Archive of Our Own

The door to the coffee shop swings open, sending the clear, melodic sound of wind chimes twinkling through the store. Neil feels it in his teeth and winces. Someone in some corporate boardroom must’ve decided the sound was soothing, or energizing, or whatever the fuck else. On Neil, it’s got a sort of backwards Pavlovian effect. He’s been working here for almost three years, and the sound of those chimes has yet to bring him anything good.

The customer is a woman with a gurgling baby on her hip. She stands at the counter for a while, taking her sweet time to order. Neil doesn’t hate customers— if there were no customers, he’d have no job, and if he had no job, he’d be really fucked— but he does wish they were as good at knowing what they want as he is at getting it for them. The customer stares at the royal blue signs advertising various deals and specials hung at regular intervals along the store’s faux-wood-paneled walls. Neil scours the stainless steel countertop in attempt to get rid of a suspicious-looking crust.

“I’ll have a large iced coffee,” she finally says. “No sugar, extra cream.”

At least it’s a straightforward order. Neil makes the drink with practiced efficiency, tuning out the amiable chatter burbling up from every corner of the store and the bland pop song playing on the radio. Nate’s fond of saying Neil has all the people skills of a brick wall, but he’s never seen anybody make a double-chocolate mocha latte as quickly or consistently as Neil can, and Nate’s managed this branch of Blue Room Coffee for over a decade.

After the woman pays, Neil checks his watch. Nate, micromanaging bastard that he is, wouldn’t be happy to catch him clock-watching so soon into his shift, but Nate’s out back with Breedan lugging boxes of paper goods into the store room. And besides, it’s been relatively slow, so it’s not like Neil’s slacking off.

The woman has barely left the store when the wind chimes ring out once again, cutting through the noise of coffee shop machinery, bustling customers, and the radio. Neil’s head swings upwards automatically. He relaxes the moment he recognizes the outlines of these two customers. Justine and Eady are regulars, and Neil knows their orders like the back of his hand. He’s already working on them— double espresso for Justine, matcha latte for Eady— by the time they get to the counter.

“Heya, Neil,” Eady greets, when she’s close enough to be heard over the music and the other customers. “How’re you doin’?”

Neil slides the double espresso towards Justine and starts making Eady’s latte. Justine’s already got the cash for their drinks on the countertop, plus a tip. Neil wishes, not for the first time, that every customer was like her.

“Fine,” Neil calls over his shoulder. “You?”

“Been better,” Eady reports with a sigh, her Appalachian twang audible even in the exhalation. “But it could always be worse, you know? Gotta remember that when the goin’ gets tough.”

Neil nods, not his polite customer service nod but an actual nod of agreement. Eady’s dreamy expression often belies her intelligence. Neil’s not usually one for forming bonds with customers, but Eady and and Justine have spent enough time in the store that it would’ve been more awkward if they didn’t introduce themselves, and he’s since gotten to know them. While he’s not as chatty as they are, they’ve gotten to know him a little, too. Neil initially liked them because he didn’t have to work that hard to clean their table. He grew to like them because they’re the rare customers who actually speak to him like he’s a human being. And they tip generously, too.

After Eady and Justine head for their usual spot, there’s a brief lull in customers, which is bad news for Neil because it means he has to be alone with his thoughts. He grabs a damp rag and starts scrubbing at what looks like dried caramel sauce. As they so often do when he’s doing menial work, his thoughts turn to how much he despises this fucking job. Which he does. He really, really does.

The worst part of hating this job is that he knows he’s lucky to have a job, which makes him feel like an ungrateful schmuck. He got out of prison a little over three years back and knew he had to make a serious attempt at going legit, at making something of himself. He didn’t have an in with the local unions or any kind of connections whatsoever. He didn’t have the expertise nor the credentials for anything past retail, and most retail jobs had no interest in a checked Have you ever been convicted of a felony? box. And then he found this.

Blue Room Coffee gives hiring and firing discretion to branch managers, and Nate didn’t mind that checked box or the prison tattoos or the deadened look that sometimes settled behind Neil’s eyes, because Nate did time, too. Neil found out about his store through the ex-con grapevine as a place where a guy like him could get a second chance if he was willing to work for it. Neil was willing to work for it, Nate hired him, and he’s been here ever since. Nate’s idiosyncratic on his good days and a real asshole on his bad ones, but Neil knows he owes Nate an enormous debt of gratitude. Always will. But that doesn’t mean he likes the job.

His one consolation is that it’s not permanent. Don Breedan’s basically the poster child for Nate’s unofficial ex-con second chance program, and Breedan’s not going to work at the store for much longer. Breedan’s put in the years, saved his paycheck, started going to night school. He’s most of his way done with a B.A. in business and has been taking fewer shifts so he can finish up his degree. Neil’s going to miss him, but he’s pleased to see him moving on. It reminds him he’s not here forever, either. Neil has Breedan’s discipline, maybe even more. What he’s not sure he has is Breedan’s patience.

Sometimes, Neil itches to pull another job job, something more lucrative and better-planned than the drugstore bullshit that landed him in prison in the first place. He could do it. He’s smarter now, more serious. It wouldn’t even be hard. But this time, he’s got Chris to consider. Chris, who was his cellmate on the inside and is now his roommate on the outside, his best friend and the closest thing he’ll ever have to a brother. Neil might be able to justify the risk to his own freedom, but he will not bring any heat down on Chris. He has no choice but to stay here and scrub dried latte off stainless steel, at least until he can get himself somewhere better. The working man is a sucker, but Neil figures if he can just endure being a sucker a little while longer, he’ll be able to carve himself and Chris a better life. Even if it sometimes feels like he’s clawing at solid rock with nothing but his fingernails.

It’s easy to keep his eye on the prize when it’s literally across the street, visible from his station behind the counter. The university is a bizarre amalgam of gothic and modern architecture, sleek steel structures crowding the stone arches and buttresses of the original college. Students stream in and out of its buildings in a seemingly endless parade of bodies— students who comprise the bulk of the coffee shop’s clientele. Neil knows he’ll never be a student like that, but the university’s got programs for guys like him. It may not be some world-class institute of higher education, but it offers relatively affordable night classes, and a degree is a degree. And once he has his degree, he’ll be gone from this fucking place, taking Chris with him, and he’ll never look back.

Neil’s startled back to the present by the oppressively cheery twinkle of the front door’s wind chimes. His head snaps upwards, his hand still wiping down the stainless steel countertop with quick, mechanical motions. Neil’s knee-jerk reaction to most customers is a sort of imperceptible bracing. That does not apply to the man who just walked in.

This guy catches Neil’s eye immediately. For one thing, he’s not a regular. For another, he looks… Neil can’t quite put his finger on it. He’s wearing all black, his clothes a strange blend of goth band lead singer and exhausted grad student, complete with a black-on-black patterned tie that looks like it’s been yanked from his collar by someone trying to choke him to death. Neil, who’s seen drama students come into the shop in full costume and makeup, knows that there’s nothing really odd about the guy’s appearance. And yet, there’s just something different about him, something that makes a strange electricity dance over Neil’s skin.

Neil stares at him intently, ignoring Nate’s voice in his head urging him to stop fuckin’ staring at my customers, man, you’re scaring them off until he figures it out what’s making him prickle. It’s so simple, Neil almost smiles. The guy’s handsome. Real handsome. Neil’s no expert, but he thinks this guy could be a movie star. He’s got the type of face people pay money to photograph or sketch in charcoal, the type of face that turns heads on the street because good looks like those aren’t an everyday sight. Neil watches the guy saunter past tables and chairs with a high-octane, frenetic, utterly hypnotizing grace.

The guy’s big, dark eyes survey the store with an intelligent curiosity from under long, dark eyelashes. He’s got a nose like a fishhook over full lips, and angular cheekbones honed sharper still by the store’s glaring fluorescents. His hair, dark brown and elegantly wavy, is impeccably styled, but there’s a slight stubble on his cheeks and jaw, like he’d forgotten to shave. Gorgeous without really trying, Neil decides. Like he doesn’t give a fuck about making himself pretty because he knows he already is. And he really is pretty. Neil can’t look away.

Neil watches the guy weave around one last table and practically bounce up to the counter. He rests both hands palms-down on the metal, right where Neil had just cleaned. Neil ignores it and drops the towel by the toaster oven while he waits for him to order.

“Uh,” says the guy, turning the syllable into a seemingly endless drone. “I’ll get… um…”

Neil focuses on a point somewhere along the far wall, right over the guy’s shoulder. The customer places his hands on his hips, craning his neck to peer at the menu written in elegant cursive on chalkboards above Neil’s head. Neil stares at his throat for a few moments too long before forcing himself to pay attention to what the guy’s saying.

“I’ll get an iced frappuccino to go,” the guy decides. “The caramel cookie one, with extra whipped cream. Hey, can you put those little chocolate ribbons on it? I got a buddy, he says they’re to die for. And while you’re at it, add a couple pumps of caramel syrup. How many do you think is good? Five? Yeah, do five. And a few pumps of that cinnamon syrup, too.”

Neil’s generally pretty good at not reacting to what customers order, but he must’ve let something slip through, because the guy raises his hands defensively and quickly adds:

“Hey, cut me some slack, man. I’m trying to quit amphetamines.”

Neil blinks, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with that. In the absence of coherent thought, corporate-mandated training takes over.

“What size?”

The customer looks at him helplessly, no doubt bamboozled by the Blue Room’s needlessly confusing cup system. Neil tips his head towards the row of royal blue paper hot cups on the counter, neatly arranged in size order like a deconstructed Russian doll. The customer points at the biggest one, giving Neil a good view of the ornate black ring on his index finger. Neil nods, pulling a size-equivalent plastic cup off a stack with one hand and digging in his apron pocket for a black marker with the other.

“Name?” Neil asks.

“Vincent. You?”

“I meant—” Neil gestures at the cup with his marker.

“Oh!” Vincent exclaims, nodding rapidly as his face flushes. “Right. Yeah. Well, you can tell me your name, anyway, if you want to.”

Neil’s not used to a suggestion like that from a customer. He writes Vincent’s name on his cup with unusual precision to buy himself time. Vincent waits expectantly, rocking forwards and backwards on the balls of his feet.

“Neil,” Neil finally says.

It feels like he’s giving something up. He doesn’t know why. It’s worth it for the way Vincent brightens, his mouth breaking into a wide smile. Vincent’s smile is a tremendous thing, Neil discovers. His whole face splits open with it, like his joy’s some glowing, golden thing radiating outwards from somewhere deep inside him, only visible when a fissure appears on the surface. His teeth are slightly uneven. He’s got dimples. His smile reaches his eyes, making them twinkle, tiny lines appearing at their corners. The sight of it makes warmth bloom in Neil’s chest, curling tightly around his ribs.

“Neil,” Vincent repeats, like he’s tasting how it settles in his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Neil.”

“Nice to meet you,” Neil repeats mechanically, then turns around to make Vincent’s drink before he says something dumb trying to get Vincent to flash that smile again.

Even with Vincent’s custom specifications, Neil’s worked this job long enough to make just about every drink they sell with his eyes closed. This doesn’t stop him from going about each step in the process with painstaking precision, not caring how long it takes. Normally, he doesn’t give a fuck whether customers like their orders. Vincent is not like all other customers. Neil could tell himself it’s because he wants to do his part in helping someone kick an addiction, but he knows that’s not quite true. He wants to do something good for Vincent, to give him something in a cup that’ll make him feel how his smile made Neil feel.

With comically poor timing, Nate steps out of the stockroom with a clipboard in his hands, reading glasses perched precariously on his bulbous nose. When Neil accidentally meets his eyes, Nate raises his eyebrows, an obvious inquiry into why Neil’s dawdling over a drink that should’ve been done in two minutes. Neil takes that as his cue to hurry things along and clamps a lid over the cup. He scrutinizes it for a moment, then decides it’s about as good as it can get. He rings up the order and tells Vincent his total, sliding the cup towards him on the counter.

Vincent pays with bills as rumpled as his tie, then drops an extra dollar into the tip jar. The gesture is sweeter than the money itself. Vincent wastes no time before slurping obnoxiously at his coffee. Neil tries not to look at how his lips part around the straw.

“Tastes better than speed,” Vincent reports, running his tongue over his teeth. “Not half bad. You make a mean coffee, Neil.”

The compliment has no right to mean as much as it does. Neil, fervently hoping there’s no blush revealing the awkward heat he feels in his cheeks and ears, forces his face into impassivity.

“Thanks,” Neil replies, ducking his head a little.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something, but instead checks his watch. The gesture lets Neil see Vincent’s jewelry also includes a pinky ring and what must be at least five bracelets, each with several shiny charms. Neil tries to discern their shapes, but Vincent’s already shoving his hand into his pocket.

“Gotta go,” Vincent says, sounding apologetic. “See you around.”

“Have a good day,” Neil replies.

It’s the corporate-mandated way to bid customers adieu, but Neil finds he really means it. The wind chimes on the door jingle when Vincent exits the store, his half-full iced frappuccino clutched in one hand. Neil watches Vincent go, discovering that in addition to a great smile, Vincent’s got a great ass. Neil watches him cross the street without checking for oncoming cars. He doesn’t stop watching until Vincent has fully disappeared into the crowd of students.

The store opens at six, which means that when he has the opening shift, Neil needs to get there by five. Which in turn means he needs to leave his apartment before four-thirty. Which in turn means he’s barely functional when he’s trying to jam the key into the front door’s perennially stubborn lock, and barely more functional than that when he’s putting on his work clothes in the little employees’ bathroom tucked next to the store room. The clothes reek of stale coffee, a scent that pervades the whole back area of the store, along with the sharp stench of bleach.

Neil stares at his own reflection in the tiny mirror hanging over the enormous sink. His forehead and the front of his hair are wet from splashing cold water onto his face in a failed attempt to wake himself up. The royal blue of his apron and visor makes his eyes ache. The hue is almost offensively chipper, the sartorial equivalent of the wind chimes. He rubs a hand over his face, gently pressing his fingertips against his eyelids. His palm smells like the harsh, acrid chemicals of corporate-mandated soap.

It’s still dark outside when he steps out of the bathroom, already mentally running through his checklist of tasks. Opening the store is Neil’s least favorite part of this job, but at least there’s a procedure. Eyes bleary and head staticky, he goes about refilling the pastry case, checking the dates on the sandwiches in the fridge, setting the first batches of coffee and tea to brew, checking the trash cans, double-checking the register, wiping down the store’s furniture with a damp rag, and every other thing Nate’s decided is absolutely imperative to starting the day off right.

Even moving with practiced efficiency, opening the store alone always takes a while. By the time he takes his usual spot behind the counter, Neil’s already ready to collapse into bed. Nate’s checklist is almost insultingly thorough— turn on the lights, like Neil wouldn’t know to do that without instruction— but Neil’s added one item to the very end. He schools his face into an expressionless mask, deadening his eyes. The only thing worse than feeling like shit is feeling like shit and having a customer ask if he’s okay.

The first customers of the day tend to be university employees, not students. They are by and large significantly more polite than the students, though they’re never very talkative. Sure enough, the first people through the door are two burly men in work uniforms. Neil stretches out his neck, feeling slightly relieved his first order of the day won’t be some elaborate nonsense.

They order one small black coffee each, giving Neil the satisfaction of a confirmed suspicion. The men chat amicably in Spanish while Neil makes their order. From his limited grasp of the language, he gathers they’re complaining about their jobs. Me fuckin’ too, Neil thinks, affixing plastic lids to the steaming cups of coffee. He figures it could be worse. Breedan closed last night, and Breedan always leaves the store in good shape when he closes. Neil remembers opening after Chris closed, back when Chris used to work here. The recollection almost makes him smile. He’d take a bullet for Chris, but the guy’s just not cut out for retail.

When the wind chimes ring out again, Neil expects someone middle-aged and ordinary. He’s pleasantly surprised when Vincent bounds through the door like he was waiting all night for the shop to open. Judging by the dark shadows under his eyes and the uneven mess of his hair, that might be exactly the case. After a few seconds’ careful observation, Neil determines he’s wearing the same black suit as yesterday, albeit with a slightly different black tie. The biggest difference in his appearance is the thick stack of papers jammed under his arm, a sloppy pile from which various pages jut out at odd angles.

“Morning,” Vincent greets, like he can’t even summon the willpower to wish for a good one.

“Morning.”

“Neil, right?”

Neil nods.

“Vincent,” Vincent says.

“I know.”

A long pause ensues. The store is quiet at this hour. When Neil’s in charge of opening, he doesn’t turn on the inoffensive soft-pop radio station until Nate gets in, which won’t be for a few hours. In the absence of chattering customers and bland, corporate-sanctioned music, the low hum of coffee shop machinery fills the room.

Neil stares unapologetically at Vincent, drinking him in like he’s trying to memorize every line etched into Vincent’s skin, the angles and curves of his every feature. Neil has to shove his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t reach for Vincent’s face, just to convince himself someone so beautiful could be real. Vincent stares right back, and though Neil can’t read his expression, he finds he likes it when Vincent looks at him. He watches as Vincent’s eyes linger over the barbed wire tattoo on his forearm. He sees in Vincent’s eyes that he understands what it means, but he doesn’t comment, and Neil doesn’t offer any explanation.

Neil’s not sure how long they stand there like that, just looking at each other. He notices a tiny cut on Vincent’s neck. Probably from his razor, Neil thinks idly. He wishes he could touch it, somehow erase it with his fingertip like wiping away spilled coffee. His fingers twitch at his sides.

He’s surprised by just how taken he is with Vincent, who’s little more than a stranger to him. He’s more surprised by how much Vincent doesn’t feel like a stranger. This depth of feeling towards someone he’s just met sets off alarms in his head, his better judgment warning him that something has gone woefully awry. As a result, when he opens his mouth, his words come out more brusque than he’d intended.

“You gonna order something or what?” Neil asks.

Vincent runs a hand through his hair, making its disarray significantly worse. Neil sees a different chunky ring on his index finger, this one blue-green and egg-shaped.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll get… oh, fuck it, I’ll get the same thing I got last time.”

Neil nods, already reaching for the plastic cup. Iced caramel frappuccino, extra whipped cream, chocolate chip cookie crumble, chocolate shavings, a vile number of pumps for both caramel and cinnamon syrups. In the largest cup they offer. It’s a symbol of everything wrong with this country, an order that should carry a warning from the Surgeon General about type 2 diabetes, the sort of drink that makes Neil bite back a comment about just getting a milkshake from the ice cream shop down the block. He does his best to make it perfectly.

“Shit, you remembered?” Vincent asks as he watches Neil work, sounding impressed. “I didn’t even remember.”

Neil, sprinkling chocolate shavings over the cup, just shrugs. He’s always had a good memory, and he’s good at his job. Not that it’s any great boasting point to be good at this job, but he figures it’s better than being bad at it.

Vincent glances around the empty store as Neil finishes making the drink. He slides it across the counter to Vincent, who pays and once again drops a dollar into the tip jar. Instead of leaving or going to find a seat, though, Vincent lingers by the counter. He rests one hand on the flat metal surface, lazily tapping his fingers to some beat only he can hear. His other hand swirls his frappuccino like it’s a glass of expensive wine, rattling the ice cubes against each other.

“Tastes the same as last time,” Vincent remarks. “Exactly the same. That’s kinda freaky, man. How’d you do that?”

Neil shrugs again. Blue Room Coffee wouldn’t be a nationwide chain if its employees couldn’t exactly reproduce everything on the menu in every single store.

“That’s the discipline.”

Vincent hums his acknowledgment and goes back to his coffee. Neil looks out the front door, but the sidewalk is just as empty as the inside of the store. The sun is still rising, the trees right outside the shop cast long shadows on the gray sidewalks. Neil has a list of things he really ought to be doing, but Vincent’s still leaning against the counter, and Neil finds himself incapable of walking away from him. He compromises by reorganizing the paper goods by the register, neatly stacking various cups and lids.

“So,” Vincent says after a long pause, almost a drawl. “How long have you been working here?”

“Almost three years.”

The words sound terse even to his own ears. Vincent seems to take it as a sign to back off, sipping thoughtfully at his coffee as he turns his eyes towards shelves of royal blue company-branded cups and coasters. Neil looks at him and feels stupid, kicking himself for his conversational ineptitude, wishing Vincent would ask him something else. It’s the first time he’s ever wanted a customer to talk to him, a realization that makes his stomach feel funny.

“You in school over there?” Neil asks, trying to sound friendlier.

Vincent jumps on it immediately, twisting around to face Neil and setting his coffee on the counter so he can move his hands unencumbered as he replies.

“Yeah. Well, I study there, I don’t live there. I got an apartment off campus, not far. On-campus housing is basically legalized extortion. Fat cats on the board don’t give two fucks about student welfare, tale as old as time.”

Neil nods. He notices Vincent’s about halfway done with his coffee. Part of him is glad Vincent likes the drink. The rest of him is suddenly desperate to stall him, to say something that will keep him leaning against the counter even after the cup is empty.

“What’s that?” Neil asks, tipping his chin towards the papers under Vincent’s arm.

Vincent looks down like he’d forgotten he was holding them.

“Oh, nothing,” Vincent says airily, waving his other hand in a loose, careless gesture. “School stuff. Wouldn’t wanna bore you to death this early in the morning.”

Neil sincerely doubts that anything Vincent does is boring, and even if it were, he’s sure Vincent would find a way to make it sound interesting. Something about the way Vincent talks is oddly pleasing to Neil’s ear. His speech is rhythmic, almost lyrical, with dips and swells that make Neil want to listen to him talk forever. But he doesn’t get to say any of that, because right then, the wind chimes cut through the quiet store and alert him to a new customer. Vincent visibly startles, then glances at his watch and frowns.

“I should probably be going,” Vincent tells him, sounding thoroughly displeased by the fact. “See you around, yeah?”

The new customer is a skinny woman in exercise clothes, a rolled-up lavender yoga mat slung over her shoulder, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Neil can already sense her order is going to be some type of bullshit.

“See you,” he tells Vincent, unable to keep his disappointment out of his voice.

Neil watches Vincent leave for the second time in as many days, once again shamelessly ogling his ass. He goes about making the new customer’s order on autopilot, his mind on the gorgeous guy who showed up first thing in the morning to order a milkshake and ask him about himself. He’s already counting down the minutes until Vincent comes back.

Neil had figured he would see Vincent again on his next shift, but it turns out he doesn’t have to wait that long.

He’s already been working for a few hours, fully locked into the shift’s rhythm. There’s an airy, bubblegum-pink pop song on the radio, the sort of song that used to set Neil’s teeth on edge. After three years in this job, he’s able to tune it out entirely, the same way he’s able to tune out the scrape of chair legs on faux-hardwood floors or the dull, mechanical rattling of coffee shop machinery. It’s not even close to the worst thing he’s ever had to get used to.

Since Vincent left, it’s been a fairly busy shift, though not overwhelmingly so. Neil’s working behind the counter, Trejo’s working in back, and Nate is splitting his time between both stations so he can “supervise” them both. In practice, this means Nate is doing no work. Manager’s privileges, as Nate’s told him about ten thousand times before.

Trejo’s older than Neil, older than Breedan, still younger than Nate. He says this job is just to tide him over until he can go back to Mexicali, but Neil’s never seen him get any closer to leaving. If Breedan’s his template for getting the hell out of here, Trejo’s his cautionary tale for what happens if he doesn’t.

The store at midday is a bustling mix of students and middle-aged adults. Justine and Eady are parked in their usual spot, multiple empty cups next to Justine’s pile of books. A general buzz of amicable chatter hovers over the shop, the sound of multiple conversations unfolding at once, each with its own variation on volume and tone, fighting to be heard over the radio and the machines and everybody else’s conversations.

The shift’s pace doesn’t stop Neil from glancing up hopefully every time the door’s chimes pierce through the shop’s hum. His shift ends at one. It’s fifteen to one. He’s starting to feel a little disappointed, which he knows is pathetic. Vincent’s a grown man who has better things to do than coming back to the same coffee shop multiple times in a day, let alone in the span of a few hours. When the chimes ring out once again, Neil forces himself to squash down any hope before looking up. But when he does—

“Neil!” Vincent exclaims, waving. “My favorite barista!”

Warmth blooms in Neil’s chest. He feels a small, shy smile forming on his lips. Vincent sounds excited to see him. Neil can’t remember the last time someone was excited to see him. He hurries to finish sprinkling brown sugar atop a dollop of whipped cream. The faster he works, the sooner he can talk to Vincent.

Vincent waits— well, not patiently, but he waits— in line, his gaze swiveling around the store as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. When he gets to the counter, he gives Neil a full up-and-down from under his long, dark lashes. Neil tries hard not to react. Inside, his stomach’s turning figure-eights.

“I know it’s probably required by the company, but you really wear the hell outta that apron and hat,” Vincent says playfully, his eyes twinkling.

Neil hears a snort, followed by a loud cough, that he knows without looking is from either Eady or Justine. He ignores it. Vincent delivers the compliment so earnestly that even though what he’s saying is ridiculous, Neil still feels flattered.

“Thanks,” Neil mumbles, horribly aware of the pink on his cheeks. “You, uh, you look good, too.”

It feels clumsy even as he’s saying it, but it’s worth it for the way Vincent beams. Upon closer inspection, Neil realizes Vincent does look good. He’s clean-shaven and bright-eyed, like he took a nap since the last time Neil saw him. He’s wearing new clothing, too: another dark suit with a pulled-loose tie, but the shirt and slacks aren’t rumpled. His hair has a glossy quality to it, like he’s spent a long time styling it with expensive products. It’s a certain kind of guy who looks like shit in the early morning and phenomenal by afternoon, but Neil wouldn’t be surprised to hear Vincent keeps strange hours.

“Same as earlier?” Neil asks.

Vincent grins at him, like he’s delighted to be a regular after only two visits.

“The very same.”

Neil’s once again determined to get Vincent’s drink absolutely perfect, which lends itself to a less-than-stellar production pace. Unfortunately, Nate chooses this moment to trade supervising Trejo for supervising Neil, which means Nate’s watching every single one of Neil’s careful, steady, significantly-slower-than-usual movements with his beady, watery eyes.

“Fuck is going on with you?” Nate mutters, not so much hostile as baffled. “You having a stroke, or something?”

Neil ignores him and finishes making the drink, feeling rather pleased with how it turned out. The store’s too busy for Vincent to linger at the counter or for Neil to hold any kind of conversation with him, but Vincent makes sure to meet Neil’s eyes before paying, tipping, and thanking him for the drink. The split second of eye contact makes Neil’s skin prickle excitedly.

Neil’s not even able to ogle Vincent’s ass as he leaves— too many waiting customers. He loses himself to the work once again, not thinking about anything other than making various coffee orders as quickly and efficiently as possible. It’s not long before the familiar chimes of the door ring out, bright and clear through the bustle of the shop. Neil, now certain it won’t be Vincent and busy squirting caramel sauce into a plastic cup, ignores them.

“Fuck,” Nate hisses sharply, which means there’s only one person who could’ve just walked in.

Neil watches as Nate beats a hasty exit to “stock inventory,” even though Trejo’s already been doing that for hours. He turns his gaze towards the front of the store, where Chris is already walking towards him with long, confident strides. Chris grins at Neil, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mirth. Neil feels a small smile appear on his own face. It’s hard not to; Chris’ good humor is infectious.

“You got energy drinks?” Chris asks, leaning against the pastry display case with the same easy grace he uses to hoist himself onto the counter at home when Neil’s making dinner.

“It’s a coffee shop,” Neil deadpans. “All we got are energy drinks.”

“Fair enough,” Chris replies breezily. “I don’t have the disposable income to buy from you guys, anyway. Fucking exorbitant, your prices. It should be illegal. Hey, speaking of, where’s my favorite guy?”

“Doing breathing exercises in the stock room until you leave.”

“Aw, Nate found Buddhism? Good for him, man, good for him.”

Neil snorts. Nate’s a man whose idea of spiritual enlightenment is survival wisdom repurposed from the yard, a man whose concept of peace revolves around the other guy being too scared to take a swing. And regarding his material possessions… Neil sometimes suspects Nate would take a bullet to prevent a dent in the bumper of the chrome-finned, baby-pink vintage Cadillac Chris unfailingly refers to as his Pimpmobile. It occurs to Neil for the first time that that might’ve been the final straw with regards to Chris getting fired.

“You’re done in five, right?” Chris asks.

Neil checks his watch. He’s done in seven, but it’s close enough.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Got two tickets for the new James Bond, if you’re down.”

Neil bites back a sigh. Chris is always telling him he needs to be doing things that aren’t work and sweating his future. Neil secretly thinks Chris could stand to do a little more work and spend a little more time sweating his future.

“Sounds good,” Neil replies, before turning his attention back to his work.

He doesn’t know how to tell him he has been thinking about other things recently, namely a certain man in black with pretty hair and prettier eyes who Neil’s pretty sure just flirted with him. It’s not that Chris wouldn’t understand, but that Chris might understand too well. Neil can’t rush into things headlong the way Chris does. He resolves to wait and see how this thing plays out, but he can’t quite extinguish the tiny flame of hope burning quiet and brilliant in his chest.

They fall into an easy routine. Either Vincent somehow figured out Neil’s shift schedule or he’s just always lurking around the store, Neil doesn’t know, but either way, Vincent’s reliably striding through the front door soon after Neil’s gotten himself situated behind the counter. Neil knows to get started on Vincent’s order the moment he sees him. It’s worth it simply for the way Vincent smiles when Neil slides him his drink before he’s even said hello.

When the store’s busy, they exchange pleasantries and a few words of conversation before Neil has to get back to work. Same goes for when Vincent has to dart out, which Neil’s noticed tends to happen on Mondays and Wednesdays. On occasions when Vincent’s got time to linger, he claims the closest available table to the counter and parks himself there. Usually, he’s got papers to leaf through, or books, or a newspaper. Sometimes, though, he’ll just sit with his back to the wall and watch the store. Neil likes to watch him watch people, wondering what Vincent’s seeing that he isn’t. Whenever Vincent’s roaming gaze settles on him, Neil has to force himself to keep his composure.

Neil’s current shift has been a quiet one. He’s with Breedan behind the counter, but the store’s been sufficiently sedate that only one of them has to make drinks, leaving the other free to take care of various second-tier tasks on Nate’s “downtime” checklist. Whenever there’s an especially lengthy lull in customers, they work on the seemingly-endless list of tasks together, operating easily as a team.

“Who’s that?” Breedan asks.

Neil’s crouched on one knee, hunched forward like an archer’s bow, counting the number of non-dairy milk cartons in the fridge under the counter. Breedan’s standing above him with a clipboard and a pen, ready to dutifully record Neil’s totals. Neil glances up at him, then hauls himself to his feet with a grunt and follows Breedan’s line of sight. He’s not surprised to discover Breedan was looking at Vincent, who’s clad in his usual dark suit, his leg bouncing as he turns the pages of a thick, leather-bound book.

“Nobody,” Neil replies, his face and voice carefully neutral.

Neil knows he’s radiating shut the fuck up and leave me alone, a maneuver that’s unfailingly effective with nosy customers. Unfortunately, cell block tactics don’t mean shit with someone who’s also seen the inside of a cell block.

“You sure?” Breedan asks, eyebrows raised. “‘Cause he keeps looking at you. And I’ve noticed you looking at him a couple times, too.”

Fuck, Neil thinks grimly. The last thing he needs is his coworker to notice his burgeoning crush— a crush on a customer, of all people. Neil struggles in silence for a few seconds, trying in vain to come up with a plausible reason a customer might repeatedly turn to look at him. He doesn’t like the way Breedan’s staring at him, his dark eyes a little too perceptive.

“He comes in a lot,” Neil finally says.

Breedan glances around the store, then at his watch, then towards the back, where Nate’s allegedly been on a phone call with corporate for the past half-hour. More likely verbally abusing his bookie, if Neil had to guess. Or taking verbal abuse from his ex-wife.

“Take your break now,” Breedan offers. “Go talk to him. I can restock the fridge.”

Neil shoots him a look that means you sure? Breedan, comfortable on Neil’s plane of nonverbal communication since the day they met, just nods. Neil’s overwhelmed by a sudden wave of affection for Don Breedan, followed by a pang of premature loss for the day Breedan will inevitably leave. He nods at him, knowing Breedan will get it, and starts taking off his apron.

He hangs his apron and visor on the protruding nail by the door to the store room, shaking his head at the muffled sound of Nate growling no, you go fuck yourself! which doesn’t clear up the ex-versus-bookie question in the slightest. Neil slips out from behind the counter and makes his way over to Vincent’s table. Vincent, immersed in his book, doesn’t look up until he hears the scrape of Neil pulling back a chair. He looks momentarily confused, then breaks into a delighted grin.

“Neil!” Vincent exclaims. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“I work here.”

“What? No, I just meant, you know, usually you’re over there— oh. You’re joking. I get it.”

Neil dips his head, acknowledging the remark. He should’ve known better than to try joking— Chris tells him he’s scary when he tries to be funny— but at least Vincent got it in the end.

“You mind if I sit with you?”

Vincent spreads one arm expansively, his bracelets jangling, as clear an invitation as any. Neil sits down across the table from him. Vincent marks his page and closes his book. Neil tries to glimpse the title, but it’s the back cover facing up, an unmarked rectangle of flat brown leather.

“Lemme ask you something,” Vincent says, leaning back in his chair. “Something I’ve been wondering for a while now.”

Neil’s heart rate picks up, his brain feverishly generating all kinds of deeply personal questions Vincent could ask, questions that Neil knows he would answer truthfully because something about Vincent makes him want to lay his entire essence on a platter for him.

“Shoot.”

“You like your job?” Vincent asks.

His gaze is fixed intently on Neil like he’s actually curious about the answer. Neil shrugs.

“It’s a living.”

Vincent laughs. It’s a surprisingly deep sound, like it came from low in Vincent’s belly, and it has the same almost-melodiousness as Vincent’s speech. There’s a slight rasp to it, too, like Vincent’s no stranger to cigarettes. Neil already wants to hear it again.

“That’s a no!” Vincent crows. “Fuck, man, you gotta work on your poker face!”

“It could be worse,” Neil replies, which is true.

“Could be better, too, though, couldn’t it?”

Neil shrugs again. Sure, it could be better. So could just about everything. Neil’s life up to this point has essentially been a series of lessons hammering home that aiming for anything better than good enough is dangerous. He doesn’t know how to explain that to Vincent, but he’s overcome by the sudden urge to assure him he’s better than this job, that his life amounts to more than an obnoxious blue apron and visor.

“I do not plan to be here forever.”

Vincent perks up at that, though whether it’s the words themselves or the steely undercurrent in his voice, Neil doesn’t know.

“Oh, yeah?” Vincent asks, staring at Neil with genuine interest written all over his face. “Good to hear, good to hear. You’re too smart for this. Whatcha planning to do, Neil…?”

He shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t be giving Vincent everything so easily.

“McCauley.”

“McCauley. Nice name. Suits you. I’m Vincent Hanna. Whatcha planning to do, Neil McCauley?

Neil hesitates. Chris is the only person on the planet who knows his plans, and even Chris doesn’t know everything. Talking about his ambitions feels like jinxing it, giving up too much. It feels like taking a part of himself usually kept quiet and comfortable in the dark and exposing it to harsh, glaring sunlight. But then again, he felt he was giving something up when he told Vincent his name, and that’s shaping up to be one of the best decisions Neil’s ever made.

“I’m looking at a B.E. in mechanical engineering,” Neil admits. “I already got my GED, so now I just gotta get the money to start taking college classes.”

Vincent nods, focused as he processes what Neil’s saying. Neil feels small with Vincent looking at him so intently, like he’s an ant about to fry under a magnifying glass. He keeps his expression stony, willing the embarrassment flooding through him not to show on his face. He’s just wondering if he said too much when Vincent asks:

“Mechanical engineering, huh? How come?”

“I like machines,” Neil says, but that feels woefully insufficient, so he adds: “and systems. I like learning how things work, then figuring out how to make ‘em better. I don’t mind the technical stuff. I’m better with numbers than I am at reading and writing.”

“You’ll be good at it,” Vincent decides, and he sounds absolutely certain even though he only learned Neil was interested in engineering about a minute ago. “I knew a couple of engineering guys during undergrad. Worked their asses off, the poor fucks, but you probably already know that. They were a lot like you. Smart, serious, planning to go places. You’ll fit right in.”

He’s probably just saying it to be nice. Neil decides to believe him anyway. Eager to pivot the conversation away from himself, Neil asks:

“What do you study? I figure it’s not engineering.”

Vincent snorts, shaking his head as if the idea of himself as an engineer is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. He plays with the blue straw of his empty cup, shoving it in and out of the plastic lid. The noise produced is grating, disproportionately loud to the tiny movement. Vincent stops the second he sees Neil wince.

“I can’t tell you,” Vincent says, after a few long moments. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“I won’t laugh,” Neil promises solemnly.

There’s a pause for several seconds. Then, words start spilling out of Vincent like water from a ruptured dam.

“I’m going for my Masters in English Lit,” Vincent tells him, his gaze focused on the edge of the table like the confession is something utterly humiliating. “I study Shakespeare. Mostly the plays, occasionally the poetry. I’m thinking of going for a PhD in Shakespearean drama after I’m done with this degree. Anything to delay having to find a real job, you know how it goes.”

Neil blinks at him for a few seconds. To say he’s surprised is one hell of an understatement. He could tell Vincent was smart just from talking to him, but he hadn’t figured him for PhD in Shakespeare smart. On the other hand, though, Neil gets it. He can’t imagine Vincent carefully testing materials in a lab or painstakingly reproducing a complex technical diagram. It makes much more sense for a guy like Vincent to be in the arts, to traffic in something as nebulous and magical as the written word and its performance. When Vincent glances up from the table, he’s got a look on his face like he half-expects Neil to hit him.

“Why would I laugh at that?” Neil asks.

Vincent seems to explode with a dozen tiny motions, leaning back in his chair and sighing heavily and tossing back his head and rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands all at once.

“I dunno, man, it’s just— you’re talking about how you’re working this shitty, dead-end job so you can go for a degree in fucking mechanical engineering, and I just told you I dick around reading plays and poems all day! I must seem like the asshole of all assholes to you.”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole.”

Vincent snorts, but Neil thinks he sees the briefest flicker of relief in his eyes.

“You might be the only one.”

“I don’t get poetry,” Neil tells him. “Not that I read a lot of poetry, but…”

“Lots of people think that,” Vincent earnestly replies, pitching forward in his chair and waving his hands around excitedly like the mere mention of poetry was sufficient to reanimate him. “It just means they haven’t been taught about it properly. Poetry’s like breathing, everybody can get poetry. People get turned off by Shakespeare ‘cause of the Early Modern English, but Shakespeare’s one of the most universal artists we’ve ever had, perhaps the most universal! Once you get past the unfamiliar words and phraseology, then get some help with the allusions and references, it’s basically impossible to not love Shakespeare.”

Neil stares at him dubiously.

“What are Shakespeare’s plays about?” Vincent continues, his gaze intense, his eyes alight. “I mean, what are they really about? Shakespeare’s genius is that his characters are at once wholly-formed people and avatars for ideas. The plays are about love and mortality, war and beauty, class and power and religion, music and fate and self-actualization and having problems with your shitty fucking family and just about everything else a human being could ever experience! Shakespeare’s about what it means to be a person alive on this earth! Now, I know it’s a minority opinion, but I think every high-school English teacher who ever made a kid hate Shakespeare should face Biblical-type punishment. You taught Hamlet badly? Ten lashes! Fuck it, maybe twenty! You fucked up Julius Caesar? Boiling lead down the throat!”

Neil’s nodding by the end, a tiny smile on his face despite himself. It’s impossible not to smile when Vincent’s passion is so obvious, so contagious. It’s impossible to look away from him when he’s practically glowing with his own enthusiasm. Vincent, seemingly a little embarrassed by his rant, busies himself with sucking the dregs out of the bottom of his cup, his straw making a thoroughly obnoxious slurping sound. Neil just watches, marveling at his own luck, that this brilliant, gorgeous man just happened to wander into his life.

“Neil!” Breedan calls, jolting Neil from his thoughts.

Neil turns to see him clamping a lid over a steaming cup. The line is five customers deep. Neil knows Breedan’s perfectly capable of handling it himself, but doesn’t want to deal with Nate seeing Neil loafing around while customers are waiting. Neil doesn’t want to deal with it, either.

“I gotta get back to work,” Neil tells Vincent apologetically.

“Good talking to you,” Vincent says with a small, almost tentative smile.

Neil nods. He knows he’s going to spend the rest of his shift on autopilot, his head awhirl with thoughts of Shakespeare and poetry and how beautiful Vincent looked caught up in his own excitement. Boiling lead down the throat, Neil thinks wryly, hearing the words in Vincent’s voice. What a fuckin’ guy.

“You, too,” Neil says, and he means it.

As a result of working several days straight and closing the previous night, Neil has the next day off.

After closing shifts, he’ll generally sleep as late as his body lets him. Then, his day consists of laundry, buying groceries, cleaning the apartment, taking out the trash, and running errands. If he’s got time and weather’s good, he’ll make his way to the roof of the apartment building and watch the world sprawled below him. Sometimes, he’ll walk to the pizza store where Chris works and keep him company, or to the public library.

On this particular day off, he was up just after noon. By the time he’d checked most of his chores off the list, the day was mostly over. He’s currently waiting for the laundry spinning far below his feet in the building’s industrial-sized dryers. In the meantime, he’s been perusing the Shakespeare for Dummies copy he’d picked up at the library. He has no idea why anyone would go for a degree in it. He knows lots of people find math and physics dull, but at least they make sense. Career prospects aside, Neil can’t fathom wanting to swim in this miasma of subjectivity and interpretation. The idea that Vincent loves this, that Vincent’s studying to be an expert in it… Neil can’t help but feel Vincent’s just something else.

Neil imagines Vincent sitting in the university library— which Neil’s never actually seen but imagines as a gorgeous, stately, plushly-carpeted, oak-paneled room that smells like old books— and poring over some Shakespearean drama, teasing out its subtle meanings with a deft hand. Neil imagines him twirling a pen around his ring-adorned fingers, maybe resting the cap against his lip as he gets lost in thought. He imagines himself studying pages of blueprints and equations while Vincent memorizes lines of dialogue next to him. Neil will make things work, and Vincent will make things beautiful. They’d make a hell of a pair.

It feels strange, having told Vincent about his plans, but good-strange. Neil’s of the opinion that the most sure-fire way to keep the wrong people from entering his life is to simply not let anyone enter his life. And yet, there he was, sitting at a table in a coffee shop telling Vincent about his dreams like Vincent was an old friend, a longtime confidant. It should’ve felt like giving something up, leaving himself vulnerable to attack, taking a stupid risk. It didn’t. He trusts Vincent to guard what he’s been told. He trusts Vincent a hell of a lot more than he ought to, considering who Vincent is to him. But he can’t help it. Vincent’s already slotted inside him like a custom-made skeleton key, opening doors Neil hadn’t even known were locked.

Neil’s shaken from his musings by the sound of the apartment’s door opening. He quickly shoves the book into a stack of the other, less incriminating volumes on his shelf. Moments later, Chris is striding into the apartment, two pizza boxes held aloft.

“Got your favorite!” Chris calls. “Grab me a beer, would you?”

Neil’s stomach rumbles. He hadn’t even realized he was hungry. He stands quickly to grab napkins— they can just use the box for plates— and bottles of beer for them both. Chris wastes no time prying open the grease-stained cardboard and digging in, eating like he hasn’t seen food in months. Neil’s only marginally slower. He’s still thinking about Vincent as he eats, Vincent and himself and him-and-Vincent as a singular entity. Evidently, he doesn’t do his usual thorough job masking what’s going on his head, because—

“You okay?” Chris asks around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, giving Neil a disgusting view of an enormous bite of pizza getting mashed into paste.

Neil chews and swallows before answering, contemplating how to best reply. He washes down the pizza with a swig of cold beer.

“Yeah,” Neil finally answers. “Just thinking.”

“You ever wanna talk about it, you know I’m here.”

Neil nods. Chris has a good heart, and the concern on his face is genuine. It’s almost funny— usually, it’s Neil who worries himself sick about Chris. He’ll tell him about Vincent one day, Neil promises himself. He’ll tell him as soon as something substantial develops, as soon as he can sort through the tangled mess of emotions in his head and do something about them. For now, though, he just goes back to his pizza.

Neil’s next shift is a morning shift, but not an opening one. Trejo opened and is currently behind the counter, moving quickly in an attempt to manage the growing line of customers. He’s visibly grateful when Neil walks in. A light, airy pop song is on the radio, its melody weaving in and out of the chatter of a full store.

Neil’s quick to get on his uniform and join Trejo behind the counter, where he’s immediately inundated by orders. He’s just finishing up a noxious-looking hot pink concoction that reeks of strawberry syrup when he notices Justine approach the counter, Eady close behind her. The mass of customers shifts restlessly, no doubt wondering why they’ve skipped the line.

“Hey,” Justine says.

“Hey,” Neil replies. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong, it’s just— you’ve been different, lately,” Justine says. “We got worried.”

“Is it that guy in black?” Eady asks, before Neil can think of how to respond. “The guy who told you you looks good in your apron and hat, who’s always hangin’ around the counter?”

Neil winces internally as he drops star-shaped pink sprinkles into the cup. He knows Eady’s perceptive, but he hadn’t figured he was being so obvious. Justine, for her part, seems completely unperturbed by the suggestion, like that’s what she was thinking all along but was simply too tactful to bring it up. Neil dimly wonders if they’d planned this, if they’re currently teaming up on him. If so, he already knows he’s outmatched.

“He’s cute,” Justine offers. “Don’t you think, Neil?”

Neil shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Bullshit! You totally do! And my girl’s trying to be delicate, but I’ll let you know our friend the goth Energizer bunny came up to us before you got here and asked if you were single.”

Neil’s hands freeze on the pink drink’s plastic cup. The woman he’s making it for shoots him an annoyed look. Neil couldn’t care less.

“We told him yes,” Eady says gently. “And I think you should ask him out. You gotta have somethin’ in your life that’s not this job.”

“Or going to see shitty action movies with that loud blond guy,” Justine adds.

Neil’s jaw is clenched tight. His face feels like it’s burning.

“Thanks,” he grits out.

They mercifully don’t pry any further, instead returning to their usual table. Neil finishes making the pink drink with his mind a million miles away, warmth fluttering in his chest at the thought of Vincent asking about him, wanting to know if he’s seeing anyone. Neil keeps working on autopilot. He and Trejo work well together, silent and graceful, passing each other cups or syrups as they field orders. Neil lifts his head every single time he hears the chimes, knowing in his gut that one of them will be him.

Sure enough, it’s not long before Vincent’s once again inside the store, the wind chimes by the front ringing noisily from the force with which he’d thrown open the door. Vincent waves enthusiastically, his bracelets jangling. Neil raises a hand in return, then immediately feels goofy and drops it. He very deliberately does not glance towards Justine’s and Eady’s table, where he already knows they’re watching with rapt attention.

Neil speeds through the orders of his next few customers, something deep within him roaring with delight at Vincent’s presence. It feels like no time at all before Vincent’s standing in front of him, this time wearing a tan suit over his usual black shirt and tie. His hair has been styled in an elegant swoop, his face clean-shaven. He looks great, his eyes quick and alert. Neil has to blink rapidly so he doesn’t get lost staring into them.

“The usual?” Neil asks, reaching for the cup.

“Yeah,” Vincent says, “but before you do that, I got something for you.”

Neil freezes, every sense on high alert. He watches as Vincent slides something across the counter, an exact mirror of Neil’s usual move. At first, he thinks Vincent’s giving him cash. Then, with a stab of deeply delusional hope, he thinks it might be his number. Then, he shakes himself out of his thoughts and opens it.

The paper turns out to be a piece of lined notebook paper folded in eighths. The words on it are a mess of blue and black ink, blocks of words scrawled in cramped, jagged handwriting. A quick glance over the short lines doesn’t yield any kind of recognition, though he immediately knows the words aren’t regular English.

“What is this?” Neil asks.

Vincent hesitates for a moment, visibly gathering himself before plowing ahead.

“You said you don’t get poetry, so I figured I’d write you a little something—”

“This is your poem?”

“It’s Shakespeare’s poem,” Vincent corrects, flushing. “Sonnet twenty-three. I just wrote it out. One of my all-time favorites from the Bard. I’m normally more into the plays, but every once and a while, the genius will come through in other forms. And besides, I wouldn’t ask you to read a whole annotated play. Though I have a few of them, if you ever want to.”

Neil glances at the line of customers forming behind Vincent, then back to the paper, then to Vincent. The look on Vincent’s face is so earnest, so hopeful, it makes Neil’s chest ache.

“I’m not gonna be able to read this ‘til my break,” Neil tells him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Vincent replies hastily, waving it off with a careless toss of his wrist that makes the charms of his bracelets clatter against each other. “You don’t gotta read it at all, if you don’t want to. I just wanted to give it to you.”

The idea of not reading a poem that’s Vincent’s favorite of his favorite writer’s poems, a poem Vincent hand-wrote for him and gave to him as a gift because he wants Neil to love it the way he does, is laughable.

“I’ll read it,” Neil promises.

Vincent visibly relaxes. He exhales deeply, running one hand through his perfectly-coiffed hair. He has nice hands, Neil thinks, the thought coming to him unbidden, and then: God, I’m fucked.

“Okay,” Vincent says, his voice unusually quiet. “Okay, great. I hope you like it.”

Neil folds the paper and tucks it carefully into the pocket of his pants, not his apron. He speeds through the motions of making Vincent’s drink, acutely aware of the long line of customers behind him. He slides the cup to Vincent. Vincent pays and tips in a matter of seconds, the customer behind Vincent already stepping up to the counter. Neil doesn’t even have time to watch Vincent leave, already busy making a cinnamon latte and a bagel with cream cheese.

The next part of his shift is a blur. He fills orders with the absolute minimum of brain power required to not spill hot coffee all over himself, barely avoiding crashing into Trejo on several occasions. Vincent’s gift is burning a hole in his pocket. Eventually, when the line of customers starts to thin out, Neil tells Trejo he’s going on break. He doesn’t wait for Trejo’s nod before hanging up his apron and stepping into the alley behind the store, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, anticipation coursing through him.

The alley is thoroughly ordinary, a short corridor between the brick wall of the coffee shop and the concrete wall of the grocery store next door. Its largest attraction by far is the green dumpster teeming with black plastic garbage bags, various scraps of newspaper and cardboard strewn around it. Neil digs in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. Wind ruffles his hair, pleasantly cool on his face and arms. This alley is not a glamorous place, but once his eyes get used to the bright springtime sun, it’s really a very nice day. He lights up and takes a deep drag, settling himself before pulling Vincent’s paper out of his pocket. He’s not a habitual smoker, but the situation requires a cigarette. He’s careful to not let any ash ruin Vincent’s spiky handwriting.

Neil sits on the pallet of bricks outside the shop’s back door, a relic of some construction project long since abandoned. His cigarette dangles from his lips as he studies the sonnet. He realizes immediately that the carefully-printed words in black are the actual lines of the sonnet, and the navy blue scribbles scattered haphazardly around them with various connecting stars and arrows are Vincent’s gloss. The content of the sonnet itself, though, is not as easily discerned.

He furrows his brows as he reads the poem, then reads it over again, then tries to use Vincent’s notes to make heads and tails of what’s going on. He thinks he gets the general idea, but he can’t shake the feeling he’s missing something. What he does understand, though, is pretty good. As far as Neil can tell, the sonnet’s about a guy who’s so in love he can’t talk about it, so he has to write about it. Neil, not all that good with words himself, feels for him. He reads it again, tapping ash off to the side, his mouth silently forming the words. He’s so focused on the paper in his hands, he doesn’t hear footsteps coming up behind him.

“Whatcha reading?” Nate asks.

Neil nearly jumps out of his skin. Instead, his whole body goes rigid, his heart suddenly racing. He ought to wear a fucking bell, Neil thinks, irritation supplanting his brief moment of panic. He takes a long pull on his cigarette, waiting for his heartbeat to settle down.

“A poem.”

Nate’s quiet for a long time. When Neil turns to look at him, Nate’s staring at him like Neil just admitted to seeing the face of Jesus Christ in a sack of coffee beans.

“You’re reading poetry?” Nate asks, visibly astonished. “You?”

“Vincent gave it to me.”

He’s not sure why he says it. He doesn’t mean it to sound defensive, though he’s afraid it does, like he wouldn’t be caught dead reading poetry if it weren’t for somebody else. It occurs to him that there’s an element of truth there, that he really wouldn’t be reading this if it weren’t for Vincent. Vincent has changed him. He wonders if he’s changed Vincent.

“Who the fuck is Vincent?” Nate demands.

“A customer,” Neil replies, a little taken aback by how inadequate that descriptor feels. “The small guy in black who orders about five coffees a day.”

Recognition dawns in Nate’s bloodshot eyes.

“My favorite customer,” he says approvingly. “Fucking love that guy. Spends like thirty bucks a day, and he buys shit nobody else wants, too. Five coffees… he’s gonna give himself a fuckin’ heart attack, but in the meantime, he’s doing terrific things for my bottom line.”

One of Nate’s funnier idiosyncrasies, in Neil’s mind, is the inordinate amount of pride he takes in his tiny branch of the coffee conglomerate that employs them both. My bottom line, Nate is fond of saying, like he doesn’t get the same paycheck whether they have two customers or two hundred. Neil sometimes wonders if taking that kind of pride in his work would make him hate the job less, but he finds it impossible to get excited over making coffee and cleaning up other people’s messes.

“That’s him,” Neil confirms. “He studies English lit.”

“Checks out,” Nate remarks, cracking a tiny smile under his stringy mustache.

Neil doesn’t know exactly what he means by that, but he thinks he has a good idea. It rankles more than it ought to. He wants to defend Vincent, to tell Nate that Vincent’s real thoughtful, and whip-smart, too, and funny and charming and a million other things, but he doesn’t get the chance to say any of it, because right then, Nate reaches for the piece of paper.

There’s a brief moment where Neil considers balling it up and shoving it into his pocket, protecting Vincent’s gift from all eyes but his own. Then he remembers this isn’t Vincent’s poem, it’s Shakespeare’s, so it’s already been seen by millions of people worldwide. He hands over the paper uncomplainingly, then smokes and watches Nate’s lips move slightly as he reads, his mustache twitching.

“Good stuff,” Nate finally says, handing back the paper. “Your boy has taste.”

“Fuck do you know about Shakespeare?”

“I’m a man of the world, McCauley. I know things.”

Neil fixes him with a look that plainly says he doesn’t think Nate knows jack shit. Nate smirks back at him, his watery eyes amused. Neil hates it when Nate tries to act playful. It makes him look deranged.

“I know you must be some kind of generational dumbass if you miss the signal of that kid giving you his poem,” Nate adds as he digs in the pockets of his polyester slacks for his own pack of cigarettes, because he says the ones Neil smokes might as well be full of sawdust.

“It’s not his poem,” Neil points out.

“True,” Nate agrees, nodding solemnly as he lights up, “but he coulda made you a Xerox, no? He didn’t. He sat down, probably in that fancy fucking university library across the street, and wrote the whole thing out himself. And he even put in little notes, so he could be sure you’d understand what he was giving you. Come on, Neil. You’re not as dense as you look, and even a real moron could get from A to B on this one.”

Neil doesn’t have the capacity to formulate a response to that. Nate decides to pass on his smoke, putting out his cigarette and making his way back inside. Neil drops his cigarette butt on the dirty concrete, grinding it to powder with the toe of his shoe. It occurs to him that he might be deeper into this thing with Vincent than he had previously thought. It also occurs to him that he has no idea what to do about it.

“Get your ass back in here, Romeo,” Nate says over his shoulder, though not without a certain gruff affection. “Your break ended two minutes ago, and I don’t pay you to read poetry.”

Neil’s started to evaluate his shifts in terms of Vincent. A shift, no matter how easy or conveniently-timed, can no longer be good if Vincent isn’t there. Good shifts are when Vincent shows up, waving at Neil with genuine enthusiasm and flashing his megawatt smile. Great shifts are when Vincent’s able to linger by the counter and talk for a while, letting Neil get lost in the rise and fall of his voice as he works. Neil’s a professional, so he does his job just fine when Vincent’s not around, but he can’t explain the sense of calm that settles over him when Vincent is.

They haven’t yet had a chance to talk about the sonnet beyond Neil telling Vincent he liked it, which earned him a smile so bright and genuine, Neil had had to grip his dish towel to keep himself steady. Neil’s waiting for the chance to properly discuss it, which he figures will come sooner rather than later. It almost has to, considering how much time Vincent’s spending in the store. And because of Nate’s tendency to glare balefully at loiterers, Vincent’s long hours in the shop reliably involve him returning to the counter to order more, giving Neil another opportunity to stare shamelessly at his dark eyes, his slender throat, and the curve of his mouth before remembering he’s supposed to be making coffee.

The downside of Vincent’s frequent returns to the counter is starting to show. Neil’s become used to seeing Vincent with one pen tucked behind his ear and the other in his hand, waving rapidly between two fingers like a metronome cranked to maximum speed. Under the table, one or both of his legs are usually bouncing. Some days, Neil wouldn’t be surprised to hear a mechanical hum if he were to step close to Vincent, nor would he be surprised to see smoke pouring out of Vincent’s ears.

Neil’s restocking pre-made sandwiches on a relatively slow shift when it occurs to him he probably ought to do something about the toll their little routine has started to take on Vincent. He can’t stop thinking about Nate’s mostly-joking comment about heart attacks, about how Neil would share in the blame if some caffeine-induced medical problem ever did actually befall Vincent. As Vincent’s barista, he should be plying him with coffee as much as possible. But he’s not just Vincent’s barista anymore, is he? He feels an obligation to him, a strange urge to protect him, even if that protection is from himself.

Neil watches Vincent enter the store in a whirlwind of noise and movement. Vincent was already in for the morning rush, where he drank one of his usual frappuccinos and took another one to go, meaning that he’s already got a tremendous amount of caffeine in his system. He looks like it, too. By the time he gets to the counter, Vincent is actually vibrating. His eyes flit rapidly around the store, though what he’s scanning for, Neil doesn’t know. The pendants of Vincent’s bracelets clatter against the counter from the involuntary shaking of his wrists. He looks manic and a little ill, but he visibly perks up when he focuses on Neil.

“I’ll get, uh—”

“Why don’t you try something decaf?” Neil suggests.

Vincent stares at him, surprised. Neil’s pretty surprised himself. He’s not usually in the business of making recommendations. When a customer asks him for a recommendation, Nate’s dictum is to either offer either whatever the store’s trying to get rid of, or something as expensive as possible without being an obvious cash-grab.

Vincent drums his fingertips on the counter, the click of his nails against metal loud and erratic. The tapping looks to Neil like the sharp, jittery movements of someone trying to release as much energy as possible for fear of spontaneous combustion.

“Yeah, okay,” Vincent agrees. “What d’you got?”

Neil racks his brains. He doesn’t think Vincent’s the type to go for tea or matcha, and most of those have caffeine, anyway. He could make Vincent a decaf version of his usual order, but Neil secretly thinks Vincent ought to cut back on all that sugar, too. Nate would have his head for offering water or milk to a guy willing to shill out for the most loaded-up drinks on the menu.

“The hot chocolate’s pretty good,” Neil offers.

Vincent shifts from one foot to the other, staring at him like he’s not sure whether Neil is fucking with him. He roughly scratches at his jaw, then gives in.

“Hot chocolate,” Vincent repeats. “Okay, sure. One of those, please and thank you.”

Vincent didn’t specify a size, so Neil decides on a medium-sized cup for him. When Neil fills the cup, the steam that wafts upwards from the dark liquid is wonderfully sweet, no undercurrent of bitterness that coffee and tea produce. For a brief moment, Neil just breathes it in. Then he remembers Vincent is waiting, and shakes himself out of it.

Company policy is three large marshmallows per cup of hot chocolate. Neil makes sure Nate isn’t looking before adding two more. He screws on the plastic lid and digs in his apron for his marker. He writes Vincent’s name without thinking, muscle memory at this point. But then, hot chocolate steaming cheerily through the lid’s slit, he pauses.

The thing is that Neil really likes Vincent, but he doesn’t have time to shoot the breeze when he’s working, and he’s not good with words the way Vincent is, anyway. After a moment’s deliberation, he scrawls a quick smiley face on the cup, right after Vincent’s name. It looks kind of wonky; the cup’s convex surface isn’t an ideal canvas, and Neil was never a great artist. But it’s clear enough to be recognized as what it is, and Neil thinks Vincent will understand what he means even if the drawing itself leaves something to be desired. He grabs the hot chocolate and slides it across the counter to Vincent, who accepts it gratefully.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Neil warns, as Vincent raises the cup to his lips.

It only takes one sip for Vincent’s eyes to light up, not from a caffeine rush but from pure, simple delight. It makes him look about five years younger. Neil finds it completely entrancing.

“This is delicious,” Vincent announces. “Haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.”

“Told you so,” Neil replies, allowing a tiny, slightly smug smile onto his face.

Vincent rotates the cup, sizing up the drink. When he catches sight of Neil’s sloppily-drawn smiley face, he beams. Actually beams, his whole face falling open like the time-softened pages of an old book, deep dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth. The sight makes Neil’s stomach swoop wildly, like he’s just missed a step going down the stairs. Vincent opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then seemingly decides against it. Instead, he starts digging in his pocket for his wallet.

Neil won’t have any of that. Vincent’s already bought two sizable coffees today, and it’s not even noon. He checks to make sure Nate’s out of earshot before leaning towards Vincent and saying:

“On the house.”

Vincent balks. He gets on his tiptoes and cranes his neck, attempting to peer over Neil’s shoulder.

“Oh, no, baby,” Vincent says quickly, “your boss looks like the type of guy who traps customers who don’t pay in a sketchy basement and cuts off fingers ‘til they cough up the cash. How much do I owe you?”

It’s only muscle memory that lets Neil ring up his total and make change for his crumpled ten-dollar bill when the way Vincent says baby is reverberating in his head like the earth-shaking echo of an enormous bronze bell. Neil watches Vincent leave— got an undergrad class to TA, can you fuckin’ believe it— and feels his absence as a physical pang in his chest. Neil doesn’t think he’s ever been called baby before. He already wants Vincent to say it over and over again, to let Neil drown in the depth of affection contained in his beautiful, beautiful voice.

The days pass on, and for the most part, nothing changes.

Justine and Eady still order their usual, then sit at their table in the back. Nate still stares disapprovingly down at tables of inventory through his reading glasses, grumbling under his breath about asshole suppliers trying to cheat him out of plastic goods or tea leaves or pre-baked croissants or whatever else. Breedan’s taken to leaving open textbooks on the counter as finals season approaches. Neil’s started looking through university course catalogs, starting to build a rough outline of a path towards a degree. He’s thinking of enrolling in a few classes this upcoming summer, when the mass exodus of students and faculty means business grinds to a near-halt.

Vincent still comes in just about every day, sometimes multiple times a day. He mostly orders his vile frappuccino concoction, but sometimes, he’ll ask Neil to choose for him. Neil counted it as a major victory when he got Vincent to try a decaf cup of tea and Vincent actually liked it. On busy days, all they get is a quick exchange of pleasantries. On quieter days, Vincent’s able to linger at the counter. Neil will make him a drink, Vincent will pay for it and put a tip in the jar, and they’ll get to talking.

Admittedly, Vincent does most of the talking, but that’s fine by Neil. He likes to restock straws or clean out the milk frother or reheat baked goods while Vincent talks about everything from the day’s headlines to his opinions on old movies to whatever peevish thing his faculty advisor is doing that’s really getting his goat. Neil mostly makes little noises of agreement or disapproval, though occasionally he’ll offer real input, which reliably makes Vincent smile. They talk more about Shakespeare, too, including Sonnet 23— well, Vincent talks and Neil listens. The poetry actually makes sense when Vincent explains it. Neil’s not a poetry lover by any means, but he’s starting to understand what Vincent sees in it.

Mostly, though, they talk about themselves. Neil learns about Vincent’s sisters, growing up in Granite City, how Vincent was thinking about becoming a cop before his high school English teacher changed his life. Neil listens attentively as Vincent explains the origin of each and every piece of jewelry he wears. He finds himself cracking tiny smiles at Vincent’s jokes, which in turn makes Vincent crack more of them, and it sometimes feels like Vincent’s only talking to see if he can get Neil to laugh. It works, too. Neil’s never laughed more than when Vincent’s spinning one of his yarns.

In turn, Neil tells Vincent about growing up in the Bay Area, the reckless botched drugstore robbery that landed him in prison, getting out and shaping up, and Chris. He shows him his prison tattoos— the barbed wire on his forearm and ouroboros on his bicep that’s generally kept hidden by his work polo. For all his dynamism as a speaker, Vincent’s a wonderful listener. Neil doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to another human being as comfortably as he’s spoken to Vincent. He doesn’t talk nearly as much as Vincent does, of course, but Vincent makes talking easy in a way Neil’s never had with anybody else.

Neil’s not sure when exactly the boundary was crossed, but Vincent’s not just a customer anymore, not even close. Making him coffee feels more like when he makes breakfast for himself and Chris, even though Vincent’s paying him for it. He thinks that’s what Vincent is at this point: his friend. It’s strange to think about; Neil doesn’t have many friends. It’s made more complicated still by the fact that Neil wants things with Vincent that he doesn’t want with his other friends, things that are getting harder and harder to contain. Things that— if Neil’s been reading the signs correctly— Vincent might just want, too.

It’s still relatively early in the morning, the store not empty but certainly not busy. Trejo’s behind the counter with Neil, taking advantage of the quiet to work on his newspaper’s puzzle section. Nate’s taking a prolonged smoke break in the alley out back. Vincent’s leaning against the counter, talking animatedly about Shakespeare. As often happens on quiet days, he had bounded right up to the counter and started talking. He hasn’t even ordered yet, monologuing undeterred even as the occasional customer steps in front of him like he doesn’t want to spend even a minute of his time with Neil on something as trivial as a beverage.

Neil can’t quite explain it, but as he watches Vincent’s hands twist and turn in the air as he quotes various scholarly opinions on whether Lady Macbeth is a feminist character, he knows today’s the day. He has to show Vincent some inkling of what’s going on in his head, feels like he might explode if he doesn’t. He thinks he knows how to go about it, too.

Ever since that first smiley face on the cup of Vincent’s godawful frappuccino, Neil’s taken to making little drawings on Vincent’s cups. The smiley face is his go-to, but sometimes he’ll try a five-point star, or a cartoon-style flower. For the past two weeks, he’s been psyching himself up to draw a little heart after Vincent’s name, his first tentative overture at something deeper, more dangerous than friendship. He knows full well it’s horrifically corny. He also suspects it’s the exact kind of corny Vincent will appreciate.

Neil watches the charms of Vincent’s gold bracelet sway as Vincent waves his hands. He feels a sharp pang of worry in his gut, but he steels himself. The way Vincent looks at him sometimes, the comments he makes, asking Justine and Eady if he’s single, the warmth with which he calls Neil baby… Neil’s been suspecting with increasing frequency that Vincent might want to make a move, but doesn’t know how or how Neil will respond to it. Neil knows he’s going to have to go first, and today’s as good a day as any.

“You want to order anything?” Neil asks, when Vincent finally stops for air.

Vincent pauses, like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Dealer’s choice.”

Tea it is, Neil thinks, as Vincent resumes his analysis of proto-feminist characters in Western literature. In the past, Vincent’s liked the store’s peppermint tea, so Neil decides to go with that. Not decaf— he figures Vincent might need at least a small boost this early in the morning— but certainly more reasonable than his usual caffeine-laden milkshake. Neil takes far longer than necessary to make the order in to work up the nerve to make his move. Vincent is still talking, his eyes roaming over the store’s few customers. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Neil starts to draw the heart, trying his damndest to make it neat.

He pauses and glances up when he hears the wind chimes as a matter of instinct. His heart sinks when he sees Chris. Some kind of fucking timing, Neil thinks with a dark sense of foreboding. He knows, somewhere deep in his gut, that Chris is about to completely derail his plans. Neil had wanted his move to be low-key, to give Vincent an out if it turns out he misread their situation. There’s no way it’ll stay low-key if Chris catches wind of it. The bad news is Neil’s already pressed the marker to the cup, leaving a very conspicuous line after the t in Vincent. It’s too late to back out now. He finishes the heart and shoves the marker back into his pocket, hoping Chris won’t fuck this up for him.

Chris walks up to the counter like he owns the place, an easy saunter that’s not too far off from Vincent’s confident stride. Neil tries to quickly slide the cup towards Vincent before Chris can see it, but counting on Chris being oblivious is like counting on the sun not rising in the morning. Chris immediately drapes one arm over the pastry counter, craning his neck to see what Vincent ordered. Neil’s heart is pounding, hoping beyond hope that Chris will have the tact to keep his mouth shut, or that he won’t notice, or that—

“Oh, hey!” Chris exclaims. “Look at that, he put a little heart on your cup! He doesn’t do that for me, and we’ve literally known each other since we were kids. He must really like you.”

Normally, Neil thinks Nate’s one-sided beef with Chris is juvenile and unreasonable. Now, he thinks he’d turn a blind eye if Nate were to return from his smoke break and throttle Chris with his bare hands. Neil might even join in with a well-placed kick in the groin, or maybe a punch to the nose. He settles for scowling darkly at Chris, willing his displeasure into palpability.

Vincent glances up at Chris from under long, dark eyelashes, then turns his gaze towards Neil. Chris must have half a foot on Vincent, and his lemon-yellow Lakers jersey might as well come from a different planet as Vincent’s black dress shirt, black jacket, black slacks, and black patterned tie. Vincent seems unperturbed by the big blond guy who interrupted his monologue and is currently leaning into his personal space. Neil tries to get his expression to something halfway normal before opening his mouth.

“My boss said I should try to be friendlier with customers,” Neil lies through gritted teeth, his face burning.

Chris laughs out loud, as bright and clear and irksome as the wind chimes by the front door. Neil shoots him a look so venomous, he’s almost surprised Chris doesn’t disintegrate from the intensity of it— surprised and disappointed. Instead, Chris claps Vincent on the shoulder so hard he pitches forward a little.

“Neil’s the best,” Chris tells him in a stage whisper louder than most people’s speaking voice. “I’d give my life for this guy, I’m serious. He likes to act all tough, but he’s got a heart of gold. And he’s smarter than he looks, too.”

“I think he looks plenty smart,” Vincent returns, smiling winningly, easily matching Chris’ boisterous energy now that he’s gotten over his initial surprise. “You’re lucky he’s too quiet to make a crack about dumb blondes.”

Fuck me, Neil thinks despairingly, there’s two of them. Chris flashes Neil a look of utter delight. Vincent sips carefully at his tea while Neil stands like a statue and Chris glances back and forth between them like it’s a tennis match. Neil watches, stomach churning, as Vincent holds the cup away from him and up to the light, examining his own name and Neil’s drawing with his head cocked at an inquisitive angle.

“You know,” Vincent says, after a long pause, “I’d draw you a heart, too, but the only paper I got on me is cash, and I don’t think polyester Wyatt Earp would be too happy with defaced U.S. currency in his register.”

Neil’s brain, short-circuited some time ago, isn’t remotely able to process that. Chris peels himself off the counter and steps behind Vincent. Neil watches Chris warily as Vincent digs out a few bills to pay for his drink and his usual tip. You have to fuck him! Chris mouths, from over Vincent’s shoulder. Neil stares daggers back at him, silently willing Nate to come back and find some pretense to throw Chris out of the store.

“You must be Chris,” Vincent says, turning to peer up at him. “Neil’s told me all about you. Good things only, of course.”

The look Chris sends Neil as he sticks out his hand to shake Vincent’s is priceless. If Neil weren’t so sweet on Vincent, he’d add him to the list of people he wants Nate to strangle.

“The one and only,” Chris replies, puffing out his chest. “Neil hasn’t told me about you, but I’d be willing to bet you’re the reason he’s happier on his shift days than on his days off for the first time since he got this shitty job—”

“Shiherlis!” shouts a nasal rasp from somewhere behind Neil. “Out!”

Neil nearly collapses with relief. He startles when Nate slams a metal cup onto the countertop, turning to see his face flushed the tomato-red shade that only seems to appear when Chris is in his immediate vicinity.

“And you!” Nate adds, turning towards Neil. “Can you go do your fuckin’ job? You know, the list of things I pay you to do?”

Neil just nods, making his way over the sink to start scrubbing the mixing spoons, casting a long look back at Vincent, who’s watching Nate round on Chris with unconcealed fascination. Neil tunes out the familiar sound of Nate launching into one of his tirades, a stream of borderline-violent epithets that will undoubtedly slide off Chris like water off a duck’s back. Chris just rolls his eyes and takes his time walking out of the store, flipping Nate the bird over his shoulder. Neil hears Nate muttering darkly behind him, something about that no-good fucking kid and restraining order and oughta key his fuckin’ car.

“I should probably get going, too,” Vincent calls to Neil, holding his cup up to his face and inhaling a lungful of sweet-smelling steam. “No rest for the weary.”

Neil nods stiffly. Part of him wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know exactly what for, and he’s not good at saying sorry, anyway. A much larger part of him wants to empty the apartment’s vacuum on Chris’ pillow tonight. Preferably while Chris is sleeping on it.

“See you,” Neil says weakly.

Vincent twists around to flash him one more smile before turning on his heel and walking out of the store, his cup of tea still steaming in his hand. Neil keeps his eyes on the spoons, but his head is a million miles away. Chris’ ham-fisted intervention aside, Vincent seemed to like the heart drawing. Perhaps the execution of the plan left something to be desired, but Neil’s confident he was right to make a move. Now, it’s Vincent’s turn.

The heart on the cup changed things, that much becomes clear immediately. Vincent put on a show for Chris, but every time he’s been to the store since, he’s been uncharacteristically timid. He’ll only look at Neil for a moment before glancing away, a shy smile playing on his lips. Shy is an unusual look on him. Neil can’t decide if it’s cute or unbearably frustrating. He still wants to wait for Vincent to make a move before pushing things any further himself.

In the meantime, he keeps drawing hearts on Vincent’s cups. Vincent doesn’t comment, but Neil sees him rotate the cup each time, his eyes lighting up when he sees them. With each passing day, Neil becomes increasingly certain that Vincent’s feeling something like what he’s feeling, that Vincent’s just taking time to figure out his move the same way Neil took time to figure out his. That’s okay with Neil. He can be patient, drinking in the sight of Vincent’s tiny smiles while his chest gets all warm and golden with the knowledge he made Vincent happy. He’ll wait as long as Vincent needs him to.

It finally happens on a midday shift, the store bustling but not overwhelmingly busy. Vincent’s ordered his usual sugared-up, caffeine-loaded monstrosity, claiming he needs it for a long night of studying ahead of him. Neil makes it quickly, aware of the ten or so customers waiting in line.

Neil starts to slide the cup across the counter, same way he always does. This time, though, Vincent is quicker. He reaches for the cup before Neil lets go, brushing his fingertips along Neil’s fingers and settling them on the back of Neil’s palm. Neil’s entire body freezes, his breath catching. The world seems to slow down around him, melting and warping into blurry non-shapes, everything other than Vincent irrelevant. Vincent’s touch feels like static electricity, like there’s an invisible tendril of something bright and spiky fizzing and crackling from Vincent’s skin to his. Neil’s head snaps up to meet Vincent’s gaze. Vincent stares back at him, wide-eyed and almost frightened, and Neil knows he feels it, too.

Neil is suddenly and forcefully reminded of the sonnet Vincent gave him: as an unperfect actor on the stage… He certainly feels like an unperfect actor. He knows what it is to feel too much and too strongly to put it into words, only the guy who wrote the sonnet was Shakespeare and Neil’s a twenty-seven-year-old barista who didn’t even make it past high school English. Neil looks at Vincent and knows in his bones that he will never feel anything like this towards anyone again. The realization is swift and overwhelming: it started with a cup of coffee, and now Neil’s in love. He’s in this far too deep to get himself out. He doesn’t much want to, either.

It’s not a pleasant realization. O, learn to read what silent love has writ / to hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit, the sonnet reads. Vincent’s notes explained that the sonnet’s narrator expressed his impossible-to-verbalize love through books and poems. Neil’s got tiny drawings on coffee cups. He wants, more than anything, to say something amazing, but he can’t. He doesn’t have any beautiful words to offer Vincent, doesn’t have any words at all. He stares at him uselessly, agonized, stunned into silence by the enormity of his own feeling. He hates himself with a fiery, overwhelming bitterness for being so inadequate for this moment.

“Hey,” Vincent says softly. “It’s okay.”

Neil shakes his head, a thick, burning feeling crawling up his throat. He doesn’t understand. Neil’s not what he’s looking for, can’t be what he’s looking for, will never be enough for somebody so brilliant and wonderful and incandescent. Neil clenches his jaw tightly, focusing on the feeling of his molars grinding against each other so he won’t start shaking. He drops Vincent’s hand and curls his fingers in a tight fist, digging his fingernails into his palm.

“Neil,” Vincent murmurs, moving his hand to Neil’s forearm, his fingertips gentle and feather-light over the dark ink of Neil’s barbed-wire tattoo. “Neil, look at me, baby. It’s okay. I get it.”

Neil wants to say that he doesn’t, that Vincent’s a man of infinitely many infinitely clever words, that he will never be able to keep pace with him. But when he meets Vincent’s eyes, he sees Vincent does understand. Neil’s head swims. His throat burns and his eyes prickle at the thought that it could be that simple, that Vincent will always understand. I want to kiss you, Neil thinks, nearly bowled over by the intensity of his own desire. He wants to lean over the counter and pull Vincent into a kiss, to thread his fingers through Vincent’s lovely hair, to see what those pretty lips look like gasping his name, to—

“Are you gonna pay or what?” asks a deep, gruff voice from somewhere behind Vincent, and Neil remembers where he is.

Vincent flushes. Neil, fully aware of how gone he is and very grateful for the coverage his apron provides, can’t help but find it endearing. Vincent pays in a hurry— though he doesn’t forget to tip— and quickly moves away from the counter, then lingers by the pastry case. Neil keeps an eye on him as he makes the deep-voiced customer’s drink, willing his hands to remain steady even though he feels completely off-kilter, like the whole planet’s tipped on its axis.

Neil thinks about Justine and Eady putting in a good word for him, about Nate giving him a suspicious number of front-of-house shifts, about Breedan encouraging him to go talk to him, about Chris watching him interact with Vincent and immediately telling him he has to fuck him. Neil would fuck Vincent, if Vincent would let him, but it’s more than that. Neil would also very much like to kiss Vincent’s knuckles like a gentleman from some bygone era and touch his soft, wavy hair and fall asleep listening to him explain the emotional impact of a sonnet’s meter and rhyme scheme. He’d like to wake up to him every morning, to come home to him every night. The craziest part is that he thinks Vincent might just want the same thing.

“I’m gonna go,” Vincent says quietly, when Neil returns to the counter to give the deep-voiced customer his chai latte. “Let you get back to work. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Don’t go, Neil wants to say, his stomach plummeting. Stay here. Stay with me forever. But it’s all he can do to swallow hard past the burning lump in his throat and say:

“See you soon.”

The next day, Neil has the worst shift of his life.

He doesn’t see it coming, either. The evening-into-closing shift is usually desirable; Neil doesn’t hate closing the way he hates opening, and showing up to work in the early evening leaves his mornings free. But last night, he had kept himself awake nearly all night thinking about Vincent, wondering why Vincent left so suddenly, if he somehow fucked up the best thing in his life. He’d finally fallen asleep around five in the morning, which meant he barely woke up in time to hustle to the store in time for his evening shift. He stumbles into his uniform feeling exhausted and disoriented. He’s never cared less about making coffee in his entire life.

There must be some kind of major test coming up, because the store is packed with students. Breedan and Nate are both behind the counter, the fact that Nate’s actually working a solid indicator that the store’s been horrifically busy for a while now. Neil slides behind the counter and gets to work immediately. Even through the throng of students, Neil can tell Vincent isn’t here. Breedan sends him a freighted look and shakes his head as he gets to work on an almond-milk latte, which means Vincent hasn’t been in all day. The thought sends a pang of despair right to his gut.

I get it, Vincent had said, watching Neil fall apart before his eyes, and Neil had believed him. But he can’t shake the suspicion that Vincent might’ve realized just how much is wrong with Neil’s head and decided to cut his losses. Neil can’t blame him. If he were Vincent, he wouldn’t want to get involved with him, either. For a while, it had felt like he and Vincent were on an enormous steel locomotive, picking up speed as they thundered unstoppably towards something wonderful. Now, Neil wonders if his abysmal performance yesterday somehow derailed the train.

Normally, Neil’s a pragmatist who doesn’t worry about things with logical explanations, but he’s spent enough time with Vincent to become an interpreter of signs and symbols, and now he’s got himself feeling nauseated as his head spins him a highlight reel of worst-case scenarios. Neil’s good at multitasking, so he’s able to tie himself in knots and make drinks without issue. The store’s glaring fluorescents are painful. The deafening clamor of customers, machinery, and bad pop music makes his head ache. It’s nothing compared to how lousy thinking about Vincent makes him feel.

The hours pass in a whirlwind of motion. Neil loses track of how many coffees he makes, how many customers he rings up, how many times he has to weave around Nate or Breedan to get to the chocolate sauce or the sugar cookies or whatever else. It feels like no time at all before the flow of customers has slowed to a lazy trickle, and not long after that before it stops entirely. The few stragglers inside are starting to pick up their bags and wander out. Outside, the sun has long since set, the store’s lights and wrought-iron street lamps illuminating the sidewalk in patchwork glows past the glass doors.

Neil, lucky possessor of the closing shift, knows he’ll be the last one in the store. Nate steps out from behind the counter to have a smoke and go home, saying goodbye to Neil with a curt nod. Breedan, seemingly taking pity on Neil’s obviously-altered state, stays a little past the end of his shift to help Neil start on closing.

“You can go,” Neil tells him, the second he realizes what Breedan’s doing.

“You sure?”

Breedan looks exhausted. Neil can see how badly he wants to go home as clearly as he can see the stack of medium-sized plastic lids next to Breedan’s elbow. Neil’s a grown man. It’s not on Don Breedan to do more work just because Neil might’ve irreparably fucked up the one truly good thing in his life.

“Yeah,” Neil says. “See you tomorrow.”

Breedan fixes Neil with another one of his significant looks. It’s not pitying, which Neil appreciates. Instead, the look seems to say that Neil’s been through too much to be getting bent out of shape about this. He’s right, too. Neil forces his brain’s logician back into the driver’s seat. He was probably just busy, Neil reasons. He’ll probably be back tomorrow, and Neil will be able to fix things, will be able to convince Vincent that he’s not an irredeemably fucked-up loser who can’t even manage to to ask a guy out without going to pieces. How, he doesn’t know, but he knows he has to try.

“See you, man,” Breedan replies, taking off his apron and leaving Neil to close the store alone.

Neil came into this shift exhausted and hasn’t taken one break over the past seven hours of frenetic work. By the time he’s made his way through the tasks on Nate’s painstakingly thorough closing checklist, he’s running on fumes, his brain operating on autopilot. Vincent not showing up still weighs on him, making his chest ache and his stomach twist, but he pushes past it, singularly focused on going home. He hangs his royal blue apron and visor on the nail that serves as a hook, then rubs a hand over his tired eyes and turns out the lights.

There’s a serenity to a dark, empty shop at night, all long shadows and silence like a blanket draped over the statue-still furniture and machinery. The only illumination comes from the bright white of the street lamps outside, casting a ghostly glow over the entire store. Normally, Neil likes being in the store alone late at night; something about the silvery light and the stark shadows remind him of a lunar landscape. Now, standing near the store room and thinking of nothing but his bed, it’s tough to appreciate. When he hears a knock on the door, he nearly trips over his own feet.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, his heart pounding in his throat. The knock comes again, three sharp raps on window glass. Neil checks his watch— it’s two minutes past one in the morning. He’s not afraid. No serious armed burglar would knock before entering, and Neil’s confident in his own ability to fight. He’s less frightened than he is bewildered.

Neil hurries to the front of the store. He stops in his tracks a few yards from the door, stunned into momentary uselessness by the sight of Vincent with his palms and his nose pressed into the window as he squints into the store, clearly trying to see if anyone’s still inside. When he sees Neil, Vincent visibly perks up. Neil’s stomach twists. Vincent waves with both hands, then points at the door, as clear a signal as any.

A cold, heavy feeling settles in Neil’s gut, the same thing he always feels when he’s about to make a questionable decision. Nate’s real strict about closing time, and Neil’s worked hard to stay in Nate’s good graces. But then again, Vincent wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t important. And Vincent’s got a pleading look on his face, his beautiful eyes shining and vulnerable. Neil knows he’d never be able to say no to a look like that. He strides over to the door and unlocks it, standing in the doorway so Vincent won’t mistake the gesture for an invitation.

“We’re closed,” Neil says.

“Yeah, no shit,” Vincent replies, rolling his eyes. “I figured that one out from the locked door, the lack of lights, and the fact that it’s one in the fucking morning. They call me Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t come here for a cup of coffee.”

Neil stares at him as he waits for Vincent to tell him what he did come for. A strange look comes over Vincent’s face, pained and twisted-up like he’s experiencing bad heartburn. Several emotions flit across his face in rapid succession; Neil can’t identify any of them. He waits patiently while Vincent collects himself.

“I wanted to see you,” Vincent finally admits. “I didn’t wanna come in while you were working. Didn’t wanna put you on the spot again. Can we talk?”

Neil mentally runs through the closing checklist, only stepping out of the store once he’s convinced himself he’s done. The warm, still air of the springtime evening settles on his skin, the gentle breeze bearing the scent of blossoming trees. Neil breathes it in, steadying himself. He locks the door behind him and stores the key in the little plastic doohickey Nate installed by the store’s front door. Vincent rocks back and forth on his heels like he’s got too much energy to hold himself still. Neil understands. His stomach is putting on a gold-medal gymnastics routine, and he half-expects his heart to burst through his chest from how fast it’s beating.

Vincent starts to walk down the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Neil follows, lingering a step or two behind, watching Vincent carefully. He believes Vincent’s reason for not coming in today, feels himself relaxing as a result. The train is still on the tracks. Neil racks his brains for something to say, some way of explaining himself to Vincent even though Vincent probably already knows everything he could ever think to say. He comes up predictably empty, resigning himself to waiting for Vincent to speak first. They’ve barely made it ten feet from the store’s front door when Vincent rounds on him.

“Neil, listen, I don’t watch rom-coms,” Vincent says, the words tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall’s rush, his eyes urgent and intense. “I don’t believe in love at first sight or soulmates or any of that froufrou bullshit. But there’s something here, isn’t there? Tell me if I’m wrong. Am I losing my fucking mind, or do we have something?”

It takes everything Neil has to keep himself upright. He was wrong, he realizes. He didn’t fuck anything up. Vincent feels the same way he does, has felt the same way all along. Vincent understands him in a way he has never been understood before, and Vincent loves him anyway. He was just taking time to get the words right. The realization makes Neil’s head whirl, pinwheels of brilliant sparks bursting in his chest.

“We have something,” Neil agrees. “I don’t know what it is, but we have something.”

Vincent’s entire body relaxes like a tightly-coiled spring returning to equilibrium. He tosses his head backwards as he sighs, giving Neil an enticing view of his throat. Neil’s fingers twitch by his side with how much he wants to reach out and touch him.

“Well?” Vincent demands.

“Well, what?”

“Well, are you gonna fuckin’ kiss me already, or do I have to do everyth—”

Neil crosses the distance between them and reaches for Vincent’s face with both hands, pulling him into a hungry kiss. Vincent nearly collapses into it, sighing contentedly into Neil’s mouth as Neil slides an arm around Vincent’s back, his other hand still holding Vincent’s cheek. Neil winds up with his back pressed into a brick wall, his eyes sliding shut as he kisses Vincent with everything he’s got. Vincent, for his part, is shoving his entire body into Neil’s like he’s trying to melt into him, his hands caressing the small of Neil’s back. Neil welcomes it, his mind going blissfully blank, overwhelmed by the twin sensations of Vincent’s body pressed against his and Vincent’s tongue in his mouth.

Vincent’s an excellent kisser. Neil figures maybe he should’ve guessed that, with that mouth of his, but it still makes him slightly dizzy. Vincent tastes like— what else? Neil thinks wryly— coffee, but it’s more than that: cinnamon gum and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke and the taste of Vincent himself. Neil slides his hand along the sharp line of Vincent’s jaw, savoring the soft scratch of stubble. Vincent’s tongue slides over his teeth, curious, exploring. His hands are warm and solid on Neil’s back. Neil feels drunk with it, hopelessly intoxicated by the soft sounds Vincent is spilling into his mouth, no doubt a prelude to other, louder, more desperate noises he’s suddenly eager to hear Vincent make. Dimly, Neil starts wondering if Vincent’s got roommates, if Chris would mind his taking Vincent home, if—

“Neil,” Vincent whimpers, as Neil’s teeth catch Vincent’s bottom lip. “Neil, baby—”

“I got you,” Neil murmurs into his mouth, pressing kisses to the corners of Vincent’s lips. “‘S’okay. I got you.”

Vincent surges into Neil with a high, desperate sound. Neil grunts as his head makes contact with the brick wall, ignoring the brief flash of pain. Vincent’s hands have found their way under Neil’s shirt, warm and solid on the bare skin of Neil’s back. Neil’s still got one hand on Vincent’s back, the other sliding around to the back of Vincent’s head, tangling his fingers in Vincent’s hair as he pulls his face closer. He licks into Vincent’s mouth with a hunger that surprises himself, his eyes squeezed shut as Vincent’s fingernails scratch down his back. Their noses bump, which makes Vincent tip his head for a better angle, and the sensation of Vincent’s tongue sliding along Neil’s makes Neil feel unsteady on his feet, kept upright only by the insistent force of Vincent’s body pressing up against his own.

Neil’s not sure how much time elapses before Vincent’s pulling away to gulp air into his lungs. Neil’s own chest is heaving. He can feel a wide, stupid grin spreading over his face. He finds he has no power to stop it. Vincent’s smiling, too, happy and triumphant. His eyes gleam, laugh lines crinkling their corners. Neil’s never seen anyone more beautiful.

Vincent’s hands rise to hold Neil’s face. The skin of his palms is soft and smooth. Neil unconsciously rubs his cheek against Vincent’s hand, which makes Vincent laugh.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you in normal clothes,” Vincent remarks. “You look good.”

Neil glances down at himself. He’s always thought of his clothing as very ordinary. Nothing to be self-conscious about, but nothing impressive, either. He’s no sharp dresser like Vincent. It doesn’t stop the compliment from settling itself between Neil’s ribs.

“Thanks,” Neil says. “I’m not working tomorrow, if you want to do something. I’ll be wearing normal clothes.”

Vincent breaks into a wide smile at the joke. Neil, who’s never experienced being funny before, stands up a little taller. Vincent’s standing close enough that Neil can smell his cologne, can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

“Yeah,” Vincent breathes. “God, yeah, I’d love to. Whatcha thinking?”

Neil’s thinking of how he can get Chris to clear out of the apartment so he can bring Vincent home without telling Chris that’s why he needs him out of the apartment. He’s thinking about kissing followed by ordering food followed by more kissing, preferably with falling into bed nestled somewhere in that arrangement. He’s thinking about Vincent taking him to the university library and showing him his favorite books, or him taking Vincent to the roof of his building and pointing out the things he likes to look at, or— Neil shakes himself from his thoughts and shrugs.

“Whatever you want.”

Vincent pouts, an expression so over-the-top it makes Neil smile.

“Neil, baby, come on, pick something.”

“Whatever you want is good with—”

“I don’t care!” Vincent fervently interrupts. “Movie, museum, walk in the park, I don’t care! Anything but a fucking coffee shop.”

Neil laughs. He peels himself off the wall and pulls Vincent close, one arm tossed over Vincent’s shoulder. Vincent fits so easily into his side, like they’re the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that’s been coming together for a long time. Neil feels lighter than he’s felt in years. Maybe lighter than he’s ever felt in entire life. His mind whirls with the realization that he’s just kissed Vincent Hanna, that it was every bit as glorious as he’d imagined, and that he’s got plenty more kisses with Vincent in his immediate future.

“Okay,” Neil says. “I can work with that.”