Work Text:
Working at the coffee shop was something Scar liked.
He hadn’t been at it very long, of course. He’d just moved to the city earlier that year, and the little cafe at the corner of the street had been hiring. Scar had put his application in on a whim, not really expecting anything to come of it, but he’d been called back a week later. And wouldn’t you know it? They liked his “people skills”, whatever that meant, and he’d started work the very next day.
That had been a month or so ago. It took him a bit to get the hang out the shop, but he’d settled into a nice rhythm. Scar had gotten pretty good at making the complicated coffees customers ordered, pretty good at working all the machines required for doing that. Plus, he’d gotten to know his coworkers decently, and he actually liked them.
Mumbo was one of them, a tall man sporting an impressive mustache. He didn’t like to work the register, (too many people, he said), so he mostly stayed in the back, making the drinks and delivering them to Scar to call out. Cub was another worker, but he was only there part time and was mostly a floater; he worked wherever he was needed that day. Even so, like Mumbo, he also tried to avoid the register.
Honestly, if he did say so himself, Scar thought he was a perfect fit. He enjoyed chatting with customers, enjoyed speaking with them as they came up to the counter, so he felt right at home in the register. And he could tell that the customers liked his banter, too; they smiled and laughed, a sharp contrast to their mundane, bored expressions whenever Cub worked.
Scar tried not to brag about that too much. He was good with people; so what? Cub and Mumbo were amazing at other things that Scar could only dream of.
Even so, it was difficult for him not to enjoy his job a little too much. The only problem was that currently, he was standing at the counter, leaning against it lazily. It was about noon, and it had been a slow day; hardly anybody had come in, which could make his job a little boring.
Part of that was due to the weather. It was raining hard outside, and that was a deterrent to walking the streets, so business was always slower on days like these. There were only a few people in the shop at all, and most of them were elderly, quiet, and not in the mood to talk.
Scar was supremely bored at all the quiet. He liked the hustle and bustle of things, liked it when the shop was very full, because there was less time to just sit around. As it was, he could have heard a pindrop on the dirty ground, if someone had had a pin, and if they felt like dropping it.
Because of this, it was immediately noticeable when someone came in. When the bell above the door rang and it whipped open, Scar’s gaze snapped to the entrance to see…an avian.
Scar blinked, straightening up. He’d never seen this man in the shop before, and typically they got a lot of regulars. He had vibrant, colourful wings that were twisted from the weather, and he was wearing a puffy red sweater dotted with rain.
He stayed by the door for a moment, his gaze roaming across the shop as he took it all in. Scar shifted, suddenly nervous, not quite sure why.
The avian ran his hands absentmindedly down his clothes, clearing off dirt, or perhaps trying to dry it. After a moment, his eyes landed on the counter, and he made his way easily over.
Scar swallowed, looking behind him to see if Mumbo or Cub had caught attention of the new customer. Neither of them seemed to notice.
Scar took a deep breath and turned back to the man. “Hi there!” He tried to think of something to say, something that might strike a small conversation. “Bad weather today, huh?”
The avian blinked at him. His face was entirely disinterested. “Yeah,” he said, blandly.
Scar blinked right back. That was…huh. “Um…so how are you today?”
The question was met with a huff. “I’m fine, alright? Can I just order?”
Scar opened and closed his mouth at the rudeness. What? But normally customers liked chatting with him. “I–uh–sure,” he managed, not quite knowing why he was stumbling over his words so much.
The man rolled his eyes. “I’ll have an iced coffee. Caramel, please. Medium.”
Scar began absently typing the order in, but then stilled. “Ah, it’s so cold out,” he said. “You’re going to freeze!”
It was supposed to be a joke (Scar happened to have just enjoyed an iced coffee himself) but the avian’s nostrils flared. “Listen, Scar,” he said, reading his name-tag with a certain amount of sneer to it. “Can you just let me get what I want?”
Scar gaped. “I–sorry,” he said after a moment, his face burning. He finished typing the order and turned the screen to show the man his total. “$6.78.”
Huffing, the avian produced his wallet and slid a ten across. Scar made quick work of the change. “Can I get a name for the order?” he asked, hesitantly, unsure if the man would be annoyed by that.
He sighed through his nose, but said, “Green.”
Scar blinked. Before he could stop himself, he said, “That’s an odd name.”
Green’s mouth dropped open. “Jeez, are you always this rude?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and fled.
Scar sputtered, calling out to him, but the avian didn’t respond. He just sat at a booth as far from the counter as possible.
Scar stuck his tongue out, going to deliver the order to Mumbo. “Did you see that? That customer is so insufferable!”
Mumbo lifted his gaze from the drink he was making. “Maybe he just didn’t want to talk.”
Scar huffed. “Well, he should learn some manners.”
“You made fun of this name.”
“‘Green’ is not a real name!”
“This coming from a guy named Scar.”
Scar opened and closed his mouth, then rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he snapped, heading back to the counter.
It took a few moments for Mumbo to finish the drink, coming over and passing it off to Scar. Scar took it and examined it for a moment, then called out, “Green!”
The avian’s head perked up, but then a confused expression crossed over his face. He looked around the shop for a moment, but no one else was moving, and after a moment he stood and made his way over. “Do you mean me?” he asked, looking at Scar like he was insane.
Scar blinked. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
“Um…no,” he said. He was smirking, something like amusement building in his eyes. “My name is Grian. Not Green.”
Scar opened his mouth to argue, but–“That…makes much more sense.”
Grian tossed his head back, laughing loudly, and Scar bristled. “It’s not my fault! I’m dyslexic!”
“That has literally nothing to do with hearing,” Grian snapped back, still giggling to himself.
Scar flushed as the noise drew the attention of the other customers in the shop, however few there were. “Shut up,” he grumbled. “It isn’t that funny.”
Grian was still chuckling. “It’s pretty funny,” he said.
Scar rolled his eyes, fighting to regain some semblance of his composure. “Whatever. Take your stupid drink, Grian.”
He hummed and reached out to grab it. “Thanks, Scar.” He took it back to his seat.
Scar stayed at the counter for a few moments longer, then pretended to need something from the back. He hurried over to Mumbo again.
“I heard,” Mumbo said before Scar could even explain his troubles. He, too, was sporting an amused smile.
“Oh my gosh, you hate me,” Scar grumbled, putting his head in his hands. “This is so dumb. I’m quitting.”
“Better not,” Mumbo threatened. “Then I have to work the counter, and I mess up a hundred more times than you do.” His face softened a moment later. “That Grian is probably just not that good at small talk.”
Scar scrunched his nose. “Well, I hope he never comes back.”
********
He came back the next day.
Scar tried not to be so annoyed at this, tried to smile politely and kindly and not call him by the wrong name, because of course he wouldn’t do that, he was a good little barista. And of course he didn’t glare daggers at him as he sat at the booth closest to the counter and teased Scar throughout his entire shift.
No, of course not. Because that wouldn’t be very nice.
And Scar certainly didn’t openly and loudly complain to Mumbo about him, knowing full well his words were punctuated enough to be heard by Grian. And Grian certainly didn’t smirk at every single one of them.
And this didn’t trigger Grian to stop by the shop every single day on his way to work, which didn’t trigger Scar to find new and weird ways to call out his name just to annoy him.
“Grain!” he said, this latest time, about a week later. He stretched out the word into an almost sing-song thing, so it sounded like Graaaaaain!
The avian came bounding up the counter, a pointedly annoyed expression on his face. “You’re so dumb,” he told Scar in a grumble, snatching the drink from him.
“Hmm.” Scar grinned, wide and mischievous. “And that’s why we’re friends.”
The moment it came out of his mouth, he greeted it, freezing at his own words. He and Grian stared at each other, eyes wide, and immediately Scar tried to backtrack.
“Uh, sorry, that’s not–I didn’t–”
“We’re not friends for that,” Grian cut in. His face was serious, and Scar stopped midsentence.
“Right,” he whispered, feeling stupid. “Sorry I–”
“We’re friends because I like you,” Grian continued.
They looked at each other. Scar opened and closed his mouth. “We’re…friends?”
Grian smiled at him. “Why else do you think I keep coming back?”
He turned and went back to his seat before Scar could answer.
And that was how it happened. Something as simple as that budded into something as profound as friendship. It was strange how something so intimate can build from one chance occurrence, one choice to visit a shop in the middle of the pouring rain. It was kind of wonderful, in a way, kind of beautiful.
(Of course, Scar didn’t stop mispronouncing his name, and Grian didn’t stop annoying him.
Some friendships only went so far.)