Chapter Text
Today isn’t Kravitz’s day.
Most days aren’t favorable to Kravitz, which makes this particularly bad day stand out, but not as much as it might have otherwise. He wakes up alone, eats breakfast alone, commutes to work in bumper-to-bumper traffic alone and spends the whole day ignoring his cubicle neighbors as much as he can until he gets to clock off before returning to that same empty apartment. Then he curls up in a king-sized bed by himself and the whole cycle starts again.
That’s what’s normal for Kravitz. Shitty, but normal.
Out of everything subpar in his life, the one good thing he can count on is the chance to take lunch off and sip nervously at a smoothie while trying to pretend he isn’t checking out the barista who’d served it to him. Kravitz doesn’t even know the guy’s name; every week, he’s somehow obtained a different employee nametag. The first time he’d been working and Kravitz had happened by, it had said Greg; then Rosalind; then Louis, then Aki, then Maria, then dozens more Kravitz has long since lost track of.
There are some things that stay constant, though; his hands are always so soft and he never seems to scrub away the last traces of glittering eyeshadow around his half-lidded gaze before coming into work, which makes Kravitz think about the secret life he must have, makes Kravitz wonder how he dresses when he gets to kick the apron and starched shirt to the curb. Do those loose bangles around his wrists multiply? Does he always tie his long hair back, or does he let it frame his face?
Kravitz doesn’t want his idle daydreaming to go anywhere; he can barely look the man in the eye, for one, and wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable at his literal workplace, for another. Maybe most importantly of all, he’s content with having this one small, nice thing stay exactly as it is, and too scared to ask for anything even slightly closer to romance. There’s some pitiful comfort in knowing that as dull and boring as his life is, he can always count on a routine that barely changes that doesn't depend on other people.
But on the worst, most unpredictable day of Kravitz’s year, routine isn’t something he gets to have.
That day is a Wednesday, because of course it is. He gets held up at the office ten minutes into his half-hour lunch break when the new guy from Human Resources spills coffee all over Kravitz’s desk but doesn’t stick around to help him clean it up. Then Jess pretends she doesn’t see him running for the only working elevator, which means he has to wait another five to make the trip down, spending all five of those minutes cursing his company’s cheap-ass policies and both of the broken elevators under his breath.
When he finally makes it across the spacious courtyard and into the same place he always eats, the situation gets that much worse.
Sometimes the object of his fantasies takes a day off work, which Kravitz always finds kind of disappointing but understands — given that he has to serve some of the people that Kravitz has seen wander in here from the cluster of office buildings, he’s probably long since earned a year off — and it seems like this disappointing Wednesday is going to be one of those days. He distantly scans the unfamiliar form behind the counter, noting that whichever part-time hire is in today is short, looks so young he probably gets carded at PG-13 movies, and doesn’t have a name tag.
Then he stops, refocuses, and registers that the beaming figure in front of him is literally an elementary schooler.
“Hello, sir,” that elementary schooler chirps up at Kravitz. “What can I get for you?”
A voice chimes in from farther back as the STAFF ONLY door swings open. “You don’t have to call all the customers that, kiddo.”
And there’s the man of his dreams, who eyes Kravitz vaguely and doesn’t even wait to hear him order before sidling over to make the same incomprehensible mixture of fruit, grains, and smoothie that Kravitz always gets. For a few seconds, he’s caught in a feedback loop of being grateful he’s such a regular that his favorite doesn’t need clarification, then nervousness about why there’s a literal child in a custom-sized apron, then fascination with the orange flecks of makeup clinging to those long eyelashes, all the thoughts mixing themselves up over and over until the dish thuds down in front of him and the barista is suddenly so very close.
“That’ll be six dollars and twenty-nine cents.”
“Uh,” says Kravitz. He gestures at the boy, casting questioning eyes at a carefully neutral spot just to the left of the other man’s head to keep the two of them from looking directly at one another, praying that his meaning gets across because he’s suddenly lost all the words to describe how much this shouldn’t be a question he even has to ask. “Uh?”
“It’s Bring Your Kid To Work Day, and this is like, my kid,” the barista says, his voice so light and airy that he appears entirely unconcerned about why Kravitz might be asking. As if it’s somehow natural for his son to be behind the counter serving drinks and that anyone who questioned the idea of it must be an idiot.
Kravitz rubs the back of his neck and bites his lip. “This is a Jamba Juice, not a corporate office.”
The polite cheerfulness disappearing to a huff that’s no less smug and self-assured, all Kravitz gets for his genuine confusion — confusion about why an eight year old is working at a Jamba Juice, mostly, but there’s also a little bit of dismayed acceptance that he’d never even considered the possibility of his secret crush probably being married — is an eye roll and a cocked hip.
“We can’t all crawl out of whatever, whatever fuckin’ suit factory birthed you, darling,” he answers. “Some of us have to work jobs with less tax fraud and extremely illegal offshore accounting for a living, you dig? I’m not gonna deprive my Ango of a national holiday just ‘cause I don’t steal old lady pensions.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence, a pause where Kravitz is trying to process the fact that an upsettingly pretty man he’s pined after for months just insulted his entire career path over an untouched Açaí Primo Bowl that’s still sitting on the counter, so said gorgeous barista uses the opportunity to turn away from Kravitz in a whirl of movement. He pats the attentive little boy on the head, a careful tousle of the hair smoothing some stray strands back into place.
“Remember what Grandpops said about swearing, pumpkin?”
Ango — which is probably a nickname, but God only knows for what — brightens up at the chance to recite something for an audience in a way that even beats out the sheer uncanny delight with which he’d asked Kravitz for his order earlier. There’s a disarming edge to his happiness, sparkling eyes that make it difficult to stay upset at his presence for too long despite Kravitz’s best efforts.
“Not to do it until I turn eighteen or I have to put money in the swear jar.”
The barista, already turning to Kravitz once more with an eyebrow raised, pats his son on the head again without glancing back over. “Yep, you got it, Aang.”
Everything about this scene is decidedly bizarre in a way that makes Kravitz feel almost like he’s in a dream. This is so far from the everyday reality from what he’d been expecting out of this pretty shitty Wednesday that it’s almost a relief when his watch’s alarm beeps. Lunch is winding down and it’s time to get back to work — with a sigh, Kravitz remembers that he hasn’t had a chance to so much as sit down, let alone eat the slurry of granola and fruit that’s going cold on the counter. He can’t carry that back with him, but the thought of trekking back to work and getting through the rest of the work day with nothing to eat makes Kravitz’s stomach gurgle.
Unexpectedly, something in the barista’s smirking face softens. The look he gives Kravitz isn’t quite gentle, too tinged with spiteful amusement on the edges of his pity, but it is enough to send hopeless flutters of excitement to Kravitz’s fingertips. The case holding the restaurant’s pastries lets out a faint hiss as he tugs it open and glances back at Kravitz. “You like Belgian waffles, my guy?”
Kravitz does.
It must show on his face as clear as a signal flare in the dead of night, because the corners of those glittering eyes crinkle in amusement as the barista laughs. Kravitz has never heard him laugh before, never seen so much as a genuine smile, so the sight sends electricity sparking through his veins in a way he was wholly unprepared for.
“Gotcha, darling,” he hears, heart pounding in his ears violently enough to make the words sound distant. “These are on the house, by the way, since you’re in here like all the time, probably the most loyal customer I have and also not a total asshat most of the time —”
His heartbeat gets louder and he starts to come unstuck from his own body, barely registers it when a cheap brown paper bag filled with treats gets pressed into his hands and the barista waves him out the door. Ango calls a cheerful farewell after him and the bells above the entrance jingle as he makes his way out. Stumbling feet keep moving without any real input from his conscious brain and before he knows it, he’s in the middle of the courtyard, the scent of fresh waffle overpowering his senses.
That was the longest he’d ever had a conversation not related to work in ages, Kravitz thinks, his heart’s inconveniently painful thundering in his chest starting to slow back down despite the spikes it gets when he remembers the smiling curve of those lips. And he’d had it with someone who was so far out of Kravitz’s league that he might as well be in outer space, who had laughed and given him a gift for being a loyal customer, a whole bag of free pastries.
A bag with something written on it in sparkling gold Sharpie. Not having had the foresight to bring his reading glasses with him to lunch, Kravitz squints, pulls it closer to his face as he powerwalks back to his building and tries to decipher the scribbling.
Taako ❤ (555) 459-0800
Kravitz immediately collides with a telephone pole.