#'we go by tall grande and venti here.../most/ people know that.' (do I look like most people?) 'absolutely not <3'

[bumblingbabooshka]

St Voyager - Ex Post Facto “Maybe I kill myself slowly because I don’t have the courage to do it all at once.”

#I love when Tuvok & Janeway stare silently at each other as a response to something #I also love how the dog in this episode is just a regular earth dog that they call a dog #the only thing remotely 'alien' about it is that its hair is a little wild HEHEH they didnt even try #at least give it a silly name~!!! #'This is a yarnool.' (it looks really similar to a dog) 'I know not what a d o g is! how curious!' #very fun episode I love the noir vibes and the design of the apartment #tuvok saying 'it's rare to find someone as dispassionate as we(vulcans) are' absolutely a dig....and her 'I bet she's a FINE dispassionate #woman :)' ....I liked their interaction #it reminded me of that tiktok audio #'we go by tall grande and venti here.../most/ people know that.' (do I look like most people?) 'absolutely not <3' #the quote is actually 'maybe I kill myself slowly because I dont have the courage to do it quickly' but I don't like slowly-quickly #it sounds too samey #Harry isn't in this episode as much as these screenshots might suggest but I like him so he is here #He has a weirdly stoic energy in this one but I assume it comes from uhhhm.....worry or anger or something idk #it's stressful #st voyager #ex post facto #star trek #episode scrapbook #the way harry & tom stare at her with SUCH confusion after she feeds her dog meat is so funny to me #WHAT is the emotion of that scene??? <- guy who's bad with things like that #it's david lynch levels of incomprehensible to me but I like that <3

[telestoapologist]

Mara: Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get for you? A pink drink? Clovis: Hm. Is that your idea of being funny? Mara, subtly smug: What are you going to get, then? Clovis: … Clovis, folding his arms bitterly: A pink drink. Mara: Hm~. What size? Clovis: A medium. Mara: Mm-mm. I don't know what that is. Clovis, obviously tested as he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose: Unbelievable. It's between a small and a lar- Mara, putting her finger to his mouth: Ssh. Mm-mm, no. We go by tall, grande, and venti here. Most people know that. Clovis, scoffing: Do I look like most people, dear? Mara: (soft, amused huff) Absolutely not. Clovis: Hm. That was a little condescending, wouldn't you agree? Mara: Was it? Clovis: Obviously! Mara: Wonderful. (silence) Mara: Can I get a name for your order?

#incorrect destiny quotes #destiny 2 #season of the seraph #mara sov #clovis bray #metal mesh and human flesh‚ put it to the test! #remembered this vid AND mara and clovis's dynamic in seraph and was suddenly like. oh my god what if #keep boycotting starbucks btw. dont let this motivate u sfgfds

[mythvoiced]

-. wenzhe-core (pt. 4 tbh pt. 4 was gonna be qianru-centric but i'm moving it to pt.5)

really disappointed if the 'jason derulo' or pitbull yell is missing from the song, he will go :O >:|

one of the taller muses on this blog (excluding muses like nathaniel & hermes who are Tall™ to make them a lil Uncanny; Hermes is the tallest muse btw) but wants to be the little spoon So Bad

has absolutely broken a pair of glasses by sitting on them

if he takes a really, really deep breath and just sort of holds it with an unreadable expression then he's very much counting to ten in his head

can't do the thing where you wet your fingers to flip a page better because if his wet finger comes in contact with anything papery he'll do a full body visceral shudder

pray that he never accidentally drop his ice cream he's not mentally built to go through that and i am not even joking oh my god

there's a good chance he'll cry or sort of dissociate due to the ferocity of his reaction if you kiss his forehead

his whole thing is mostly Very Casual & Relaxed & Assertive on the outside but so i so close to spiraling at all times

phone always on at night, notifications always on, if you call him in the middle of the night he will pick up

the babygirlification of xu wenzhe

he's that tiktok of the guy bemoaning the fact that he's 6'3 but wants to be dainty and babied

'who's that pokemon?' 'IT'S PIKACHU' 'it's clefairy!' 'FUUCK'

if he's muttering classic vines under his breath that's fine don't worry he's all right just wenzhe in his natural habitat

absolutely genuinely and in all seriousness: what the hell is eurovision, do they... do they look at? at the world from an european angle?? i'm-?? it's colonialism and the roman catholic church, babes, what is there to look at

NO it's frankenstein's MONSTER, the SCIENTIST is frankenstein, that's NOT THE MONSTER'S NAME--

you will NEVER... NEVER catch this man(?) confessing his feelings to someone

in response to the question 'what are your pronouns': why what are you saying about me

will pronounce things wrong with his whole entire chest

pretty much anti-discovering anything new about himself

a few 'Oh That's Very Wenzhe' shots of his manga fc: here, here, here

born to "haiii uwu <33" forced to "yo wsg"

would you still love me if i was a worm

what? no, it's not neurodivergency i'm just quite literally The Worst Person To Ever Exist

a few more 'Oh That's Very Wenzhe' shots of his manga fc: here, here, here

what? no, why would i go home? i'm perfectly fine, i don't get sick- (nasal voice, half-hunched-over, sweaty, wheezes after having taken only two steps, hallucinated two separate cats out of the corner of his eye)

smart kid highschool wenzhe voice: copying my homework costs two weeks of snacks, copying from tests can go up to a month of snacks-

someone: gosh he's so tall and he looks so cool and mysterious i wonder what he's thinking about; wenzhe's brain: hi- hi- welcome to starbucks, what can i get for you, a pink drink? hm, is that your idea of being funny? what're you gonna get then? ... a pink drink. hm~ what size? a medium. mm-mm, i don't know what that is. it's like between a small and a larg- ssh, mm-mm, no; we go by tall, grande, and venti here? most people know that. oh, do i look like most people, sweetheart? absolutely not. hm, that was a little condescending, don't you think? was it? yeah. cool! ... can i get a name for your order?

#;ooc #the guilty;about #IT NEVER ENDS that yu qianru centric one i will also post at one point sooner or later #thank you for indulging me and this malewife failgirl #i put this in the queue bc i ran out of posts omg #;queue

[klanced]

at coranbucks.

hunk: hi :)

lotor: hi :)

hunk: welcome to coranbucks, what can i get for you? a pink drink?

lotor: mm. is that your idea of being funny?

hunk: what are you gonna get then? :)

lotor: ... a pink drink

hunk: mhm. what size?

lotor: a medium

hunk: mm-mm. i don’t know what that is

lotor: it’s like, between a small and a large

hunk: shhhh. mm-mm. no. we go by tall, grande, and venti here. most people know that

lotor: awww. do i look like most people, sweetheart?

hunk: absolutely not <3

lotor: hmm. that was a little condescending, don’t you think?

hunk: was it?

lotor: yeah

hunk: cool :) can i get a name for your order?

#voltron #hunk #lotor #i think hunk should be allowed to be toxic. like i think he's earned the right and privilege to sneer. #shitpost

[multi-maker]

— barbatos

everyone seems to forget that he was still an archon - he survived the dreadful archon war and has slain gods after gods, destroyed cities after cities.

so when his old enemy rises, and the snow of dragonspine falls on mondstadt, venti sheds his bard persona and he summons his golden war bow he hasn’t wielded in decades.

when durin rises, barbatos does as well.

note. i like to think of venti being powerful and only letting the cryo archon get her way - i refuse to think he’s weak - he’s literally one of the original archons, and mondstadt is huge as well. that means venti has fought gods over dominance in his territory !! so have this ehe~! this can also be part two of my venti beating la signora hehe~ here’s part one!

Mondstadt is burning.

The city is aflame, smoke rising in tall columns as the skies above them darkened. Cries of agony and pleads for help was a hellish symphony in the City of Freedom. The Acting Grand Master with Master Ragnvidr, the Cavalry Captain, Outrider Amber, and the Knights’ very own Honorary Knight stood by the entrance of Mondstadt.

They were losing.

They were spent and tired - Fatigued and wounded so deeply that even Jean could not help them in their wounded state. Their limbs ached, visions burning, and their eyes and throat hurt because of all the smoke around them. Their weapons were drawn but they had no more strength to fight back.

Their enemy was before them, looming and large as the black dragon descended upon Mondstadt once again.

“...We are losing.” Diluc states in a weary voice, ruby eyes streaked with helplessness yet anger as he leans against his claymore. His cloak was long discarded, leaving him in his vest. “State the obvious more, will ya?” Kaeya retorted, but there was no bite in his voice. Diluc merely shoots him a glare for his words.

“M-Master Jean, what do we do?” Paimon’s shrill voice pierced the tense atmosphere as their enemy circled Mondstadt, eyes wide with worry and concern as they help up the Traveler who tried to purify Durin, but was sent crashing on the ground harshly.

For once, the Dandelion Knight had no answer.

“...I have no idea, Paimon.” Jean responded quietly, blue eyes dark with worry and anger as she clutches her sword. “Durin is powerful - an ancient enemy comparable to even Lord Barbatos. It took Dvalin and Lord Barbatos to best him but none of us come close to their power.” Jean explains, heaving. “What do we do? Lord Barbatos is nowhere to be found!” Amber cries out, eyes wide with fear.

Diluc commended the young Outrider for stepping up as their main attacker. Her abilities in gliding far surpassed the Traveler and her bow came in handy. She was young yet full of potential.

Jean was silent, as well as the traveler. They both knew Barbatos was alive and well, prancing around Teyvat since he did not govern his own land. They knew the best course of action was to call for him, for Venti, but how could they when they did not even know where he was?

“The wind shall carry your wishes no matter how far, dear Jean.”

The group freezes at the chime of a voice that seemingly rang all around them, giving them hope, providing them that there may be salvation. They all turned around, seeing the person Mondstadt needed the most.

The Anemo Archon.

Jean could never fanthom how Venti the bard was the Archon she worshipped all her life. He was so playful and cunning, a drunkard at best, and someone who was almost always broke. Yet whenever Mondstadt needed it’s protector, whenever Mondstadt could not fight back, Venti the Bard becomes Barbatos, the Anemo Archon.

And right now, she was not looking at Venti the Bard.

She was looking at Barbatos.

She paid no attention to Amber’s surprised yelps, to Diluc’s “Took you long enough, Bard.”, to Kaeya’s contemplatative hum, nor to the Traveler’s quiet exclamation of their name.

Seeing Venti - Rather, Barbatos in his Archon form was truly mesmerizing. She remembers the first time she saw him, when La Signora threatened Mondstadt and attempted to steal his Gnosis, only to be bested and defeated by Venti after she hurt the Traveler badly.

White wings unfurled from behind him, the teal tips in his hair glowed as his eyes seemingly twinkled. Barbatos floated aimlessly, aquamarine eyes staring at his ancient enemy.

“Ah, what a catastrophe this is. For my old enemy to rise once again, how persistent he really is.” He commented off handedly, as if he did not care that the city behind him was burning.

Jean knew better.

She was an Anemo vision holder so her connection with the wind was better than most. When Venti arrived, Jean felt the winds become harsher and deadlier, whipping around them in a terrifying show of power as his eyes glowed eerily.

He holds his hand out, and the lyre he frequently carries becomes into a golden war bow with aqua accents and a seemingly holy glow to it. The feathers in his wings ruffled at the winds he suddenly summoned as the cecilia’s in his hair danced along the powerful tempest he commanded.

And it was so easy to forget that this same boy before her, eyes glowing eerily and a golden war bow in hand, was the same bard who sung ballads and accepted wine as payment. A cheeky and talented bard who Mondstadt adored. That this boy has slain Gods and buried them underneath Mondstadt soil. That this boy has commanded armies as well, leading Mondstadt to a path of victory during the dreadful Archon War all those years ago.

It was so easy to forget when you knew he drowned alcohol in a terrifying speed, when he slept under tree’s and relied on his songs to profit.

“Rest, my children. For your Archon will not forsake you.” He speaks softly, as he floats even higher. Anemo energy materialized in the air as tall and destructive tornado’s were summoned to his side. “I have heeded your calls and your pleads, and my children will be slaughtered no more.” His voice grew dark and angry, his eyes glinting as he wields a war bow he hasn’t used in decades.

Whenever he joined the traveler in their journey to find their lost sibling, not once has he used this bow. This bow that has slain Gods over territory and safety for his people. He used the bow the Traveler gifted to him, but he knew that bow will not be able to handle his divine power. It will break under his divine power.

“Durin, cease your attacks at once and perhaps I will grant mercy.” He speaks, eyes glinting as the winds around him sharpened, heading for the black dragon. “A fool, Barbatos! You are weak and feeble, I will not have any difficulties in removing you from your place The dragon sneers, but Barbatos merely lets out a laugh that sent shivers down his peoples’ spine.

“Weak and feeble! How foolish, Durin.” He sneers as he loaded his bow with three arrows. “Have you forgotten who sealed you in that cold mountain?” He taunts as his eyes glowed even further, as he regains the power he used to have before he fell into deep slumber. Durin lets out a snarl at the reminded, red eyes glinting mercilessly.

“You have chosen to burn Mondstadt, the freedom my people fought to achieve,” He lowly says, as the winds he used to cut down mountains became even more powerful. “I do not care if you are powerful - I will not let the hardwork of my people go to waste for such insolence,” Barbatos sneers as he pulls his bow.

“You chose to fight me, dear Durin,” Barbatos says in a chime, and the tempest he commanded headed for the black dragon.

“And I choose to make sure you will no longer wake.”

#💫 dawn #genshin impact #genshin impact venti #genshin barbatos #genshin impact scenario #genshin impact barbatos #genshin impact jean #genshin impact diluc #genshin impact amber #genshin diluc #genshin jean #genshin amber #genshin impact traveler

[salami2]

← Chapter 1 →

They Call It Teyvat…

⇥ fem!reader x genshin men ⇤

(n) a homesickness for a home you can’t return to, or that never was.

Synopsis: It felt like a dream when you first arrived to this odd land. No clue on how you got there- let alone leave. Soon enough, you met Paimon and started the journey of finding all the archons of Teyvat. Along the way, you catch the eyes of numerous men… to your demise.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warning(s): Nothing really! Mentions of Venti, Dvalin, dresses, etc.

A/N: ITS FINALLY HERE! I’m sorry, I closed the requests just so I could work on this crap. Anyways this is just pt. 1 to many chapters. Enjoy!! Really though, enjoy!

“Hey… I need you to wake up now. I know it might be hard…”

A thousand voices rang through your mind, getting lost in a sea of voices. The one that called out was different then the rest. Calmer, quieter… more desperate.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake-“

Your mind jolted awake, sweat growing on your forehead and body. What a horrible feeling of waking up to a nightmare, you thought. The voices were still ringing around your mind.

The feel of spikes underneath your fingertips convinced you that this cushioning was not your bed. You came up from the grassy ground, dirt dug deep into your nails.

“I must’ve thought I was clutching my bed sheets..” You thought while scraping away the grim.

But you were right. This in fact was not your bed- nor your bedroom. No. In fact, this was a grassy area in a not too familiar scenery.

It was lushious. Like a calm summer's day. Dew drops on the bright green grass made it almost sparkle in the daylight. And the smell of rain could be smelled. Fresh in the air.

Oh, this was most definitely not your home…

Goodness what were you doing here? Your mind tried to trail back to what you could remember. And you could only think of bits and pieces.

You remembered pitch black; owls howling in the nearby trees. Remembering that you cried asleep.

“Thinking back isn’t going to help me, wherever the hell I am…”

You thought. Inside, you were panicking. This was not your home. It was strange, nothing looked familiar to you. And yet it felt familiar.

This place, this time. It feels too nostalgic for you to say it’s new. To say it’s unfamiliar.

“Oh, my god it looks like I’m stuck in a.. fantasy novel! This scenery is gorgeous.”

It suddenly occurred that you were on a cliff side. You carefully trudged over to the end of the cliff, looking over to see the view. What you could see amazed you..

There were walls. They stood so tall and grand. Peaking over those walls was something to be expected.

It was a city, from the looks of it. Hiding away behind those walls. With even bigger towers and buildings. With windmills! And massive buildings in the back. Maybe they were the important ones.

Wait, what were you doing just standing here like a fool??

There’s civilization out there! And all you could do was gawk like a fish? You embarrassed yourself. Still- that place looked nothing like you’ve ever seen before.

Your first thought was somewhere in Europe. The scenery seemed that way. And from first glance, Germany? Yes. The structures would explain it all!

“heeeeeyy!”

A faint sound ringed from the distance. Coming from the bottom of the cliff. From what you could make out, it was almost like a child.

Children? No, it can’t be. The voice was quite childish, but it couldn’t be. And where they calling out to you?

Suddenly the voice started to grow; louder and louder. Until you could see the face behind the voice.

Whatever it was was tired, screaming, and flying right into you.

Wait-

You fell back with the force from the flying child. The thing fell into your arms, swirls in its eyes and a red bump on its forehead.

It didn’t take long for the thing to wake up, though. Immediately flying up to your confused expression.

“S/O! There you are! Paimon’s been trying to find you everywhere, and this is where you’ve been hiding!?”

It’s face came inches away from your own, huffing in frustration. So far all you could get was that this thing was named Paimon. And it was angry, for some reason.

“I-I’m sorry, Paimon,” you managed to get out, “I just wanted to see the scenery. Y’know?”

She huffed. “And you better be! Now c’mon, I brought you a simple dress for you to wear. Be grateful Paimon is such an amazing companion.”

The flying girl looked proud of herself. Thinking it was stupid of her to be proud of a pointless feat. But then again, she was quite small and frail. You’ll let this slide.

She was right about one thing: you needed to change.

Peering down to your legs, you noticed the attire you were sporting right now. A… hospital gown, from the looks of it.

The fine dress she had picked out for you was decent. Basic and brown with a leather belt. Perfect for being unnoticed. Along with a satchel with simple embroidery. You felt a little worried as to where Paimon might have gotten this from…

“Thanks, Paimon. Uh- should I change here, or?” You asked. She puffed out her cheeks in frustration.

“NO! Are you a savage or something!? Here, Paimon will take you to somewhere remote and then we can go to that city over there. Uhhh, what was it called? Oh yeah, it’s called-“

“Mondstadt. It’s called Mondstadt…”

Rigid bark against your palm went smoothly along the trunk of the tree.

You and your lovely companion, Paimon, had found a spectacle that was still unfamiliar and new. An old statue resting underneath a grand, oak tree: just sitting there while the world went by.

Standing underneath it alone made you feel intimidated. Wondering how the hell a tree could get so big.

“Wow… damn, I wonder how old this girl is..” you said to yourself. “Hey, Paimon? Can you tell me where we are again?”

“Uhhh, Paimon doesn’t know the name. Oh! But Paimon remembers they call this continent Teyvat! That’s about it, though.”

You hummed to yourself.

“Teyvat… wait, a continent? Then that means there’s countries inside of this place. Or whatever this world follows.”

Before you and Paimon left, you had mentioned Mondstadt before she could. Funny- you had never known of that city before and yet the word seemed to fly out of your mouth.

Paimon floated up near your shoulder, looking panicked and scared.

“S/O! I saw something weird in the sky!” She exclaimed, taking a small hand and pointing up towards the clear, blue sky.

You stepped away from the tree to see what she was rambling about.

It was like an instant did the flying green object go by. Leaving you and your floating companion speechless.

“AHHHH- DID YOU SEE THAT!?” Paimon exclaimed while tugging on your sleeve.

You couldn’t help thinking to yourself. “Huh. You don’t see that everyday-“ still in awe at what just happened. “C’mon Paimon! We have to follow whatever that thing is!”

She gasped dramatically. “Follow!? Did you SEE how scary that thing was??”

You rolled your eyes as you stepped up the pace and started jogging. “Paimon, if it is what I think it is; that thing that was in the sky might just be a dragon!”

“AND HOW DOES THAT MAKE IT ANY BETTER!?”

While she groaned in detestment, Paimon quickly trailed behind you. You- being determined to find that dragon- kept running towards the direction it was going.

It took a while, but you stopped in the middle of a thick forest. Hearing grunts of an animal getting louder and louder as you peaked from a nearby tree.

What you saw shocked you; to say the least.

A boy, arms reaching forward near the snout of the dragon. Smoke coming out of its nostrils.

“… Don’t be afraid.” He said, trying to calm the beast.

“… It’s alright now. I’m back.”

You felt something happening crawling on your skin, arms. It was odd. Looking away and at your arms, you finally saw. Eyes widening.

Turquoise veins appeared- running down your arms. Glowing for what seemed like a split second. Soon it stopped. Your veins, disappearing.

The dragon roared. It echoed across the entire forestry. The young boy's arms went to cover himself as the dragon tried to attack.

“Who’s there!?” He called out. The dragon, now enraged, spread its coloured wings and flew off to who knows where. While the boy vanished with a bright light.

The same bright light that you encountered…

“Oh, my god… what the fuck was that?” You were too staggered to mind tongue. Looking back at your arms.

“A-are you ok? Your arms…” Paimon said under her breath.

Ok? Ok wasn’t the word. You were… lost, scared, thunderstruck, worried, anxious, terrified to your wits ends.

But all you said was-

“I remember.”

“So wait, Paimon is confused-“

The day still burned brightly as you walked down yet another gravel path.

“Confused about what? I remember. I remember being in a… hospital. Yeah- a hospital. Also, there were people surrounding me and I just… passed out.”

Your face while rembersing showed Paimon enough to know what you were gonna do.

“Paimon… I have to get back,” you said, “I- I remember, there’s something I need to do!”

The flying toddler was confused and hazy. Get back? Another world?? She didn’t know how to respond to what you were saying at all.

“Uhh- well, if you need to get back home, Paimon might know a way…”

“Really?? What do you got?” You persisted.

“Well, all over Teyvat they mention these deities called the seven archons…”

“Deities…” you mumbled under your breath, thinking out loud.

“A-and they created all the elements of the visions you see today. So, if anybody can get you home, maybe they can…?”

Suddenly, your hands flew to Paimon’s shoulders. A shining beam plastered across your face. Oh yeah, Paimon was scared.

“I’m in a new world full of magic and mystery, trying to find seven gods that might take me months, years, or even DECADES to find… LET’S DO THIS, PAIMON!”

You scurried away. Seemingly towards the massive towers you could see in the distance. Paimon gasped, catching up to you.

“A-are you crazy!? No way you could ever do that! Paimon could never dream of such a… ridiculous thing!!”

Alas, you could not hear her over the feeling of pure excitement and adventure in your eyes. This is just like in the books! Where there’s magic and powers and hidden romance- everything you loved to read!

“Too late! C’mon, let’s get to Mondstat quickly so we can find the first god!”

You ran off ahead. Leaving an annoyed Paimon to trail after you.

Oh yeah, this was most definitely gonna be a journey to remember…

@salami2

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin series #hiraeth

[rubyneo]

Ruby: Hi

Roman: Hi

Ruby: Welcome to Beaconbucks, what can I get for you? A Pink Drink?

Roman: Hm. Is that your idea of being funny?

Ruby: What are you gonna get then?

Roman: ...A Pink Drink.

Ruby: Hah. What size?

Roman: A medium.

Ruby: Mm-mm. I don't know what that is.

Roman: It's like between a small and a large.

Ruby: Shh. Mm-mm. No. We go by tall, grande, and venti here. Most people know that.

Roman: Ooh, do I look like most people, sweetheart?

Ruby: Absolutely not.

Roman: Hmm. That was a little condescending, don't you think?

Ruby: Was it?

Roman: Yeah.

Ruby: Cool. Can I get a name for your order?

#dont fucking tag this as ro/sewick or i will fucking kill you #ruby rose #roman torchwick #their interactions would have been 200% funnier if ruby was just mean and passive aggressive #rwby #cj.txt

[thatmadhatter]

How to Order at Starbucks

This was supposed to be a reply to someone who asked for help ordering at Starbucks. But it’s way too long for a reply, so I’ve done a whole ass post.

I know how overwhelming ordering at Starbucks can be, partially because there are so many menu items. I'm gonna break down the menu a bit and then walk through how to order step by step. Any questions, don't hesitate to ask! I was a barista for over 3 years, as well as a supervisor, and I am a teacher, so I very genuinely don't mind explaining drinks or anything.

Drink Menu Breakdown:

Sizes:

Hot drinks come in 4 sizes.

Short= 8oz, which is teeny tiny.

Tall= 12oz AKA Small.

Grande= 16oz AKA Medium.

Venti= 20 oz AKA Large.

Cold drinks come in

Tall= 12oz aka Small.

Grande=16oz AKA Medium.

Venti=24oz AKA Large.

And *SOME* cold drinks can also be a Trenta=30oz AKA Extra Large. The drinks that can come in Trenta are refreshers, cold brew, iced coffee, and iced teas. Frappuchinos and espresso drinks (think an iced latte or iced americano) cannot come in a trenta.

Core Drinks (these should be carried year round at all locations.)

Latte - Espresso and milk. This can be made hot or iced and with or without flavor.  This can also be made decaf. A very common drink is a vanilla latte. I love a good caramel latte myself

Americano - Espresso and water. This can also be made hot or iced. You can add milk or flavor to your hearts content to jazz it up if you want. This can also be made decaf. I love an iced blonde americano on a day where I need an extra kick.

Cappuccino - Espresso, milk, and milk foam. Typically this is a hot only drink, however last year Starbucks started doing iced cappuccino’s. Personally I never liked them. A cappuccino can be made ‘wet’ which means with less foam, or ‘dry’ which means made with more foam. There is no such thing as a cappuccino with no foam, that is a latte. This can be made decaf.

Caramel Macchiato - Classic Starbucks drink, can be made hot or iced. This can also be made decaf. Vanilla syrup, milk, espresso, and caramel drizzle.

Iced Coffee - Only comes iced. The barista should ask if you want this sweetened. It automatically comes with sweetener, which is called classic syrup. You can substitute any flavor you want in this though. This is made using a special blend of coffee that is brewed and then poured over ice. This cannot be made decaf.

Cold Brew - Only comes iced. This is made using a 20 hour steeping process, which is why it has a smoother, stronger flavor. That’s also why it’s a little more expensive and why when a store runs out, they’re often out for the rest of the day. This cannot be made decaf.

Frappuccino - Only comes blended/iced. These come in all sorts of flavors and colors. They can also be made with or without caffeine. If you ever want a caffeine free Frappuccino, just ask for a *flavor* Creme Frappuccino.

Refreshers - Only comes iced. They’re basically caffeinated fruity drinks, similar to an energy drink. You may have heard of the “Pink Drink” which is a strawberry refresher made with coconut milk. I’m allergic to coconut milk, so I can’t speak as to if it’s good or not, but I know it’s very popular. This cannot be made decaf.

Hot chocolate: Mocha, Vanilla, and Milk! Can only be made hot. You can also order a white hot chocolate, which is made with white mocha instead of the regular mocha. This is caffeine free.

Hot Coffee- If you come in the early to mid morning, a barista may ask you what roast of coffee you want. There are three options, blonde, Pike (aka Medium) or dark. Blonde is the most caffeinated, and will have a very mild flavor. Pike is the standard coffee every Starbucks carries at all times. Dark will be an intense coffee flavor, usually leaning more towards the bitter and very full bodied taste.

Cafe Misto: Also called a cafe au lait. Typically this is only made hot, it’s half coffee and half steamed milk.

Chai Latte: Chai concentrate and milk. Can be made hot or iced. Cannot be made decaf. 

Green Tea Latte: Matcha and Milk. Can be made hot or iced. Cannot be made decaf. I personally don’t care for the iced version as the matcha doesn’t mix super well with cold liquid, but a lot of people do like it.

Iced Teas: There are 4 core iced teas, Black, Green, White, and Passion. The Passion tea is the only one without caffeine, but there isn’t much in the white tea. They can all be made with or without lemonade. The barista should ask if you want this sweetened. It automatically comes with sweetener, which is called liquid cane sugar.

Modifications:

One overwhelming part of Starbucks is the sheer number of ways a drink can be modified. You’ve seen that already with just the drink breakdown. This further breaks down some ways drinks can be modified.

Hot or Iced

Espresso Modification: Drinks that are made with espresso can be made 1 of 3 ways. With the signature espresso, which is the default of most espresso drinks. You don’t need to specify this. Blonde espresso, which has a little more caffeine but a milder flavor. Or Decaf espresso, which contains no caffeine. You can also vary the number of shots in a drink. If you ask for more shots, the drink will be more expensive.

Flavor: There are many many flavor options. The core flavors are - Vanilla, Caramel, Mocha, White Mocha, Hazelnut, Toffee Nut, Peppermint, Raspberry, Sugar Free Vanilla, and Sugar Free Mocha. Then there are whatever seasonal syrups are available, which can vary depending on stocks and the time of year. You can also vary the number of pumps in a drink if you want. There is no charge for extra pumps of syrup if the syrup is already in the drink. Most drinks will have a surcharge for additional syrups though.

Milk: The milk options are skim, 2%, whole, half and half (aka cream), whipping cream, soy, coconut, almond, and Starbucks is in the process of doing oat milk as well. In a drink where milk is the main ingredient, such as a latte, there will be a charge for an alternative milk such as soy. However there isn’t a charge for skim, 2%, or whole. When a drink comes with milk, unless otherwise specified, it will automatically be made with 2%.

How to Order at Starbucks

There are three different methods to ordering at Starbucks. I’ll break each of them down.

Drive Through: There’s often a line. You’ll get in line and pull up to a speaker box. Typically the barista will greet you with something like B: “Thank you for choosing Starbucks. What can I get started for you?” Y: “Hi, can I get a *hot or iced* *size* *name of drink* with *any modifications* The barista will either repeat your drink back to you, or ask if you want anything else. You can add more drinks or food, or let them know that is all. The barista will usually give you a total and have you proceed forward. At the window, you’ll pay for your items. You can pay with cash, card, or the mobile app (which we’ll get to). The barista in the window will sometimes still be waiting for your drinks/good to be made. Try to be friendly and patient, odds are they’ve been yelled at several times already. They’ll hand you your items and away you’ll go!

Cafe Store: This is where you walk into a Starbucks. You’ll get in line at the register, try to figure out what you want before you get to the register, or at least have it down to between two or three things. If you’re ever stuck between two things, ask your barista which one they would order. This is a much better question than asking them what their favorite drink is or what they think you should get. Once you get to the register… B: “Thank you for choosing Starbucks. What can I get started for you?” Y: “Hi, can I get a *hot or iced* *size* *name of drink* with *any modifications* B: That’s a *repeats drink back to you* Anything else? Y: No thank you. B: Great. Can I get a name for your order? Y: Yes, *name* You can give your name, or you can give a fun name. I like saying Iron Man or something silly on occasion. Most of the time baristas will be amused by this, we see a million Jessicas everyday. But usually only 1 Spiderman. B: Okay, *name* your total is  *total* You can then pay with your card, cash, or mobile app. It’s usually pretty clear where the handoff plane is, but sometimes a barista will direct you towards it. You can go hangout near the handoff plane, but please don’t stand directly in front of it or sit on it. If the store is busy, odds are there are drinks in front of you, and standing directly in front of the counter will make it hard for others to get their drinks. After a few minutes, a different barista will call out *drink* for *name*, which you can go pick-up. I recommend checking the sticker on the side of the cup to check that it is your drink. Then you get to be on your way!

Finally we have “the app” or mobile ordering. If you have social anxiety, this is a great way to avoid having to talk to someone while you order. You can download the Starbucks app and do it all from your phone. After downloading the app, just tap ‘order’ which is the middle button in the center of the screen. At the bottom of the screen there will be a line that says “pick up at *insert store name here*” double check that you’re ordering to the correct store. Then you can browse the menu to your hearts content and add items to your order. Just make sure you press “checkout” when you’re ready, and that you get the little screen that says “your order will be ready in X-X minutes” Then you can either go through the drive through, and when you get to the speaker say “Mobile order for *name*” or you can walk into the store and go straight to the handoff plane where there will be a little area that says “mobile orders”. Just look for your order, check the name and drink on the sticker on the side, and hooray! Please keep in mind when mobile ordering to do so at least 5 minutes before you actually get to the store. Or be willing to hangout for a few minutes in the store before it is ready. I have a store that’s 7 minutes away on my morning commute, so I’ll usually submit my order right before I leave the house so it’s ready for me when I get there.

I hope this is helpful! If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I promise, I have heard them all. Also, everything here may not apply in full to ‘we proudly serve’ locations, such as a Barnes and Noble Cafe or to Target Starbucks (also called Tarbucks)

Also I did not touch on the seasonal drinks at all here because they literally change every 2-3 months. The seasonal drinks will be things like the Pumpkin Spice, Butterscotch, Smores, etc... If you want to know what’s in season when you order, just look for a sign. Starbucks releases new signs often which will advertise whatever is in season at the time. You can also ask your barista! 

#I spent an hour on this #how to order at starbucks #starbucks #barista #how to #coffee #I hope this helps!

[shierak-inavva]

omg happy birthday!!! 🎉🎂🎁🎈 for the request, could you just do any like,, short modern au oneshot for obidala or reylo? im not picky lmao

awww thanks so much!! 💛💛💛💛

i have some reylo stuff coming up for you guys and i got a cute idea from someone on twitter, so here’s this little obidala meet-cute ( and wah i’m on mobile so forgive me for no readmore tumblr hates us mobile users 😭💦 )

“you know, there’s someone else who gets this exact same order,” flora remarks as she hands him his drink, leant over the counter slightly. his regular barista in the mornings that always knows his order—today she’s grinning in her green apron and her flower earrings, holding out his usual summer morning order: grande iced london fog tea latte with an extra tea bag and one packet of brown sugar.

obi-wan blinks, glancing from the latte back to flora.

“the exact same?” from behind her, at the espresso machine, vera nods.

“yep. right down to the packet of brown sugar—do you know her?” she glances up under a raised brow. “i figured you HAD to, since literally no one else i’ve ever had has ordered this particular beverage.” flora laughs, nodding.

“i mean she’s right—do you know her? comes in most mornings around 7am, like yea high, somehow single, brown hair, nice smile, cute beauty mark—“ vera snorts as flora trails off some and obi-wan racks his brain.

“did you get her name?”

“she always says to just write ‘ami’. like...real secretive, i’m into it.” obi-wan chuckles at this and nods, taking a sip of his drink.

“well...maybe i’ll catch her next time.”

•

three days later he’s back, a little after 7am. he’s forgotten all about the mystery tea woman until on his way into the morning line, he hears his name and sees flora behind the counter gesturing hurriedly—but he turns too late and only catches sight of long curling hair and a floral sundress as they walk out the door.

flora and vera both groan and facepalm behind the counter before turning back to finish their orders.

•

this happens on two more occasions. flora mentions the third time that she asked the woman about him, but vera chimes in that no, ‘ami’ didn’t know a ‘probably in his thirties blond dude with a beard and pretty eyes, always wears button downs, somehow still inexplicably single’, but that she said she’d like to if he likes the same tea—and flora shrugs.

“god this is some real ships in the night stuff,” she sighs dreamily, and obi-wan just laughs, even if he’s gone a bit pink.

•

it’s a morning that he’s not in the best of moods and running a little late due to the downpour outside that he pops back in for his usual; but flora and vera aren’t there. luckily he knows jack, who waves and gives him a thumbs up, which obi-wan assumes means he’s got his order coming along.

when he gets to the counter, he pays, and jack’s partner (who obi-wan only knows by face, really) rushes up with a few orders, and doesn’t use names:

“venti iced dirty chai, grande pink drink, tall sweet cream cold brew extra ice, and a grande iced london fog tea latte with an extra tea bag and brown sugar!”

so of course he turns to take his cup, except there’s a small, slender, and perfectly manicured hand that brushes his on the cool plastic.

obi-wan pauses.

the hand, it turns out, belongs to a woman who has to be his ‘tea twin’ as the girls have been calling her—she’s a good head shorter than him, slim and pretty with honey brown eyes and deep brown hair, and he has to admit flora’s right, the beauty mark is cute. another floral outfit today: pink and white flowers on a loose, thin blouse, and a pair of yellow dress pants. she looks like she works in an office.

“i’m sorry i think this is mine,” she says, but she’s looking him up and down in a curious way that makes his face go a little pink.

“no, i’m sorry—i shouldn’t have assumed—“ he shakes his head and she tilts hers just slightly, taking the drink and finally nodding.

“it’s all right, no harm.”

and just like that she walks away, but he doesn’t see her glance back before she’s out the door and into the rain.

•

it’s sunny next time. flora nearly vaults over the counter when she sees him, later in the morning than usual.

“YOU’RE JOKING, THE ONE TIME YOU TWO MEET AND WE WEREN’T EVEN HERE—“ she paddles the counter with her hands eagerly, “i need details,” she says while tapping his order into the computer, “are you in love already, what was she wearing, did she just fall into your arms—“

“ah—“ obi-wan coughs a bit, rubbing his chin, “no, i’m afraid there wasn’t anything like that...”

“jack said you almost took her drink and you two ‘stared longingly for like 30 seconds in front of a lobby full of people like we were in a datenight netflix movie’ but that she left,” vera raises an eyebrow as she slides his drink across the counter, “soooo during all of that did you get her name, or what?” obi-wan clears his throat and takes a deep breath, taking his drink.

“i did not.”

•

it’s raining again.

he’s supposed to have the day off but he’s decided to finish up a little extra work on his personal laptop—which he’s got settled in front of him at a table next to the front windows, along with a blueberry scone and his usual iced tea latte.

starbucks is surprisingly empty, which is fine with him, but that just makes it all the more noticeable when She walks in.

damp curls and a lavender umbrella that she shakes out carefully, and behind the counter flora makes a strangled sort of noise that makes obi-wan look away instinctively.

the woman orders.

he sits at his little table and tries to focus on his laptop screen, internally debating over whether or not he should say something. there’s next to no one else in the dining room and the other three people have headphones on anyways.

he can also see vera trying to get his attention already.

her drink’s almost ready and he’s still fighting himself on ‘is it too weird to walk up to her and say something or not’, and he barely hears them call ‘ami’—and he realizes he’s probably too late in deciding to go for it and hurriedly jolts up out of his seat—only for her to be standing next to his little window table, with her drink in hand and a croissant on a plate.

she smiles, and he swallows, completely blind to the two baristas excitedly leaning over the counter together to watch.

“hi,” she greets pleasantly, and he feels a little frozen just standing there but she continues, “i’m off today, and flora behind the counter has been making a very compelling case that you might be my soulmate based on our drink preferences,” her eyes crinkle and there’s laughter in her voice, but it’s sweet rather than derisive. “i didn’t get to really say much last time, i was running late. but if you have a minute today i thought i would at least meet you properly.” he feels a little stunned by all of this, but finally just smiles, chuckling and nodding.

“flora makes a convincing matchmaker,” he agrees, and gestures to the empty chair. “if you’d like to sit down—i’ve got the day off myself.” she glances at his laptop and then phone, and then back at him.

“i’m not bothering you am i?”

“not at all.” he shuts the laptop and stows it in his bag beside the table before facing her again. she’s set her croissant down and she’s smiling and he takes a little breath and smiles back. “i’m not sure our matchmaker has already told you, but i’m obi-wan kenobi.” he offers a hand, and she takes it, looking very intrigued.

“absolutely not the name i was expecting,” she replies, her smile widening, “i like it. my name is padmé amidala.”

#obidala #padme x obi wan #obi wan kenobi #padme amidala #oneshot #replies #text replies #the prompt someone suggested on twitter was SLIGHTLY different but i liked the idea #it also launched a very amusing discussion about starbucks orders between my roommate and i #i have another modern au thing i might take a crack at at some point but hmmm #i was so close to just calling him ben again shdkdhskdk welp #imagine giving the barista that name SIGH

[virmillion]

Coffee’s for Closers

alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry

Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe. Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy Words: 22,222

Check it out on ao3!

    Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.

    Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’

    Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.

    “Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.

    “I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.

    Ten minutes.

    “Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.

    “Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”

    “Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”

    “Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”

    “Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.

    “Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.

    Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”

    True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.

    “Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!

    Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.

    And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.

    By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.

    You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.

    You would be wrong.

    “Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”

    “—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.

    “Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.”

    “It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”

    “Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”

    “Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.

    The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.

    “Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.

    “He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.

    A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.

    Yeah, no thanks.

    “There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”

    “That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”

    “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”

    “Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.

    “So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”

    “Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”

    “My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”

    “Of which you have none.”

    “—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”

    “Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”

    “Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”

    “Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”

    “Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”

    “Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”

    “I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”

    “I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”

    “You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”

    “I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.

    Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.

    While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.

    When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.

    “Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”

    “Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”

    “Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.

    “See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.

    “Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”

---------------

    “How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.

    “Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”

    “And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”

    “Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”

    “I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”

    “Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.

    “I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”

    “I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”

    “You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.

    “Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.

    “Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”

    “Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”

    “Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”

    “Legitimately.”

    “Tomato, potato.”

    “To-mah-to.”

    “I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.

    Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up,  he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.

    “Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”

    “I am not changing the mugs.”

    “He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.

    “Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”

    “We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”

    “No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”

    “Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”

    “Your ass is trans.”

    “What’s your point?”

    “I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.

    “Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”

    “I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”

    “What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”

    “I don’t think you know what literally means.”

    “I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”

    “You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”

    “What’s your point?”

    Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.

    “I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”

    “Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”

    “Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”

    “Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”

    “And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.

    “Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”

    “Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”

    “You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.

    “Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”

    Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.

    “Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.

    “Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”

    “Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”

    “Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”

    “Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”

    Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”

    Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”

    “I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.

    “You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”

    “Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”

    “Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.

    Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.

    “Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”

    “Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”

    “I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”

    “I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”

    “What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”

    “Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.

    Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.

---------------

    “Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.

    “Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”

    Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”

    “Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”

    “Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.

    “Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”

    Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.

    Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.

    “Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one,  but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’

    “Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”

    The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.

    “Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”

    “It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.

    “Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?

    Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.

“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”

“Breakfast sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”

“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”

“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”

“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.

“Virge? Seriously?”

“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”

“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”

“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.

“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.

“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”

Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”

“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”

“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”

“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.

“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.

In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.

The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?

This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.

A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.

“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”

“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”

“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.

“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.

Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.

“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.

Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”

“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.

“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”

“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.

“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.

“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”

“We really don’t do tips—”

“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.

“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.

Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.

Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?

Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”

“First guess.”

“Green tea latte.”

Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”

“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”

“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.

As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.

“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”

Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”

Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”

“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”

“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”

“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”

Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”

Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—

“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.

“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.

“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.

“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”

“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.

“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.

“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.

---------------

“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”

“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.

Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.

Logan has never been one for analogies.

He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?

“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”

“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.

“So five?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”

“Stop stifling my creative energy!”

“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.

“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”

Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.

“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”

“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”

“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.

“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”

“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?

Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.

“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”

“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”

“Explain how,” Roman says.

“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”

“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.

Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.

“Where does he work?”

A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder.  The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”

“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”

“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”

“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business  and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The  only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.

“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.

“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.

“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?

“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”

Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.

“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.

“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”

Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.

“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.

“I’m older than you.”

“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.

“I’m older than Patton, too.”

“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”

“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”

“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”

Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.

He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.

“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”

“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.

“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”

    “If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.

    “By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.

    “You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”

    “Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.

    “Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”

    “You cannot,” Logan says.

    “What what,” Patton agrees.

    “Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”

    “Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.

    The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.

    Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.

    “Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car.  Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.

    “One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”

    “Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”

    “When did he tell you his name?”

    “He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”

    “Where does he work?”

    “If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”

    “Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”

    Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”

    “That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.

    “Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.

    “How are those supposed to drum up business?”

    Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”

    “Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”

    Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”

    Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”

    “I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.

    “You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”

    “They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”

    “You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”

    “That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”

    “Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”

    Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.

    “I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”

    “That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.

    When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.

    Elegance, indeed.

---------------

    Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.

    “Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.

    You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.

    Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.

    Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.

    Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.

    As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.

    Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.

    One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.

    At least it’s a slower stream of guests.

    “I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.

    “Anything else for you?”

    Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”

    “Sure.”

    “—and your number?”

    “No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”

    Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”

    “Definitely not.”

    “What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”

    “I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.

    “Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.

    “I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”

    “I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”

    Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”

    “Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”

Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”

“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”

Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”

This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”

Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.

“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”

“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”

“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”

“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”

“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”

“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”

“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”

Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”

Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”

“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.

“Promise.”

“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”

“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”

Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.

“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”

Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”

“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”

“Make it four.”

This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.

Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.

Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.

“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”

“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.

“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”

“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”

    “Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”

    “You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”

    “If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”

    Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”

    “Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.

    “Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”

    “No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.

    “Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”

    “No.” Patton puts the tickets away.

    “I found this book of stickers that has—”

    “No.” Patton puts the stickers away.

    “You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”

    “I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”

    “Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”

    “Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.

    “Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”

    Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”

    “Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.

    “I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”

    “No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”

    “He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.

    “Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.

    “So,” Logan says.

    “So,” Virgil agrees.

    “How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.

    Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”

    “My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”

    “Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.

    “Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”

    “I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”

---------------

    Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.

    “Does that work for you?”

    Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.

    “Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”

    Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”

    “Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?

    “So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”

    Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”

    “Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’

    “You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”

    “We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”

    “Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.

    Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.

    “Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”

    “Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”

    “I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.

    “What don’t I know?”

    “He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”

    “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”

    “But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”

    “Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”

    “Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.

    “Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

    “Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.

    “That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.

    “Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

    “Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”

    “Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”

    “Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”

    Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”

    Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”

    “Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.

    “Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”

    “Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”

    “Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

    “Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”

    “You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”

    Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.

    As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.

    The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.

    “That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.

    “You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.

    “Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”

    “Among,” Virgil corrects.

    “What?”

    “You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.

    “Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”

    Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.

    “This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”

    Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”

    “Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.

    “Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.

    “Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”

    “Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.

    “Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.

    “Roman?”

    “Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”

    “It is June.”

    “Yes.”

    “Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”

    “Yes.”

    “June is not July.”

    “You lost me.”

    “Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”

    “Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.

    “For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—

    “Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”

    Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.

    “We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”

    “I am not doing that.”

    Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”

    Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”

    “Unless you want to be doing—”

    “Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”

    “That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.

    Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.

    “You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”

    “It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”

    “All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.

    “Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.

    “So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”

    With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.

    “Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.

    “Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”

    “That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”

    “That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”

    “Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”

    “Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.

    “Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”

    “Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.

    “Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

    “Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.

    “Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—

    “Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”

    Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.

---------------

    Virgil is having a bad day.

    He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.

    Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.

    This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.

    Virgil wants to go home.

    “Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”

    “I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”

    “Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.

    “Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.

    This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.

    “Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”

    Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”

    “You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”

    “No, I want you to give me a refund.”

    “Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”

    “Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”

    “Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”

    “No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”

    This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.

    “Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.

    Virgil.

    Wants.

    To.

    Go.

    Home.

    “Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.

    “Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”

    Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.

    Virgil does not want to be here.

    Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.

    “There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.

    She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”

    “Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”

    “No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.

    He might just scream.

    “So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.

    “There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.

    And flicks this one square at his chest.

    “Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”

    “Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.

    Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.

    Virgil is leaving this hellscape.

    “I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.

    Virgil is going home.

    At least, Virgil thought he was going home.

    No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.

    “Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”

    “Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.

    He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.

    He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.

    “Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.

    “Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”

    With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.

    “When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”

    “I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”

    “I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”

    “Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”

    Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.

    If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.

    Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.

    “Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.

    “Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”

    “And where, exactly, do you work?”

    “Starbucks north.”

    The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”

    “Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”

    “Rude guests?”

    “Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”

    “Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”

    “We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”

    “Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”

    “I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”

    “How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”

    “Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”

    Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”

    “It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”

    Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”

    “Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”

    “Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”

    The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.

    Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.

    “Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”

    “Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.

    “Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.

    “Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.

    “Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.

    “Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.

    Mistletoe.

    To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.

    “If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.

    “Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”

    “No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”

    Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”

    So he does.

#labhwrites #analogical #romantic analogical #royality #romantic royality #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #remy sanders #cursing tw #mine #this is. so. long. omg #i feel myself pushing my boundaries of what constitutes a oneshot #but my rage cannot be stopped #i demand all the words for my left brain boys #dorky as they may be #// i'll reblog later for time zones with the ao3 link and the taglists #fun fact - the word /okay/ appears twenty three times in this #a word from lab post-italics formatting: lab what the FUCK stop using so many damn italics #also i bash starbucks a lot in this but its mostly for the memes #its actually a really nice place to work depending on who's working the shifts around you #anyway here's this monster of a fic

[ilovemygaydad]

Dance, Dance

Part One: Introductions

Based off this post that you really need to read for context!

Pairings: Analogical and Royality (past sleeplogical)

Characters: Virgil, Patton, Logan, Roman, Sleep/Remy, Deceit/Dominic, October/Toby, September/Ember

Warnings: domestic abuse, swearing, sexual humor, crude comments, bullying, making out, abusive deceit, i can’t think of anything else but tell me if you want me to tag something

A/N: Thank you to @wisepuma23 for being excited about this for me! Also, if the scenes seem weird, it’s because I’m trying to incorporate a bunch of povs because the movie is like that and it’s!!! important!!! oh and uhhhhh sorry for not writing since literally before the new blog but i’m dumb so yeah

Masterlist | Ask Blog | READ ON AO3

The shrill call of the intercom startled Virgil awake. It beeped, but no voice came out. Frustrated, Virgil slammed the talk button and spoke through gritted teeth. “What?”

“Virgil, do not get sassy with me. Your phone privileges are still on thin ice,” Dominic drawled.

“Of course. Sorry.” Virgil wanted so, so bad to bludgeon the damned intercom.

“Get me breakfast. I want eggs benedict and a grande in a venti cup of nonfat vanilla chai tea filled to the top with cream and three Stevias. THREE! Oh, and bring it here in five minutes. And get the twins their breakfasts.” The intercom clicked off.

Great! Virgil thought. What a totally realistic goal for me to accomplish. Fucking kill me.

And, needless to say, Virgil didn’t have the stupid eggs and the even more stupid drink in five minutes, so Dominic made Virgil cough up his phone for the next two months. And then the twins dumped their smoothies onto him because they weren’t right. Virgil had to change his clothes and then make new smoothies.

Virgil barely made it out the door in time due to his chores, and then he almost forgot his skateboard, so by the time that he had rolled up to Patton’s beat-up van, he was late. Patton gave him a quizzical look, but he just shook his head and climbed into shotgun.

Once they started their journey to school, Virgil actually took in what Patton was wearing. The top half was pretty normal looking; Pat’s purple-streaked curls were neatly swooped back, and he had on one of Virgil’s old flannel shirts. On his bottom half, he had—

“Patton, are you wearing a blue tutu?”

The friend in question grinned. “Yeah! I think that it perfectly fits my playful personality!”

Virgil suppressed a smile. “It sure does, Pat.”

“I think I’m going to add tutus to my future fashion line. It’s a winner for sure. And then I’ll get famous, and you’re going to become an all-star dancer, so I can pick you up in my private jet for lunch in Paris!” Patton spoke animatedly, flinging his hands around and ignoring the road. Virgil, practically used to it already, took the wheel in his own hands to make sure they wouldn’t go off road.

“Dude, I have to get into dance school before I can become famous.”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna!” Patton waved dismissively at Virgil’s worries. “Oh, anyway, did you hear that Logan Parker is coming back today?”

“Obviously. I live—turn right—with Toby, Ember, and Dominic. I never hear the end of that shiiii… stuff. Never hear the end of that stuff.”

Patton shrugged. “Fair.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and began to rummage around his pocket for a second, pulling out a pan of black eyeshadow. He flipped down the visor to use the mirror, but as he let go, the whole visor clattered to the floor, completely unhinged. “Fuck, Patton. Would it kill you to fix this thing?”

“Don’t upset her! She’s sensitive, and I don’t want her breaking down on me!” He paused for a second before smirking at his best friend. “Plus, it’s not like you really need the mirror to apply your eyeshadow, anyway.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, you love me.”

“I wish you were dead.”

Patton just smiled pleasantly, pulling into the parking lot. “Okay, dear.”

It took a whole ten seconds to swipe on the eyeshadow under Virgil’s eyes. As soon as he was done, he stepped out of Patton’s awful van and took a step onto the sidewalk.

“Honestly, Ember. I can’t believe you still drink those awful frappuccinos! They’re so full of sugar,” Remy Sinclair drawled, driving his silver convertible with his two cronies. “Black coffee is obviously superi—oh.” Remy had spotted Virgil.

Shit!

The black coffee in Remy’s hand flew right onto the front of Virgil’s shirt. The boys in the car all laughed; though, it sounded more like a cackle. “Oh, Virgil. I’m so sorry!”

From the van, Patton started to yell, “You’ll be sorry when I shove my fist up your—”

Virgil rushed to put his hand over Patton’s mouth, and Remy just drove away.

“Loganloganloganloganloganlo—”

“Roman, I swear to god. If you don’t stop that insufferable babbling, I will throw you out the window of this limousine on the 405.”

Roman pouted. “You won’t pay attention to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Logan muttered as he flipped over his schedule again. “I would like to know where my classes are so I don’t look like an idiot on my first day back.”

“You’ve read that thing a billion times! Can’t we get hyped for all of your fans—”

“Roman. For the last time, I am here to learn. You are free to spend your time frivolously flirting with every guy with a pulse; however, I am dedicating this year to my education.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re no fun!” Roman huffed, crossing his arms. “Are you at least excited for school?”

Logan smiled at Roman for the first time during their ride. “Yes, actually, I am. Thank you for asking. Are you?”

“I’m excited if you’re excited. You know how much I love to see you smile, man.”

“It almost sounds like you’re into me, Ro,” teased Logan. Roman’s eyes widened for a second, but when he saw Logan’s tiny smirk, he calmed down.

“Mr. Parker?” The driver was looking at the duo in the rearview mirror. “We have arrived at the school.”

“OH MY GOD, IT’S LOGAN PARKER!”

“Oh my god, Pat, Logan Parker is here. What a surprise! It’s almost like he goes here again,” Virgil mocked, turning as a swarm of people ran to the entrance. When he wasn’t being shoved around, he was able to see Logan Parker’s tall, lean figure looming above most of the students fawning over him. Someone else—a slightly shorter and far more muscular boy in clothes more fancy than should ever be on a teenager—stood at his side, a charming grin on his face. But seriously, who wore black dress pants, a white button up, and a red vest to school? This kid, apparently.

Patton both physically and mentally tore Virgil from the scene. “C’mon, let’s get to class before we’re literally run over.”

Logan shot a panicked glance at Roman as the hoard of kids surrounded them. He was used to crowds, sure, but not at his freaking school! He was trying desperately to be a normal teenager for once, damn it! He couldn’t even arrive at school without making a scene.

“Hey, hey, hey, friends and fans!” Roman shouted. Logan recoiled away from the noise, physically feeling all of the love that he felt for Roman drain out of his body in one fell swoop.

The crowd screamed in response:

”I love you, Logan!”

“I’m your biggest fan!”

“Logan, I wanna fuck you!”

Gross. Why couldn’t people understand that he was ace?

“Right, well, I know that you’re all super excited to see Logan, but we’re here to learn! Well, he’s here to learn.” Roman made eye contact with a handsome boy and winked. “We’ll be doing a meet and greet after school—” Oh, and there was more of that screaming— “For now, though, we’re going to get to class! Part ways, everyone! Roman Ellington and Logan Parker coming through!”

Somehow—and Logan had no idea what kind of witchcraft that Roman pulled—the crowd made way for them to pass. As the pair walked into the school, Logan pulled Roman close.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘we’re having a meet and greet after school,’ Roman?” he snarled. His bright smile never faltered.

“I had to placate them somehow! And it worked, didn’t it? It’ll only be an hour, and then you can go home and do whatever it is that you asexuals like to do.”

“God, don’t phrase it like that—and you owe me big time, Roman. Like, Crofters for a month big.”

Roman muttered something about how expensive that would be, but he cut himself off. “Shit! Logan, watch out—”

SMACK!

All of the books and papers that Virgil was carrying flew out of his hands, fluttering to the ground like snow as he was bumped to the floor. He had stopped paying attention for, what, two whole seconds, and someone just happened to slam into him. Not to mention that he probably had a concussion with how aggressively he was flung to the ground.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” The voice paused for a second, and another one yelped. “Roman, what the hell did you push me for?” Virgil groaned and looked up.

Oh. It was Logan Parker. Great.

“It’s fine. Uh, don’t—fuck, ow—don’t worry about it.” Virgil vaguely waved his hand and shoved himself up into a sitting position.

“Here, wait. Let me help you up.” Logan held out his hand for a moment, but it was pulled away to spin him towards—what a fucking surprise—Remy. Who then pulled him into a deep kiss. Right in the hallway.

“Logan! I’ve missed you so much!” Remy squealed, ignoring the way that Logan winced and tried to protest. “Oh my god, I’ve got to show you the dance studio. You’re going to love it.”

And they were gone in a flash.

The weird dressed guy who was always with Logan stepped into Virgil’s line of view with an apologetic smile. “Uh, sorry about Logan, kind sirs. Things are still very wild after the move, though I’m sure you can tell.”

“Yeah…” Virgil said, rubbing his head.

The boy’s eyes flicked to Patton, and he smiled more genuinely. “Nice tutu.”

“Thank you! Uh, I think…” A light dusting of pink spread across Patton’s cheeks, and Virgil was already loathing having to deal with a crushing Patton.

“Of course! Oh, where are my manners? I’m Roman Ellington, Logan Parker’s best friend and manager. You guys can call me The Prince.” He winked at Patton.

Virgil decided that enough was enough. “Yeah, sure thing, Princey. Oh, and you might want to go after Logan. It looked like Remy was planning to drag him to the studio for some, uh, ‘dancing.’”

“Yeah…” Roman winced. “I’ll see you two later, um…?”

“Patton! And this is Virgil.”

Roman took Patton’s hand gently. “Until next time, dear Patton.” Roman kissed the hand as punctuation and walked away.

“Oh my god… Virge, I think I’m in love.”

“Jesus. Come on, Patton. I need to get you to a cold shower before homeroom.”

Part Two

#analogical #royality #sanders sides fic #thomas sanders fic #m writes things #cinderella!au #dance dance fic #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders

[bernadineisreborn]

Handling the Truth

Chapter One: New Beginnings

Summary: You, a college freshman, are moving to NYC to go to college at Empire State University, where you got a full ride and placement in a special program. Oh, and you can also tell when people are lying. Watch out world, because you are ready to finally get things going in your favor! Plus, there are cool things to do in the city, like Spider-Man (wink).

Warnings: Swearing but not like, mean swearing

Word Count: 5,063 little words of love

A/N: Hi! Here is the first chapter, coming to you after a long spell of writer’s block (or me just being lazy idk anymore). READ THE PROLOGUE IT EXPLAINS SHIT! If ya like it, hit me up in any way shape or form you see appropriate! [Friendly reminder that everyone in this story is above 18 years of age!]

Other Parts: Prologue

You woke up to the pilot’s voice over the speaker, informing you of the impending landing.

You blinked yourself awake, stretching, yawning, and looking out the window. You stared at the skyline in awe, surprised at how much bigger New York looked than Chicago.

Not long after, the plane was landing and you were getting ready to exit. The strange man next to you looked impatient and the flight attendant looked tired, but you were ready to start a brand new adventure in the greatest city in the world.

The airport contained an unfathomable number of people for such a small place, but you managed to find the luggage pick-up. You quickly spotted your own bags, branded with a unique luggage tag you had made, and reached for them. Suddenly, another arm reached towards the unclaimed bags around you, throwing you off balance. You turned around, giving the person a death glare, when you saw that it was the same man who sat next to you on the plane. Annoyed, you rolled your eyes and decided to let it go.

Now chasing after your slowly moving bags, you pushed through the small crowd of people until you finally caught up to them, grabbing them, and heading towards the exit.

You were almost out the door when you felt someone grab your arm. It was the lying man from the plane. Again.

“Is there something I can do for you?” you said as sarcastically as you could manage, taking a step away from him.

“Um, maybe. I am having a party this weekend, and I think you would have fun. What’s your-”

Astonished, you pushed past him and started walking down the street, ignoring his derogatory calls after you. You were not going to let one stupid, pathetic man ruin your first day in New York. You barely knew the guy, and the few interactions you had with him were poor ones. You wondered what could possibly have driven him to approach you at all.

Stupid, pervy old men. Ugh.

Still strutting angrily down the busy sidewalk, you felt something land on your forehead. You looked up, the skyscrapers lining both sides of the road barely made the thick gray clouds visible from the ground. Still, it was visible enough to guess that it was about to start raining.

A tad desperate, you cut to the side of the road and tried to hail a taxi. You knew how, having been to Chicago hundreds of times, but there didn’t seem to be any empty cabs on the busy road.

Finally, a car pulled up to the curb in front of you, yellow and sprinkled with rain droplets from the increasingly heavy rainfall. A passenger got out and you gratefully began walking towards the cab, before the door closed and it sped off, splashing a puddle onto your lower legs in the process.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You began walking along the road again, sullenly this time, trying not to let yourself cry. As optimistic as you wanted to be, you couldn’t deny that everything felt like a train wreck right now.

You sniffed, holding in your emotions, and took a deep breath. It was starting to shift closer to a downpour than a summer sprinkle, and you needed to take cover.

Luckily, there was a Starbucks at the end of the block. You gripped your backpack and your luggage bags and made your way there.

The Starbucks was different than the one in your small hometown. It was decorated in the comfortable style that you had come to associate with Starbucks, but it felt bigger, somehow, it felt more grand. You plopped yourself on the closest lounge chair and took out your phone. You had a text from both your parents, wondering if you had landed. You sent them a quick affirmative reply and glanced around you. There were a lot of people here, taking shelter from the rain. Behind you, rain fell in sheets onto the pavement from the sky above. Though inconvenient, you couldn’t deny the appeal of rain hitting the cement. The city looked like a dream.

You forced yourself to think away the stresses of the day and opened the Uber app on your phone, deciding that hailing a cab would be unnecessarily difficult in the rain. You wanted to get a coffee before your ride arrived, so you got in line.

As you wait, you let your eyes wander, noticing the boy in front of you. He was cute, with curly brown hair and warm brown eyes. His skin was lightly tanned, and he was wearing jeans with a shirt that had some pun scrawled on it in graphic letters. There was a backpack slung loosely over his shoulder.

He was talking on the phone, trying to reassure someone of something.

“Yes… No, I’m fine… I promise, Aunt May… Yeah, I’ll be home soon. Then we can go… Love you, too. Bye,” he wrapped up the conversation and then it was his turn to order, “Hi! Can I please get a venti coffee with some cream?”

You got a weird sensation in the back of your neck when he talked. He wasn’t lying, but he definitely wasn’t telling the full truth. There was something he was keeping from everyone else.

Maybe he was a murderer.

Pssh, he’s probably not a murderer. Chill out, Y/N.

Wary anyway, you scooted away from him a little. You ordered, deciding to get your usual favorite instead of anything new.

As you waited for your order, you observed the stranger more. He was staring down at his phone. He must have felt you staring, because he looked up to meet your eyes.

You quickly looked down at your own phone, cheeks growing warm with embarrassment at being caught.

The barista called out, “Peter?” and placed a cup on the counter. The strange boy, Peter, made his way to the counter, grabbing the cup and saying thank you to the worker.

Your drink came out next, and you grabbed it, watching the boy walk through the door. Your phone started ringing, and you answered it. It was your Uber driver, calling to tell you they were here.

Bags in tow and drink in hand, you walked outside. The Uber was easy to find, you shoved your bags in the car and scooted yourself in.

“Hi, your request said you’re going to ESU?” they asked.

“Yeah, the dorms. My building is called Osborn Hall,” you replied.

The drive wasn’t too long, but the traffic was even worse than what you had come to know in Chicago.

By time you got to the dorm, the rain had slowed to a light mist, and you gathered your bags out of the car. Thanking your driver and giving them a five-star review, you looked up at the building. It was beautiful, and fancy, as if it had been built recently. You walked in through the large, glass front doors.

There were a lot of people waiting inside, most of them appearing to be around your age, a few of them the age of your parents. Probably parents helping their kids move in.

You navigated through the crowd until you found what must have been the front desk. There was a boy sitting behind it, his hair long and flowing past his shoulders, dyed blue.

“Name, please?” he asked with a bored expression.

“Um, Y/N L/N,” you replied, only half paying attention to him as you scouted the crowded room.

He typed into his computer, then said with the most monotone voice imaginable, “Can I see some ID? Just to make sure it’s really you and get it on file.”

You handed him your driver’s license and he examined it.

“Sweet. Here’s your campus ID,” he said, still void of any emotion as he handed you a bright green piece of plastic that had a picture of you on it, among other information, “It also functions as your room key and stuff. Your room number is 2314. Your roommate has already checked in, so she’ll probably be in the room.”

“Okay. Thank you!” you said, trying to convey how helpful he had been.

Finally, he smiled. “No problem, if you have any questions or whatever, I’ll be here.”

You smiled back and started for the elevator. There was a little crowd by the elevator doors, waiting to go up just like you. The elevator bell dinged and you clamored in with the rest of the crowd. You ended up pressed against the back window, giving you a great view of the city through the glass pane. Even by New York skyscraper standards, Osborn Hall was tall.

As the elevator climbed the 23 floors, making various stops to drop people off, you grew in excitement. It can’t get much worse, right? It’s already been rough, so it can only get better.

Finally, it was your turn to get off.

You walked down the hall, getting closer to your home for the next 9 months. 2310… 2312… 2314. There it was, right in front of you. The door was a pristine white colored wood, and the walls in the hallway were a smoky grey. The hallway was littered with signs and posters that welcomed freshmen and advertised various clubs.

You were fumbling with the card reader, trying to get your card to work with the ID scanner on the door’s handle, when it opened from the other side.

Standing in the doorway was a girl, your roommate, presumably. She had a darker complexion, but it didn’t look like she went in the sun very often. Her hair was a luscious, dark ashy brown and it fell in natural curls down the sides of her face. She had brown eyes that glinted gold in the light, framed by thick, arching eyebrows. Her lips were set in a small smile, but she looked cautious. She was absolutely stunning and you suddenly felt less confident.

“Hi,” she said as her face moved to display mild excitement, “I’m Michelle Jones, you must be Y/N L/N?”

“Yup, that’s me,” you said with a smile, reaching out your hand to shake hers.

You had gone in blind for a roommate, hoping for the best because you couldn’t force yourself to give the energy required to find someone online. Staring at Michelle, you had a feeling that you had gotten lucky.

As she shook your hand lightly, you noticed she was wearing mostly black, but still was dressed in style.

“Sorry if I startled you opening the door, it took me forever to figure out the card reader for the first time, so I thought I would help,” she said, “Do you want me to help get your bags?”

“No, I got them, thanks though. Are you already moved in?” You two walked into the living room and you took a few seconds to look around. It was small, but it had a large window with a nice view of the city. There was a small bathroom on the left wall, complete with a shower, and two bedrooms, one on each side. Michelle had placed a small, black couch in the living room, but there didn’t appear to be any other decorations.

“Yeah, mostly, I just have to finish decorating… Your room is this way,” she explained as she led you to the room on the right, “They are both the same size, so I just took the left one.”

Your room was not big, but it was spacious enough for all of your belongings, plus you got it all to yourself. There was a twin sized bed frame and mattress already in the room. You set down your bags and said, “Wow, can’t believe we get our own rooms.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s nice, and our own bathroom. It’s almost nicer than my parent’s house.”

You laughed, “Yeah, same. I would never have been able to afford to go here if it weren’t for scholarships.”

“Me neither! Which scholarship did you get?” Michelle asked with curiosity in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

“I got put in the Leaders of Tomorrow program, what about you?” you asked, careful not to say an amount in case she didn’t have something equal.

“Oh, cool. My friend is in that. It’s a full ride, right?” you nod and she smiles, “I was sponsored by a program that helps people succeed in the arts, so I have a full ride, too.”

“Oh, the arts? What are you going into then?”

“I’m not sure, honestly, but I know it will be something creative. I like drawing and acting and fashion and stuff,” she said with a little laugh, “What about you?”

“I don’t even have a field of interest yet,” you explained, “I am hoping that I can figure something out this semester.”  

You and Michelle continued to talk as you unpacked a little, and you really started to like her. She told you that she had grown up in Queens, and that her family still lived there. She went to a school called Midtown, and said that she had some friends from high school that went to Empire State, too. You told her about your high school experiences, and you found yourselves relating to each other a lot.

Best of all, your neck remained tingle free. She did not tell a single lie the entire conversation. Michelle was like an angel sent to rescue your horrific first day in the city.

After an hour or so of sitting in your almost bare living room on the surprisingly comfortable black couch Michelle had brought, she offered to help you set up the rest of your stuff. You declined, saying that you didn’t have very much to do anyway, which was true, your family was mailing you the rest of your things and they wouldn’t be here for a couple of days.

So, you set up the things you had. You had bought a new, F/C comforter and matching sheets. You had a beautiful tapestry on your wall, a soft rug, and fairy light strung across the ceiling. The look was completed with a dozen or so photos of things that inspired you, plastered on the wall next to your bed.

Happy with your new set up, you sent a picture to your parents. Then, you exited your bedroom, finding the living room considerably more decorated than before. Michelle had hung a tapestry of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and set up a small TV. It was cute and cozy.

You walked across the small room, knocking lightly on Michelle’s door.

“Hey, do you want to go get dinner?” you asked, hopeful that she would agree because you wanted to get to know her better.

“Yeah, sure,” she said from her lying position on her bed, which was covered in a purplish-grey comforter. She had sketches taped to all four of her walls, a black patterned rug, and potted plants on her windowsill. The room smelled like lavender.

You and Michelle went to Panda Express, where you discovered she was a vegetarian. Then, you decided to go to Target to pick up a few more decorations for your living room. You and Michelle had agreeable styles; it felt like you were destined to be friends.

Laughing at something one of you had said, Michelle asked you, “Is there a name you prefer to be called? Any nicknames or anything? Or is Y/N good?”

“Y/N is good, but I’ll accept suggestions,” you said, still smiling, “Why? Is there something you want to be called instead of Michelle?”

She looked down, a little embarrassed, “Um, yeah. My friends call me MJ. So, since we’re friends, now, um… you should call me that,” she said quietly, looking up at you to smile.

You smiled widely back at her, “MJ it is, my friend.”

You walked back into Osborn Hall, still amazed at how grand it is. “God, who designed this place? It’s so fucking nice.”

MJ scoffed, “Norman Osborn sponsored it. He is a super millionaire who does a bunch of science shit.”

“Oh, yeah. I have heard about him before. He’s kind of like Tony Stark, right?”

“Yeah, kinda. Just without the Iron Man suit and the heart of gold.”

“The heart of gold? You make it sound like you know him,” you questioned.

She was silent for a moment. Then, “He spoke at my graduation.”

Cue a tiny tingle in the back of your neck. She wasn’t telling the full truth.

“That’s it? Just graduation?” you quizzed.

“Yeah, that’s the only time I have seen him in person,” she explained.

And the tingle went away. If there was a lie there, it wasn’t a big one. You were willing to accept her answers for now.

As you got on the elevator again, MJ’s phone dinged. She smiled a little, “It’s my lame friend from high school! He wants us to come up to his room so he can meet you and we can meet his roommate. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sounds fun!” you said, but you suddenly felt uneasy.

MJ noticed somehow, and said, “He’s super chill. No need to be nervous.”

MJ pressed the button for floor 40, the top floor. You shot her a quizzical look, to which she shrugged.

If you had thought the ride up to the 23rdfloor seemed long, the ride to the 40thfloor seemed twice as long. The people on the ground faded to tiny specs as the little number near the ceiling climbed higher and higher.

The ding of the elevator accompanied the opening doors; the 40thfloor was different than the 23rd. There was a single hallway, a few doors labeled ‘Janitorial’ and one door labeled ‘4000.’

You glanced at MJ, who said, “I think his roommate has some crazy money or something.”

You and MJ walked down the short hallway and knocked at the door. There was music playing faintly inside, 90’s hip hop, and you could hear light footsteps approaching the door.

You had not been expecting to see the cute, suspicious boy from Starbucks again, but here he was, standing behind the door with vague recognition in his eyes as he looked at you, then happiness as he looked at MJ. He gave her a hug, the two of them exchanging words about missing each other.

Then, MJ was introducing you to him.

“Y/N, this is Peter. We have known each other for like five years now, so, I mean it when I say he’s a loser,” said MJ through a laugh.

Peter’s chocolate brown eyes met yours. You felt a slight tingle at the base of your neck. He reached out a veiny hand.

“Hi, I’m Peter. Uh, Parker. Peter Parker,” he said, and you watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his creamy neck.

You met his hand with yours and shook it firmly. You realized that you probably looked like you were glaring, and made an effort to soften your expression with a smile.

“Hey, I’m Y/N L/N. It’s nice to meet you,” you offered. He smiled timidly back at you, unruly eyebrows crinkled.

“Um… Do you guys wanna come in? The place is pretty nice, and uh, you can meet Harry,” said Peter as he began walking back into the dorm room.

The ‘dorm room’ was much closer to a penthouse apartment. As nice as you had thought your own room to be, this made it look ridiculous. The furthest wall was a less of a wall and more of a window; it was made of crystal clear glass and displayed and the best view of the city you had ever seen. The rest of the room was decorated sleekly, with dark wood and black accents. There was a huge TV, a leather couch that lined the room’s corners, and a complete kitchen with marble countertops.

You couldn’t even begin to comprehend how rich Peter’s roommate must have been.

As your and MJ’s eyes swept the room in awe, another boy approached. He had neat, dark blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Taller than Peter, he was dressed nicely; a button up shirt, dress pants, loafers, and a sports coat. He looked at you and MJ with a small, patient smile on his face, as if he was used to people reacting this way to his wealth.

“Harry Osborn,” he said, “Good to know that Peter has pretty friends.” He took your hand first, kissing your knuckles lightly. You couldn’t help the feeling of heat rising to your cheeks. He did the same to MJ, and she rolled her eyes but accepted the gesture.

“Good to know that Peter has rich friends,” she responded sarcastically, crossing her arms at her chest.

You looked at Harry skeptically, “Osborn, as in…?”

He laughed a little, awkward with his next words, “Yes… Osborn as in Norman Osborn, as in Oscorp, and as in Osborn Hall.”

You nodded, looking around again, “Makes sense.”

MJ glanced between the two boys in curiosity, “How do you two know each other?”

Peter finally spoke up, “Uh, our parents used to research together, so we were childhood friends. We have recently gotten back in touch, and…” Peter trailed off, gesturing around him.

You didn’t get any tingles that time. He was telling the truth.

The two boys gave you and MJ a tour of the rest of their dorm/penthouse, which consisted of two bathrooms and three separate (and very large) bedrooms. The first bedroom, which belonged to Harry, was decorated with a few framed Forbes magazines and pictures of Harry with an older man you assumed to be his father. The second bedroom, Peter’s, was decorated with a shabby but soft looking comforter and Star Wars posters. The third bedroom was occupied by a boy called Ned Leeds, who was out to dinner with his family, but was known by both Peter and MJ in high school. They promised that you would be introduced to him soon.

When the tour was complete, you and MJ made your way back to the door, saying your goodbyes and goodnights, promising to catch dinner with the pair sometime soon.

Peter’s brown eyes followed you as you left. Even after Harry had walked away, Peter watched. You waved a final goodbye to him and tried to ignore the strange feeling of his eyes on the back of your head as you approached the elevator.

You couldn’t help but think: Murderer.

But by time you and MJ turned around to face forward in the elevator, the door had shut.

As the elevator doors closed, you turned to MJ, “That was insane,” you giggled.

“I know!” she said, astonishment appearing on her face, “How does one person have that much money?”

“No idea. And how is one person so good-looking?”

“Who? Peter or Harry?”

“Well, Harry, but Peter, too! You could have told me that your friend was gorgeous beforehand,” you say, nudging her shoulder a little.

MJ laughed, “Yeah, whatever. You’ll make his head big if he hears you talking like that.”

---

The next day, you were supposed to meet with your mentor for the Leaders of Tomorrow program. There was some kind of ceremony, where the program board provides dinner to both the mentors and the students, allowing them to get to know each other or something. Since you had no idea what field you were interested in, you had taken a quiz, and they were going to match you up based on your responses.

You were nervous, to say the least, but you wanted to make the most of this opportunity, so you decided to rise to the occasion.

The dinner was semi-formal, and you had packed your favorite dress from home. It was from one of your school dances and could easily be considered semi-formal.

Plus, you looked pretty damn good in it.

Anyway, your mentor was a constant for all four years of university. Getting paired up with someone that you didn’t mesh well with would affect your entire experience in the program.

God, I hope this goes well.

You spent the first half of the day hanging out with MJ, still getting to know her, and unpacking the box of things you had gotten in the mail from home.

You started getting ready a few hours before the event. The shower in your dorm was decidedly better than expected, and the hot water helped to wash away some of your nerves.

You finished getting ready in your bedroom, using the mirror you had set up on your desk. You opted for a simpler makeup look that highlighted your cheekbones and eye color. Then, you added a statement lip color that went well with your dress.

You were just about ready, clipping in your earrings, when MJ knocked on your door.

“Hey, girl! How you doing?” she asked. You stood up and began searching for your shoes.

“I’m okay. I mean… I’m nervous. Yikes, how do I look?” you asked her, pretty sure she would give you a straight up answer and trusting her sense of style.

She looked you up and down, eyes narrowing as she studied your appearance.

Finally, she let out a whistle, “You look damn good, Y/N,” she replied, an approving smile gracing her lips.

No tingle; she really meant that.

Your cheeks burned, always so susceptible to compliments. “Thanks, MJ. Wish me luck!”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need it. They’re gonna love you,” she said, ushering you out the door and waving at you.

“Bye, MJ,” you said, waving back as you started wobbling down the hallway, not used to the heels yet.

Shit.

The ceremony was being held in Osborn Hall, so the trek there was only a matter of taking the elevator to the right floor. But, once you reached the ballroom, which had been decorated beautifully in preparation for the ceremony, you were lost.

There were people everywhere. Literally everywhere. You couldn’t even see the stage.

By the grace of some being above, you managed to find your assigned seat at one of the round tables, marked by a name card that had fancy letters on it.

You sat down, arranging your dress around you. It was 6:02 pm. The ceremony was to start at 6:30, but you were supposed to get there early to meet your mentor.

You looked around you, guessing that about half of the people in the room were contributors to the massive fund that put you and 49 other students through college for free, and that the other half was made up of staff, students, and mentors.

A couple of minutes later, someone else sat at your table, another student. You tried to make pleasant conversation with them until your mentor arrived. However, theirs arrived first, and you watched the happy introduction wistfully.

A couple more minutes passed, and you heard a familiar voice behind you.

You turned around, and MJ’s friend Peter is there, talking to an attractive older man, around 50, with dark, styled hair and calculating, brown eyes. You didn’t have the best view, but you could tell he had a fashionably-styled goatee, and a perfectly-tailored, navy blue suit that screams “rich.” He wasn’t wearing a tie, instead allowing his white button up to hang open a button or two more than appropriate. His lips were moving, and his face was sarcastic, but you can’t hear what he was saying.

Peter didn’t notice you looking at him. He was wearing a pretty fancy suit himself, dark grey with a black tie. He looks nice, and you can’t help but stare a little as his eyebrows crinkle in concentration at something the older man is saying, the right eyebrow a little more out of place than the left. His pursed lips crack into a smile as he listens earnestly.

You caught yourself smiling at the sight.

The pair shifted a little, and you were able to look at the older man’s face more carefully.

It’s Tony Stark.

How the hell does Peter know Tony Stark?

You were still studying them, guessing that Tony was Peter’s mentor, when someone pulled out the chair next to you. It was a Latina woman, mid to late 30s, beautiful but intense as she made eye contact with you and attempted a smile.

“Hi, I’m Gina Lupo. Are you Y/N L/N?” she asked, dark eyes focused on you as you stutter a response.

“Hi. Yes, that’s me,” you said, offering her a hand to shake. Her long, dark brown hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she was wearing a nice, black pant suit.

Her firm handshake confirmed what you suspected, “Good. I’m your mentor, then,” she laughed, but her intimidating expression remained in place as she sat down next to you, “Where are you from?”

“A couple hours outside of Chicago, how about you?”

“Brooklyn,” she said with a small smile, “How did you end up at ESU?”

“This scholarship, mainly. But I have always wanted to go to school in a big city,” you explained.

She nodded, “Do you know what you want to study?”

“No, not really,” you said with a nervous laugh, “I am hoping to figure it out at some point this year.” I am hoping you can help me figure it out.

She nodded again, “I didn’t know what I wanted to study until my second year of school.”

“What did you decide on?”

“Double major in Criminal Justice and Psychology,” she said, eyes scanning the room as she spoke, “I went to the police academy right after I graduated. Eventually I worked my way up to detective status, and now I run the department.”

Impressive.

“Wow, that’s…really impressive. How did you know that you wanted to go into criminal justice?”

“I-” she was cut off by Peter sitting down at your table with Tony Stark. Peter didn’t seem to have noticed you, yet, his chocolate brown eyes still intently focusing on Tony.

What are the chances that he would be seated at my table?

Then, he looked up.

His eyes widened, “Y/N!” he exclaimed, looking you up and down a little, clearly surprised at your presence. Tony’s eyes followed Peter’s, reading the situation. Gina’s eyes followed Tony’s, clearly holding back in amazement.

This was going to be interesting.

---

A/N 2: If you made it this far without quitting or vomiting…… thanks for reading and let me know what you think HERE! Watch for chapter 2 and pls give me love😙😙😙😙

Tag List: @condy-wants-a-cookie @misskarynie (let me know if you wanna be added!)

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker imagine #Peter Parker imagines #Peter Parker fanfic #marvel fanficiton #avengers fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #avengers #marvel avengers #tom holland #harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield x reader #tom holland x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman: homecoming #tony stark #ummm idk #bernadine writes #writing #handling the truth

[natalie-m-davis]

Filling Vacant Shelves

Rating: PG-13 Words: 1,620 Warnings: None

A/N: Part 2 (Chapter One) DONE! Now I know all of BTS doesn’t speak fluent English but for the sake of this piece of fiction, they do. As you read further in this part you’ll definitely see that Namjoon is my bias. Do you like the Milk and Honey concept? If you guys haven’t read it it’s a collection of poetry that you definitely want to have as apart of your library. The Sun and Her Flowers as well. Oh, and don’t worry, Jin, Hoseok, and Jimin will be in the next part. I will be making a master-list once I post part three and when I figure out how to make one. Don’t forget to give me feedback guys MY INBOX IS OPEN and WAITING. Enjoy! 

[Part 2] Encounter One: Work

i know it’s hard believe me i know it feels like tomorrow will never come and today will be the most difficult day to get through but i swear you will get through the hurt will pass as it always does if you give it time and let it so let it go slowly like a broken promise let it go.

— Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey

“Getting the usual today Tanya.” I asked one of out regulars.

“You know it! Thanks Camila.”

I took her order of a venti iced caramel macchiato— almond milk, extra caramel sauce, light ice and 3 shots of espresso. Since no one was in line behind her I went on and made the drink as well. She prefers I do anyway since I seem to be the only one who makes it to her perfected taste.

It was a bit slow to be a Friday morning, but I didn’t mind it. Ever since I got transferred to this store when I moved back home a week ago; I’ve slowly come to like my new coworkers—who treat me as if I’ve been working here forever—and the atmosphere that comes with our store being part bookstore as well. As I made my way back to the register, a group of customers was approaching. I greeted them and asked the usual—

“Good Morning. What can I get for you all?”

There were three of them and they all looked exactly alike. Except for the hair colors that gave them a bit of a distinction. One approached me already knowing what he wanted to order while the other two stared at the menu above me. Once he got a bit closer to me I was able to get a better look at him. He was well polished, style practically screamed he has coin, multiple piercings on the ears. Seems to be the artsy type. Taking in the appearance of his face, all I could say to that was— he was beautiful! Like, mesmerizing and blindingly beautiful that I finally realized I was still staring and hadn’t heard his order.

Snapping out of the trans-state I was in, “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” He smiled, nodding his head.

“I’d like a grande sweet cream cold brew, light ice.”

“Name?” I asked as I was prepared to write on his cup.

“You can just put V.” He looked back to the others to see if they had decided on what they’re getting. One that had jet black hair and baby like facial features stepped up next to him and relayed me his order.

“Hi, may I have a venti iced blonde vanilla latte. Uuhh, that’s all.” He smiled wide, making his features then to look… I don’t know, almost bunny like.

“And the name for the cup?”

He looked me in the eyes and said “International Playboy.” Giving me a wink afterward. A flirt, cute. I bit my lip absentmindedly writing his “name” on the cup. The last one stepped to me. Beauty just as equivalent to the first two. His bleached blonde hair pushed back with a headband was the cherry on top. I gave him a courteous smile.

“Can I get a grande iced coffee with milk, extra sweetener. The name for the cup is Suga.”

I marked the cup as he spoke. After ringing them up my manager told me that we had just received a shipment of books ready to be shelved. And just like that, within seconds, I went from barista to bookseller.

I took off my apron as I made my way to the back. I picked up the inventory list and saw that our shipment today was a new mystery novel. With the box on a dolly, I made my way to the Mystery section. Right in between Thriller and Science Fiction. And there it was, the shelf labeled for me need to stock with our newest addition. It took me a while to begin because I was so focused on reading the book— the title and description blurb on the back. A girl has to have a little something to say about it to a customer if they ask about it. It’s kind of my job. I got more wrapped up in the book that I ended up on the third page of the first chapter when I saw a customer approaching the Sci-fi section next to me.

He was rather tall. Bleached blonde and bubblegum hair. Gold round-framed glasses that almost sat at the edge of his nose. I couldn’t see much of his face but his neck was as long and slender as the rest of his limbs. A few moles making their way up to his jawline. He was wearing a fitted yellow and navy blue polo tee with dark denim overalls. Black and white hightop vans to complete his look. He reminded me of the guys that ordered coffee earlier, I wonder if there’s any relation.

His eyes were scanning the shelves as my eyes were scanning him. Haven’t stocked the shelf and I’m eyeing down a complete stranger. You could get penalized for this. I averted my attention back to the books, starting to fill the shelf one book at a time. I caught a few glances over at the stranger once more, since he seemed to be stuck on which book to pick. While keeping my eyes over in my area I said aloud—

“I recommend Fahrenheit 451 or The Giver. I heard they’re good reads. I haven’t read them yet personally but, thought you could use some help. If you’re not sure on what to choose.”

Looking over at him, I saw he had his face in a shocked expression. His eyes were the purest brown eyes I’ve seen. His face relaxed into a smile, flexing a dimple on his left cheek.

“I guess you see me a bit frustrated over here, huh?”

I smiled and nodded my head. “It’s also my job to ask if the customer needs any help looking for something specific. I wouldn’t be doing it correctly as an employee if I wasn’t following the set rules and regulations.” I finished up with putting the books on the shelf, giving him my undivided attention.

He held his head down and gave a shy laugh. “Well, I appreciate the assistance. Now if only you can point out those books for me.”

The level of flirting is hella high here people! I laughed as he stepped aside, making room for me to get to the shelves. Scanning them, looking for the books. I found them in seconds and handed both to him. I watched as he did the same thing I did earlier— read the titles and turned the book to the back to read the synopsis.

“Both seem intriguing— I’ll get them. Also because you recommended them to me…”

“Camila.”

He stuck his hand out. “Camilia.” He said testing out my name on his tongue. “I’m Namjoon.”

I took his hand. “Nice to meet you Namjoon.” We were still holding hands when someone called his same from behind me. I turned and saw that it was the “International Playboy” signaling that it was time for them to be going. So that answers my question of him having any relations with them. He walked past me in a rush, then looked back, assuming I was following.

“You’re not going to check me out?” He asked giving me his dimpled smile.

I gave him a sly one in return. “I’m only on the floor, someone else is on the register today. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Thank you again for the help though. Camila.”

“It was my pleasure. Namjoon.”

He turned to leave, only to end up walking into the dolly I had left in my work area from earlier. He swore then groaned after he hit his leg up against it. I giggled slightly, not wanting him to feel more embarrassed than what he already was. He limped away as I said—

“Hope you come again!” Namjoon…

* * *

Hours later my shift was over. I hung my barista apron up for the week, gathering my belonging and heading out. Preparing myself for my weekend activities. I’m just going to do what you did last weekend: a. stay in bed b. eat chocolate chip mint ice-cream c. disconnect myself from the world d. blast my rock/pop rock playlist…on repeat e. cry. till the tears stop

Technically I’ve been doing a, b, d, and e, ever since the— breakup. Did I mention I’ve been reading Rupi Kaur’s Milk and Honey since then? Yeah. That’s where some of those ideas came from— to do list (after the breakup). And there are plenty more. I had finally made it home. At that point, I was ready to get relaxed and take a quick nap before starting with what I had lined up for the weekend. Still in my work clothes, I  plopped down on my bed. Kicking my shoes off somewhere in my room and tucking my pillow under my head. Ready for sleep to elude me from all else around me.

Minutes after I had laid down, ready for a short slumber, someone was telling me to get up. My best friend— Vera.  

“Get up Camila, we’re going out! You are not repeating last weekend’s shit. I won’t allow it.” She said as she threw the cover off of me. I didn’t move.

Next thing I knew, I was being pulled off of my bed and onto the floor. Ass hitting it then my head. She wasn’t playing any games and it surely wasn’t up for discussion.

#fanfiction #writer #fangirl #bangtan boys #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #bts #bts fanfic #btsxarmy #rupi kaur #reader #booklr #kpop #on the shelf #filling vacant shelves

[oodlyenough]

fic: tall flat white

~2k, coffee shop AU (really). Rhys, Fiona & Sasha, gen with a lil bit of one-sided Rhys/Sasha because that’s who I am as a person. also on AO3

entirely the result of a joke conversation with @shinyopals about how to transport a character like handsome jack into something as mundane as a coffee shop and now here we are, 2k words later. also shoutout to this monstrosity.

Fiona was, without a doubt, the worst customer Rhys had ever known.

“Hey,” she announced, a bit too familiar for someone who was, inevitably, about to do something that would jeopardize his job.

He sighed.

“Can I get a….” She leaned heavily across the counter to scan the menu, legs stretched out straight behind her, balanced on the tips of her boots. “Grande vanilla bean frappucino with heavy cream, no ice, no water, no whip, matcha powder, extra caramel drizzle, extra chocolate chips with two shots espresso in a venti cup?”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “Come on. You don’t actually want that.”

“Sure I do,” said Fiona, with a voice that did nothing to convince him of her sincerity. She slapped a handful of change onto the counter. “Chop chop!”

He scooped the change into his palm. “Hey, this is twenty cents short—”

But she’d already flitted around to wait for her drink at the other side of the counter, so he sighed and dug the missing dimes out of his own pocket instead. Grabbing a cup from the stack, he Sharpied her absurd order on the side along with her name, intentionally misspelled with a Ph in the precise way he knew she hated.

Fiona rifled through the stack of CDs on display, seemingly oblivious to the way her methods left them askew and in need of rearranging.

“Oh yeah,” she called casually, “I left my umbrella here the other day.”

“No, you didn’t.” “Yes I did,” she insisted, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes belying the innocence in her voice. “Did anyone turn it in? It was black, hooked handle, button to open it—” “You’re describing the world’s most generic umbrella. I’ve seen that stupid ‘lifehack’—” “My umbrella’s not creative enough for you? Don’t insult my umbrella.” The sound of the blender drowned out his sigh. “When did you say you left it here?” “Saturday.” At least she’d done that much research. “The big rain storm. Obviously.”

“You weren’t in on Saturday.” “How would you know?” “I was working.” Fiona snorted. “What, all day?”

The truthful answer to that was yes, actually: an excruciating open-to-close shift, for which he had only been paid approximately half. The rest was an off-the-books and probably-illegal favour for the manager that Rhys was really hoping paid off in two months when the next rung on the corporate ladder finally had an opening.

But telling Fiona that didn’t feel like much of a win, so instead he said, “No one turned in any umbrellas, Fiona, better luck next rainstorm,” and plunked her drink on the counter in front of her.

Fiona wrinkled her nose in a pout, which turned to a scowl as she picked up her cup and saw the spelling of her name. Rhys smirked and used a rag to wipe the ring of condensation off the counter, looking to the door just in time to see it open.

Fiona was easily the worst customer Rhys had ever known, but without a doubt the best part of Fiona the customer was that her appearances sometimes guest-starred her younger sister, Sasha.

This, it seemed, was one such lucky visit.

Sasha was beautiful, cool, and brimming with resentment for anyone or anything that might accurately be deemed ‘The Man’, which may or may not include Rhys depending on her mood but absolutely always included his place of employment. She walked through the door, slipped the hood off her head, hooked her headphones around her neck and gravitated across the shop to her sister.

“Hey, Fi,” she said, and then, catching sight of him, added a nod of acknowledgment. “Rhys.”

“Hey,” he croaked. “Hi.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed suspiciously in his direction.  

He cleared his throat. “Uh, hey, so, Sasha, can I get you something?”     

She shook her head, the bundle of dreads tied behind her head wobbling as she did so. “I’m good.” She held up a paper coffee cup of her own, emblazoned with the logo of the rival indie cafe down the street. “Fair trade,” she added, a little more pointedly than was probably necessary.

“We’re fair trade,” he said, reflexively and a little bit pathetically, but Sasha only raised an eyebrow.

“Mmm, I know you say that,” she said, almost on the border of pitying before she nudged Fiona with her elbow. “So, I may have committed some light vandalism.”

Fiona’s eyes lit up as much as Rhys’ heart sank.

“Tell me everything,” said Fiona.

“Please tell me it wasn’t here,” said Rhys.

Sasha’s grin turned wicked, the family resemblance between her and Fiona suddenly striking.

“In the parking lot. I may have noticed a certain expensive car with a certain bumper sticker containing a certain slogan for a certain politician, and my keys and I may have tried to redecorate. A little.”

Fiona laughed and gave Sasha an exuberant high-five; Rhys groaned and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“That’s my manager’s car,” he moaned.

Fiona laughed harder at that. “Of course it is.”

Unbothered, Sasha took a sip of her competitor-brand coffee. “Your manager seems like a dick.”

Rhys opened his mouth, considered that there was no contribution he could make to this discussion that wouldn’t jeopardize either his job or Sasha’s esteem, and shut it again.

“Oh, he is a dick,” agreed Fiona. “Like, I bet he’s killed a man.” Rhys rolled his eyes. “What?”

“Have you seen his face? That’s the face of a man who’s watched the life leave someone’s eyes.”

“That’s ridiculous.” “What happened to the guy who used to own this place, eh? Didn’t he disappear?” She wiggled her fingers mysteriously. “I’m just sayin’.” She took a slurp of her frappucino and reached across the counter, slapping Rhys’ arm with enthusiasm. “Oh, oh, tell her what he said about the pipelines.”

It was difficult to ignore Sasha’s expectant gaze.

“I… need to get back to work,” Rhys said lamely. “Yeah, hey, speaking of,” said Fiona, waving her half-finished drink, “this isn’t lactose free, is it?” “You didn’t order lactose free.”

“Sure I did.”

“No, you didn’t! And you barely even paid for the first—” “The customer is always right, Rhys,” she sing-songed. “That’s somewhere in your corporate handbook or personal bible or whatever, right?” She pulled back her half-empty drink as he reached for it. “I’ll keep this one, though. You know.” She sucked noisily on the straw. “Wouldn’t wanna waste it.”

Rhys glared at her, but grabbed an empty cup and started over anyway. “You’re going to get me fired.”

“I’d be doing you a favour,” said Fiona. She pulled the container of sugar packets towards her, arranging several into a tiny house of cards he’d have to rearrange later. “You still putting in hours for free?”

But Sasha was paying attention now, staring at him critically. “They’ve got you working for free? Why would you do that?”

“That’s not… strictly speaking, that’s not, exactly, what—”

“Because he’s a spineless kiss-ass,” Fiona explained, knocking over her sugar tower with one finger.  

Sasha put a hand on her hip. “That’s stupid. You don’t owe them anything.”

Having Sasha’s righteous fury aimed in his defense was a little rewarding, if also a little embarrassing.

Fiona, of course, was there to ruin it.

“Oh, but Sash, it’s all about playing the game!” She placed a theatrical hand over her chest. “If he works hard enough and long enough for his douchebag boss maybe one day, seven years from now, he might finally get to be assistant to the regional manager of a soulless franchised multinational coffee chain.” She screwed her face up like she was crying and wiped away an imaginary tear. “Every little boy’s dream.”

Rhys set her new drink down on the counter with enough force that some spilled out the lid. “Very funny.”

“That’s... sad,” said Sasha, looking at him with an expression closer to pity than he would have liked. “You can do better than this place. Aren’t you a techie or something?”

Rhys was not entirely sure whether or not he ought to be flattered, let alone whether or not he was.

“Hey now, easy, Sash, don’t make the delusions of grandeur any worse.” Fiona grabbed at her second drink happily, tossing the now-empty original into the garbage.

Before he could respond to the insult, or even demand she clean up the wreckage of sugar packets she’d left behind, Fiona reached into her pocket and began waving a folded piece of paper between two fingers.

“By the way,” she announced, dropping her voice to a more conspiratory volume. “I may have a copy of next week’s AI design test.”

“What? You’re not even in that class.”

Fiona shrugged elusively. “I know people.” She dangled the paper in front of his face as he tidied the sugar. “You want it?”

He did. AI Design was his hardest class, and his grades were slipping. But he looked at the paper, then looked at Sasha, and then said, “No.”

“Liar.”

“No, no, I don’t, I’m—reformed,” he insisted, unable to stop another furtive glance in Sasha’s direction. Sasha, engrossed in tapping away on her phone, her back against the counter, didn’t notice.

Fiona did. Her eyes went wide with recognition, Rhys felt the colour drain from his face, and Fiona’s eyebrows knit together in a disgusted glare.

Oblivious, Sasha broke the tension by standing up straight and tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans. “Oh, hey, Fi, gotta run, August’s got some new gear to show me.” She slid the headphones looped around her neck back over her ears and raised a hand to wave casually at Rhys. “Good luck with your murder boss.”

Rhys managed a feeble and silent wave of his own.

Fiona cleared her throat. The angry expression of a second ago had been replaced by a look of false innocence as she sucked on the straw of her drink and waved the paper back and forth between two fingers. He reached for the paper, but Fiona snatched it away, holding out an empty palm instead.

With a defeated groan, Rhys moved to the counter, stuffed an assortment of pastries into a bag, and then thrust the bag into Fiona’s open palm.

“You’re going to get me fired and you’re going to get me expelled,” he complained, but the malice was wearing thin.

Ill-gotten food and drink in one hand, Fiona flashed a self-satisfied smile, winked, and tucked the paper into his apron pocket. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”

#shinyopals #tales from the borderlands #rhys the company man #fiona the con artist #sasha the kid sister #oodlyenough i write fic #baby's first coffee shop au lmfao

[crbrickey]

Goals...

All the time, people ask me how do you keep going? When I say people, I mean me. It’s simple, I have made goals in my life that give me a reason to keep fighting. 

In this blog, I'm going to write about how I use goals in my life and rules I use when creating them. Now, I am no expert, I mean hell, I'm 34 and unemployed. So, I may not be the best person to write on this topic, but I'm going to write it anyway and take it with a grain of salt. 

Goals took over my life when I was 9 and starting to comprehend everything in my life. I realized I had a terminal disease and I wasn't the first child in my family. At this time I vowed to never make my parents have to bury another child. The circle of life isn't meant to go that way. At that age I couldn't comprehend that feeling completely but I knew it wasn’t right. Now that I am older and have dealt with death, I know for a fact this was the best goal I could have made for myself at that age. 

Now I want to talk about my “goal setting process.” I do goals with a 3 prong approach. I call them small, medium and large. (Tall,Grande,Venti for our Starbucks audience) The large is the grandiose goal, it is the ultimate goal that we are trying to approach. Your large goal is way out there and so I realize if you don’t see progress, its easy to lose track of what you’re trying to approach. Hence, my other 2 prongs. Now medium goal, I like it to be a few years out, but no more than 10 but no closer than 2. At 9, it was simple for me, make it to graduation. It would bring great joy to my parents if they saw their child graduate high school. This became my medium goal, but I still felt like it was too far out. So, I decided to do goals that would be in the near future, no farther out than 2 years. My small goal was to make to to 10. 

Here is where we come up with rules. My first rule is pretty simple. RULE 1, THE SMALL AND MEDIUM GOALS HAVE TO BE TO HELP YOU GET TO THE LARGE GOAL.

My second rule is a big one. Once you meet a goal, it is imperative to replace it with a new goal. Yes, celebrations are nice, but you have to keep that drive. One little slip up and you can find yourself in a rutt. Once I made it to 10, my next goal was going to middle school. Another big milestone for me. I was going to a school where you had to start performing tasks as an adult. What I mean by that, passing period. It was a big deal being able to take yourself to your next class. A little bit of independence. 

Once I made it to middle school, it became to become a basketball manager, go to high school, go to Homecoming etc.. The important thing was the very next day after I achieved a goal, I would replace it with a new one. RULE 2, ALWAYS REPLACE MADE GOIALS WITH NEW ONES. 

For me, rule 3 is probably the most important. Even though a lot of motivational speakers would hate me for saying this, but your goals have to be fluid. What I mean by that, don’t be afraid to change them. Life can be a real jerk sometimes and knock you off course. Sometimes these setbacks will make even your small goal seem unattainable. Remember as I said earlier, being able to reach goals is what keeps me going. If I saw no goal attainable, I would be lost. This has happened to me a lot. Example: every time I am sick. Especially the times the Doctors have all but ruled me out. In these instances, I would change my small goal to something as simple as surviving through the night, not dying while I had company etc.. 

This example comes from my sophomore year when I was so sick the priest came to give me my last rites. After the priest left, I was blessed to have a friend and her sister come and sing to me. While they were there, I kept fighting knowing watching some one die at such a young age couldn’t be good. That fighting for 30 minutes, gave me enough time that a family friend was able to get to Ark City and change my bi-pap settings. The new settings finally gave me the air I needed to survive. So you can see how I changed my small goal from going to prom to not dying in front of friends in a minute. That changed the reason I am still here today. Its easy to give everything you’ve got for 30 minutes as opposed to a year and a half. So like I said, RULE 3, YOUR GOALS MUST BE FLUID. THEY NEED TO BE CHANGED SOMETIMES AT A MOMENTS NOTICE. 

 My next rule is pretty obvious so we won’t spend much time on it. Make sure your goals are realistic. I think some of our problems today, is that kids are told they can do or be anything. Not true Tommy, if you’re 5′0- you’re not gonna be an NBA player. I will never climb Mt. Everest because I’m in a wheelchair, so I'm never going to make that a goal. If you hate school like I did, you will never become a Doctor. Because that much school is a deal breaker. (I wanted to be a lawyer when I was younger, but I realized- too much school) Now, I'm not saying you can’t become that doctor, but you're going to have to change who you are and when you make your goal today, make it for the person you are today. Remember, goals are fluid, so they can change but you're doing yourself a disservice if you make a goal for the person you are not. RULE 4, MAKE YOUR GOALS REALISTIC.

Here’s a rule that I bet no one has ever mentioned. I know I had never heard it before. Make sure your goals are at least in your control 50%. That sounds confusing, let me explain. Don’t have a goal to win the lottery. You have like .00000001 % control of that. The only thing you control is whether or not to buy the ticket. Let me give another example, you want to be the first to do something, say go to Mars. I know, another far out there-i’m not the best at examples. The point being though, you can’t control the end. The lottery is all luck and trying to be the first to do something, relies on everyone else not doing it before you. You can’t control the rest of the world. If you make goals that others can influence, it’s easy to not reach them. It is empirical to be at least majority owner of your goals. I know 50.1% is majority but I stop at 50% because sometimes you need a partner. If you guys both go 50/50 you have majority control. Although split, it’s still majority. RULE 5, MAKE YOUR GOALS WHERE YOU HAVE AT LEAST 50% CONTROL. 

Time limits are bad. Remember rule 2, I talked about life can knock you down. When it does, it can throw off someones timeline. If you can’t reach a goal, you may fall into a real problem. So this one is simple. RULE 6, NEVER PUT A TIME LIMIT ON GOALS. 

Off topic, but I'm doing this with spring training on, and I looked up and they were showing that chunky milk commercial, it is the grossest thing ever. Allow me a little bit to gather myself. 

Everybody’s life has changes throughout. My life changed last year when I started receiving Spinraza. My life expectancy has gone up ten fold. I very easily could live to an old age just like the rest of you guys. So, I had to make changes. All my life, my goals for the most part were just goals to survive. I really didn’t see my life entering an adult stage. Even when I first graduated college and was suppose to enter adult stage. I reverted to partying and traveling. My thinking was life is short, I want to enjoy it. And I have no regrets. I’ve done things I'd only dreamed about. But now, I’m realizing my life has a lot longer expiration date. So, I'm at this crossroads. What to do. Simple, I made more goal trees as I call them. I made a personal, (family, love etc.) and a professional (work, job etc..). So this is the rule. RULE 7, HAVE MULTIPLE GOAL TREES. Life is too big for only one goal. 

Now that we know my 7 rules for setting my goals, what are my goals? I have 3 active goal trees. 

FIRST GOAL TREE, life expectancy. LARGE, make sure my parents don't have to bury me. MEDIUM, watch my niece and nephews graduate. (I’m kind of breaking my rule since Easton is still 14 years away, but it works because Alex and Cayden fall in the next 8 and 9 years). SMALL, get my next Spinraza shot. It is Match 8th, so when I reach that one, I'll probably just go with my next one. 

GOAL TREE 2. Professional. LARGE, run for public office so I can be an advocate for people with physical disabilities. MEDIUM, get this blog to go viral so I can start helping those that need it. SMALL, get 10 shares for a blog. Could this be the one?? 

GOAL TREE 3. PERSONAL. LARGE, I'll say it, get married. Didn't think I'd live long enough to worry about that. MEDIUM, get a girlfriend. SMALL, find a dating site that works, I'll be honest, I don’t think I’ll meet my future Mrs. Brickey at the bar, especially since I don’t go there anymore. 

Alright people, that is how I use goals to get me to this point in my life. I hope this is helpful and if it is, please share. I really do want to help other people. 

[fantasticcollectionmentality-fan]

The Coffee-Genes Story Brews Discontent on Thanksgiving

A few weeks ago a report claiming a love for coffee is “in the genes” fleetingly flashed across screens. I thought I’d let the grounds settle and then take a closer look, fitting with my writing about food every Thanksgiving (pumpkins last year, yo-yo dieting in 2016, and turkeys in 2015).

I keep a mental list of dumb things linked to genes.

Geno-Everything

“Get the giggles easily? Blame your genes: Genetic variant enhances how people react to funny – and sad – situations,” reported the Daily Mail, echoing a paper published in the journal Emotion. It refers to the long and short variants (alleles) of the 5-HTTLPR gene, which encodes the serotonin transporter. Variants of that gene are connected to whether participants laughed at Gary Larsen cartoons or not.

An article in The Telegraph, “It’s All In Your Genes: How DNA Explains Your Sense of Humor, Sleep Patterns, and Phobias,” explored arachnophobia, speculating about a genetic advantage handed down from an ancient aversion to spiders. The article links to another Telegraph article about a genetic connection to shopping style.

Soon I found myself sucked into a quagmire of British newspapers parroting each other, but not the technical reports. They evoke “in your genes” to cover quite a technological territory, including twin studies, comparing behaviors to having certain gene variants, to genome-wide association studies, to spinning stories that just make sense, like a fear of scorpions or not eating toxic bugs.

Twin studies are classic, low-tech but intriguing. Basically, a trait shared more often among identical twins than among fraternal twins indicates an inherited component. But the characteristics can veer into vagueness, such as a twin study that examined the trait of “how to vote.” A paper from the Journal of Politics that inspired headlines was more specific. The researchers equated having a particular variant of the dopamine D2 receptor gene with belonging to a political party. Has the current situation in the U.S. overridden a DNA-encoded preference for identifying as Republican or Democrat?

Wikipedia, I discovered, lists “Genopolitics” as “the study of the genetic basis of political behavior and attitudes,” made up of behavioral geneticists, politicians, and psychologists. Not molecular biologists who might explain how DNA base sequences that encode proteins could affect what we find funny, whether we power shop or linger, and whether we continue to vote according to our political party even when an elected leader doesn’t behave quite as we expected.

Tracking Genetic Influence on Coffee Consumption

My unofficial, nonscientific observations suggest that people either love or hate coffee.

The aversion is oft-attributed to a time long ago when the ability to taste and spit out bitter substances was adaptive – poisonous plants and decaying matter. In this nice explanation, Genetics of Taste and Smell: Poisons and Pleasures, Danielle Renee Reed and Antti Knaapila of the Monell Chemical Senses Center in Philadelphia describe our individual “chemosensory landscapes” (the chemical senses being smell and taste): “Genetic studies in humans and experimental animals strongly suggest that the liking of sugar and fat is influenced by genotype; likewise, the abilities to detect bitterness and the malodors of rotting food are highly variable among individuals.”

Taste according to genotype is the basis of the new study. But first came an investigation from 2016. That paper, in Scientific Reports, associated variants of a gene with “habitual coffee consumption” in two populations in Italy, assessed with the metric “number of cups per day.”

Stop. Right. There. A “cup” of coffee is hardly a unit measure! How many times have I stopped someone from making coffee using 2 tablespoons to 8 ounces of water, because a cup of coffee is actually 2 tablespoons of grinds to 6 ounces (ok, 6.5 if you like it weak)? If the participants in these studies do not consistently drink the same number of ounces, well, what does that do to the statistics? Researchers who are meticulous in describing DNA should at least standardize a cup of coffee. Tall, grande, and vente would be more acceptable because at least then we can calculate the ounces.

Anyway, the 2016 report revealed a gene called PDSS2(prenyl diphosphate synthease, subunit 2) that influences fondness for coffee, somehow, because the encoded protein regulates caffeine metabolism. I looked it up in the geneticist’s bible Online Mendelian Inheritance in Man and PDSS2 turns out to be part of coenzyme Q10. That makes sense, given CoQ10’s energy-boosting rep.

The just-published study, also in Scientific Reports but from a different research team, from Northwestern Medicine and QIMR Berghofer Medical Research Institute in Australia, didn’t look at caffeine metabolism or its jolt, but ability to sense (taste) bitterness. They compared three parts of the genome that harbor single-base markers (SNPs) that in twin studies were associated with “perceived intensity” of three bitter chemicals: caffeine of course, quinine (the malaria drug from tree bark), and PROP (propylthiouracil; a synthetic chemical that elicits a taste similar to that of broccoli).

The marker for PROP is on chromosome 7. Two markers in a cluster of taste genes on chromosome 12 tracked with quinine and caffeine. The study also assessed fondness for tea and alcohol, but coffee is my drinking drug of choice.

Past studies on twins had implicated the influence of these three chemicals on bitter taste perception as being heritable – heritability is perhaps the second most misused genetic term in the media, following genetic code. Even scientists who aren’t geneticists misuse it.

Heritability refers to the degree that genes contribute to the variation in a trait in a population – NOT to the degree to which a trait is inherited. Anyway, variants of these three genes seem to be connected to whether a person is like me and finds coffee bitter and likes it, or my husband Larry, repelled by the bitterness.

The researchers considered the three bitter-sensing gene variants among the 438,870 participants in the UK Biobank, asking them to self-report their coffee consumption. The exact wording: “How many cups of coffee do you drink each day? (including decaffeinated coffee).”

Wouldn’t the caffeine/no caffeine make a difference? And why calculate confidence intervals and standard deviation to presumably assess how much their intake varied from day to day, but not quantify the volume of the cups??? What am I missing? Perhaps in the UK coffee cup volume never varies and is common knowledge. But then again, they have Starbucks. So I decided to do some limited math.

Average coffee consumption, according to the study, was 2.13 cups per day with standard deviation of 2.1. Applying the Starbucks conversion formula of tall (=12 ounces), grande (16 ounces), and venti (20 ounces) and multiplying by 2.13 average number of daily cups gives the possibilities of 25.56, 34.08, and 42.6 ounces, respectively. And if a person were to have, say, a venti in the morning and a quick tall later on, the values would fall in between the extremes, approaching a lovely continuous distribution, like a classic polygenic trait.

Detail aside, plotting reported increasing coffee consumption against the three markers revealed a correlation only for the marker (a chromosome 12 taste SNP) for caffeine, and not the markers for quinine or PROP. But the effect was hardly dramatic enough to justify the wide reporting.

Hype

Drilling down into the details of the report, rather than just cutting and pasting from a news release, reveals an increase in covfefe consumption range from .02 to .15 UK cups per day among the genetically enhanced like myself. I didn’t need a study to tell me that folks tend to like coffee or tea, but not both, with the exception of my eclectic best friend Wendy.

An increase of circa 10% of an undefined cup made headlines? It did. Here and here and here, for example.

This is why I like to wait a few days or weeks after a news release comes out and then go back to the original paper.

The study had a few flaws. Only 5% of the Brits in the database took part, which might have introduced bias in favor of coffee connoisseurs. Participants were mostly or all European whites. More egregious, the investigation apparently didn’t distinguish among Dunkin’ Donuts, Starbucks, and whatever chains are endemic to feed the addiction in the UK. Brew strength is critical to any coffee lover and we all know there’s quite a distinction between Starbucks and Dunkin’.

The findings are considered “causal,” the researchers contend, rather than merely an association, because of a plausible mechanism, presumably the link to a variant of a bitter taste gene. OK.

The next step is to hypothesize a seeming conundrum: if a drink tastes more bitter, why do some of us like it? Here’s where we could perhaps use one of those Genopoliticians, but study co-author Marilyn Cornelis, assistant professor of preventive medicine at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, explained. “You’d expect that people who are particularly sensitive to the bitter taste of caffeine would drink less coffee. The opposite results of our study suggest coffee consumers acquire a taste or an ability to detect caffeine due to the learned positive reinforcement (i.e. stimulation) elicited by caffeine.” And Starbucks certainly provides a nice environment. That’s the beauty of the scientific method. If findings are unexpected, come up with a new hypothesis, then test it.

To that end, the investigators conclude that “further research is required to validate the causal effects detected in the present study.”

Um, why????

Some people just like bitter-tasting foods.

Happy Thanksgiving!