Archive of Our Own

From: [email protected]

Subject: New Playlist Rotation Rollout [REMINDER]

To: [email protected]

Wemmbu shuts off his screen with a click and a groan.

“Egg,” he drawls, rocking the straw holder back and forth with one hand. “Did you get that reminder email about a playlist something too?”

“The first one? Yeah,” Egg’s voice rings out by the display case. There’s a faint buttery, chocolate scent from the croissants on the baking tray next to him. “Not the reminder though, bro. Y’know I’m a law abiding citizen at heart.”

Wemmbu rolls his eyes. “What law is there to abide by if it's an optional contribution, dude.”

“The ‘being a good employee and contributing to the cause’ law maybe? I don’t know man, it gets crazy around here,” Egg shrugs, then gestures toward him. “Can you also count the till?”

“Already did,” Wemmbu answers, sluggy. “Bro, do you think I should skip my cinema lecture today? My lab report is killing me and I don’t think I can take another black and white silent film analysis while I’m at it.”

“Nah, but you can definitely stop rocking that straw holder though, brother.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Dunno,” Egg says. Slides the case shut and eyes him on the way to the back. “Maybe the fact it’s like, two millimeters away from dropping to the floor?”

As if on cue, the container droops forward, tilting all the way to the other side. Wemmbu scrambles over and snags it just before it fully tips down. From the back, he can hear Egg’s stupid, snorty breathy laugh ringing out like a morning alarm.

Jinxer, Wemmbu thinks desolately, dragging the container back to the register and letting it sit there. Briefly, he contemplates just going fuck it and wiggle the thing back and forth again, more out of spite than anything. But then Egg reappears from the prep area, still giggling anyhow, and Wemmbu decides that it’s not worth the humiliation anymore. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Egg chimes up. Wemmbu holds back a scowl. What’s this guy’s deal?

“Yeah?” He says instead, turning around. “What am I thinking?”

“Like how I’m kinda tuff?” Egg offers, grinning when it earns a huff out of Wemmbu and moving past him to set down the syrup flavors. “Real shot though, you’re probably thinking something like I jinxed that container to drop.”

“Ew,” shudders Wemmbu, because however the hell he read that is weirdly beyond him. He snatches two bottles out of Egg’s hands and places them by their labels. “You’re a freak, bro.”

“So I’m right?” Egg asks knowingly.

“Uh, never said that,” but his shoulders slump wordlessly and he takes the rest of the syrups passed to him without much of a fight anyway; he doubts there’s any leftover tells to see these days, they’ve known each other for too long already. “Did you dial in the espresso or do I have to do it again?”

When Egg doesn’t reply, he turns around to stab a finger in his apron. Egg just dubs him funnily and Wemmbu already knows the answer. Infuriatingly enough.

“So no,” sighs Wemmbu as he wipes his hands with the towel, walking toward the machines. “Y’know you’re fully capable of doing it, right? We both got trained for that.”

Egg hums absentmindedly, ducking into some row of cabinets that Wemmbu can’t spot from this angle. There’s a rustle of plastic lids and paper cups following his wake, he hears them more than he sees them, the sounds of things being arranged in the boxes near the pick up station. At some point, his timer goes off and he pulls the cup out, looking surprisingly well-dialed. A quick tasting proves it too, not too harsh or under extracted. It’s good, and a first attempt.

Wemmbu pulls out a stick-it note from the side, penning everything down. As he’s finishing up, Egg wanders in again and pats him on the back.

“Good work, bro,” Egg peers over, looking at the note. He’s about halfway through walking off until he backtracks, head turned and a finger gestured at the fish pattern on the pen’s grip section. 

“Dude,” the enunciation is slow, Wemmbu can only grins as Egg grits out the next few words: “Is that my pen?”

“Maybe?” Wemmbu snorts. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Brother,” Egg peels away from the mini milk fridge, sounding more exasperated than surprised. “I literally had a whole complaint session the other day about how I thought I lost it when we walked to the library.”

“It’s a nice pen,” Wemmbu says, amused.

“Yo, you’re actually evil,” Egg shoots back. The fight drains out of him in real time as he sidesteps Wemmbu and plucks the pen back to his apron’s pocket. “If you want it so bad, we can visit the stationary store after the shift’s over.”

That might be a good idea, Wemmbu considers minutely, he does like the pen anyway. But he’s too deep in the bit right now to climb back out.

“Nah,” he dismisses, “I just wanted to see how long it’d take for you to realize.”

Egg rolls his eyes. “Something is actually wrong with you.”

“Or so I’ve heard,” Wemmbu waves. Tapes the yellow note on the machine and continues. “Also it took you, like, four shifts, by the way. I had it clipped next to the sticky notes the entire time, dude.”

“Well, I don’t dial in espresso, I wouldn’t know, and you take the pen after anyway.”

“So you should be dialing in espresso is what I’m hearing?” Wemmbu asks, the corner of his lips lifts. “‘Cause like, you really could’ve seen it earlier had you just done it anytime these days.”

“And you could be restocking pastries too but you never do,” comes the retort, Egg twisting somewhere out of view and reemerging with stacks of new napkins.

Wemmbu groans. Touché. He likes the pastries, sure. They’re tasty enough for him to snuff some out in the guise of damaged goods, but they’re also too hard to display properly. All the meringue cakes feel like a fall hazard, and slipping a mousse cake’s plate into place gives him more stress than the university’s mid-morning rush combined. The rest are fine, but he’d rather not go through the trouble at all if he—if Egg—can help it. 

“Yeah, well— fair enough, I guess.”

“Plus, bro,” Egg wiggles a croissant at him, still crisp and hot from the oven, held steadily in a napkin. “Who’s gonna slip you a fresh dessert if not me?”

Wemmbu shrugs and takes it in stride. He leans back and pours the milk cup he’s already prepped into the espresso, swirls it once then twice before handing it over to Egg’s hand like a trade off.

Snarky as they both get, Egg always did know how to read him best. He’s been with Wemmbu through most of their university days by now, the one person he’s floated from friend group to friend group with. Egg might as well be the closest to home for him, different majors and dorms and outlooks that set them apart aside, he’s still an anchor to his ship, seen and been through the same tidal he swam through.

Grateful might be the word he’s jogging for. It tastes and sounds right, the way the buttery sweet chocolate settles on his tongue. Wemmbu watches as Egg saddles up to his side, stopping there and idly sipping on his drink, and yeah. He can be grateful. He thinks he’s grateful for him if not—if above all else.

“Besides,” Egg starts. “My coffee is never bitter when you make it. You get me?”

Wemmbu looks at him, then back at the croissant in his hand. It’s not the best looking croissant around, nor is it in any capacity impressive, but it’s sweet. Chocolate-filled to the brim and messy splotches of whipped cream sort of sweet, impossible to have otherwise unless being tailored for him by his best friend.

“Yeah, I getchu,” Wemmbu munches on another bite. He does, may never say it fully but he does, because there’s nowhere in the world that knows his obscure pastry preference the way Egg knows it. “Probably.”

Ring. Ring.

“—Rejoice, bro. I told you they’re not open yet.”

“What? No way! I come here before opening all the time, Egg gave me free exclusive permission to do that because we’re both getting sniped in the fiction workshop.”

“What?” Jaden bewilders, to which Rejoice only waves at him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Wemmbu draws back from where he’s leaning and props an eyebrow at Egg, gesturing toward where Rejoice is standing and the so-called torture. Egg only gives a sparing look back, one hand doing a neck cutting motion, before he stretches straighter too.

What the hell is going on in those workshops? Wemmbu thinks bemusedly, just as Rejoice’s voice cuts by again.

“—You don’t wanna know,” he assures, somehow horror-stricken and cheery all at once. Jaden just looks puzzled beyond his mind, Wemmbu can relate. Humanities majors always seem like they’re off the kiter every other day but so full of soul at the same time, or at least on occasions. It’s off-putting and kinda not? A strange kind of funny maybe. He doubts he can say anything though considering he’s in engineering of all the stereotypes.

“Yo,” Wemmbu calls out just as Egg picks himself up to the counter by his right. “Morning.”

“Good morning!” Rejoice beams, dragging Jaden up to the register in an awkward jog. A sight way more amusing than Wemmbu believes it’d be, like a windswept rope being swayed out of the shade and into the sun.

“Morning,” Jaden follows up curtly, nodding at him and Egg. “Before you say anything, I’m here for his behalf more than my own.”

“Yeah I was like, hella confused seeing you pull up this early, bro,” Egg says for them both. Jaden has always been more of an afternoon shift customer, By the time he’s coming in for a pastry or a drink, he and Egg are either ten-something minutes from clocking out, or are already outside and caught him halfway to the shop. 

Rejoice smiles sheepishly. “It’s kinda my doing,” he admits. “He wanted to thank me for my help with some of his stuff the other day so I figured your cafe works.”

“He just wanted free food, by the way,” Jaden clarifies, unimpressed.

“Who wouldn’t? Tell me you wouldn’t,” Rejoice dares. 

“No, yeah,” Wemmbu butts in. “I would ask for free food, too. I mean covering a meal and all in this economy? That’s like a free win, bro.”

“And he still owes me one more favor,” Rejoice adds. This time, it’s Jaden whose expression turns unreadable. Wemmbu regards him briefly, but all he gives is a so-so okay motion. It’s fine, Jaden’s basically saying. Wemmbu pushes his shoulders up in response. If you say so.

A lighter tone. “Just, uh, personal stuff is all. Stuff we had to sort out,” Jaden offers, shrugging. 

“Like how you and I did back then after that whole ordeal?” Wemmbu snorts.

“Something like that, yeah,” comes the reply before he moves on, pointing at the display case and signaling Rejoice, who’s way too engrossed in the chrysanthemum by the pick up station. “What did you say you wanted again?”

“Oh!” Rejoice blinks, immediately attentive. “The lemon meringue pie. Just one slice,” he walks back to the glass arrays, drags a hand toward a box of creampuffs. “Plus those! They look kinda like cannonballs, don’t you think? Like round and stuff and they fit with your whole pirate merch motif.”

Jaden huffs out a laugh. “I mean, I guess?”

“Ohhkay,” Wemmbu taps the register while Egg scurries off. “Anything else?”

“Nope!” Rejoice exclaims, before a draft of mango breezes by. “Oh! Wait—“

By the time Rejoice and Jaden struts out the front of the shop holding their pastries and (surprisingly) drinks, Wemmbu has already retreated to one of the far side tables with his croissant and Egg close on his tail. There’s four new notifications on his lockscreen when he opens it to check the time: three thank-you texts from Rejoice, one from Jaden. Twenty minutes before opening—ding—six notifications, one message from Egg.

“Did you really just text me while I’m in front of you?” Wemmbu asks over the top of his phone.

“Perhaps, mayhaps. I dunno,” Egg says after a sip. “Depends on who’s asking?”

What’s this guy’s deal? Wemmbu internally complains, then outwardly rolls his eyes. He supposes he did say that earlier, a tad too smugly as well, so it’s only fair game if it gets thrown back at him in the same manner. Still, it’s a special privilege only Egg has, recycling and recreating stuff Wemmbu’s already said or done, just with his own renditions over the gaps as if they’re some inside jokes. He doubts, or well, knows, knows he wouldn’t let most get one on him like he would with Egg.

The concept of a best friend is strange, the concept of a childhood best friend is even stranger. Pick someone one day, keep choosing them through pre-teen, through adolescence then continue through adulthood and onwards. And they choose you back, again and again; because you keep choosing them and they keep choosing you back. Back and forth, back and forth, like a—

“That poor straw holder bro,” Egg leans on his hand. “Did you drag it over here just to rock it again, dude?”

“Whoops,” Wemmbu blanks, not even abashed. He lets it droop dangerously one more time just for fun, before standing up and placing it back by the cash machine. “I didn’t even realize I had that. Actually, no, why didn't you tell me?”

“You seemed distracted,” Egg motions at his phone. “Is the song picking that bad?”

Yes, Wemmbu wants to say for a second. Because there’s no songs that come to his head immediately when he thinks, and his playlist is just one big liked songs gallery with at least twenty million things combined all at once. Scrolling through months, years of songs like that is hell incarnate. Unless there’s already another playlist he already has, maybe. Maybe the one where Egg and he shares and puts in songs sometimes for the sake of it ever since high school because they thought why not? That one would probably– oh.

Wemmbu fumbles to unlock his screen the second he sits down. So crazily rushed that even Egg reels back a bit in his seat.

“Yo, chill,” he hears him say over the soft coffee scent, voice light. “Did you have an epiphany or something?”

“Please don’t say that to me ever again,” Wemmbu shrivels away, clicking into a photo cover that’s clearly too old for its own good, “But yeah, something like that.”

Another strange thing about having a best friend is this, Wemmbu realizes. Stupid little things they do ages ago eventually cycling back to them. Everything leads back to where it all started as if it’s the earth itself, because going from one point to another on a globe means you’ll meet, choose, and come back again, for however long the course runs.

It’s horribly stupid, Wemmbu bites away the last of his croissant, letting the chocolate spills, coats his tongue like a second skin, that someone would stay for so long and would consider staying for more.

“You good?” Egg asks some long minutes later, after he’s already put his phone down and crunches the napkin.

The alarm on his phone goes off, their twenty minute reprieve before the morning shift marks final. 

Wemmbu clicks the yellow stop button and watches it fade, just briefly before another reminder comes up—scheduled to repeat tomorrow at 6:00 A.M.

The earth spins and spins. Seasons always change back to what they once were eventually. Through it all, they’re still each other's initial points, meant to bounce back, waves to sand, winds to leaves. 

Because they’re best friends, aren’t they? 

And Egg, for all of his parts, has always been there when that matters.

“Happy friendship anniversary, Wemmbu.”

And Wemmbu, iron-clad as he gets, has always read those same time next year? messages with anything but salt on his tongue.

“Happy friendship anniversary, Egg.”