, turning away towards the library doors.
Once he’s inside, out of line of sight for Luka – presumably, unless he has eyes everywhere, – Sergio peeks down at his latte. Looks plain, logo hidden once more by the sleeve. He peels the sleeve off, and a grin etches over his face when he sees a familiar format encompassing the sleeve from the inside:
(XXX)-XXX-XXXX. – Luka
Goal.
As he walks to an empty desk, Sergio whips out his phone and struggles to text with one hand, too impatient to set all of his stuff down. He's raising the chance he spills everything and ruins library study night, but he doesn’t care, because he truly won tonight.
you: Hey
His fingers hover over his screen – should he introduce himself? It’s a little obvious though, no? Whose unknown number is texting Luka right after having a chat with him at… 8:30 p.m.? Sergio opts not to.
you: Doing anything tomorrow?
It’s a few minutes until Luka responds, and Sergio fills up the time by getting himself sorted. Bag on the floor, laptop and notebooks stretched over spruce, a vibration from his phone chimes and alerts him that yes, his new contact saved texted him back.
Unknown: depends.
Contact name updated.
Lukita is typing…
Lukita: i’m free after six. long shift tomorrow.
you: I can do that
Lukita: surprised you were able to read my message.
Lukita: yknow. seeing as how hard my coworker’s handwriting was for your little head.
Hah! Okay. He’s feisty even through the screen.
you: When I put my mind to something, anything is possible
you: besides your handwriting is pretty neat anyway
Lukita: i’m blushing.
Lukita: you said anything?
you: Anything
Lukita: see you at eight?
Sergio drops his phone out of excitement. Yes. Yeah, eight is perfect. Eight gives him enough time to study, take that stupid exam at two, do some practice drills during off season, and have enough time for an everything shower right after. Yeah. Anything really is possible. There’s a small echo on the first floor because of his phone, but he doesn’t care. Nobody else seems to either, but that’s mostly because there’s only a handful of other people here and he’s pretty sure they’re blasting torture lectures or rave music in their headphones just to stay pushing now. Hm. They should’ve all gotten pistachio lattes from a cute barista boy who makes the best drinks.
you: See you then
And, because he’s stupid, because he wants to get the message across,
you: Nuts
Lukita: nuts