Chapter Text
Nobody was perkier than Philippe at eight a.m. on a Monday. And certainly not Jordan Henderson, who had to make the choice every morning of brewing exemplary coffee or stringing an entire sentence together.
This was why Philippe worked the till. Probably best that Jordan's social interactions were limited.
“He’s coming, Hendo!” Philippe hissed, kicking his shift partner awake. “Hendo!”
Jordan groaned. How he could replicate the despair in that noise every single morning was something that Philippe would maybe never understand.
Either way, he successfully masked his bubbling excitement as the morning hoard of customers thinned and thinned and then suddenly, he was there, right in front of Philippe at the counter.
“Hi, Dejan,” he started brightly.
“Heya, Philippe,” the most beautiful human in Philippe’s universe replied.
“The usual?” Philippe was already lifting the Grande-sized Styrofoam cup from the stack.
“You know me better than I know myself,” Dejan said, smiling in his trademark celestial manner. “Latte to go, please.”
Jordan gave Philippe a meaningful look, tilting his head toward Dejan when he tugged the cup from Philippe’s hands.
Philippe chose to ignore him, turning back to Dejan with his hand still outstretched.
Dejan pressed the change for the drink in to his hand, folding Philippe’s fingers down over his palm. He leaned forward. “Keep the change,” he whispered, winking.
“Oh,” Philippe said, taken aback. “Tips go in our tip jar and are, uh- divided-“
“No, no,” Dejan shook his head. His small swirl of hair that fell down over his forehead bounced softly, his eyes were lovely chocolate buttons. “For you, yeah?” He squeezed Philippe’s hand, and straightened up again.
Philippe was bright, bright red.
“Thanks,” he squeaked.
“See you later,” Dejan said, smiling down at him, and he moved out of the way for the next customer.
It took Philippe three, long seconds to process what had happened before he gathered enough strength to sort the change in to the till. The tip was definitely more than twenty percent. And Philippe’s strong point wasn’t even math.
He hesitated before adding it to the jar anyway.
He didn’t deserve the credit: it was Jordan who made the coffee after all.
“Look,” Jordan said, about half an hour later when the trickle of people coming through the door had plugged to a stop and it was only them left in the shop. Well. Themselves and Adam, but Philippe didn’t count Adam as a person most of the time. He was their resident wannabe-writer who normally held a corner table hostage for the day while they conveyorbelt-ed espressos in his direction, and was really more of an ornament. “He comes in twice a day, and every time he flirts ridiculously with you. Come on, Philippe. It has been a month.”
“Sure, whatever,” Philippe wiped his hands on his apron before he took the cappuccino that Jordan had whipped up for him. Jordan himself stuck to his usual Americano, which Philippe found perplexing: he could create the most complicated of drinks in seconds, but was annoyingly loyal to black coffee: as though that wasn’t just something that he couldn’t make at home.
“That was sarcastic,” he added after several seconds, when Jordan frowned. “Sorry. I forgot your sarcasm function doesn’t kick in until half eleven.” He took a sip, and instantly felt more alert.
“Please,” Adam said, leaning forward on his bar stool to place his elbow on the counter. “Ask him out before you finish up for the summer. It could be such a beautiful love story.” His eyes glazed over for a second, and then he went back to furiously tapping at his keyboard.
Jordan and Philippe sighed, albeit for probably different reasons.
“Nobody asked you,” Jordan said, giving Adam a pointed look.
“I just have to wait another few months,” Philippe looked out at the morning sunshine streaming in through the large glass front of the shop; sunshine he was not, and would spend the majority of his summer not being in. “And then I’ll be able to fund my Applied Psychology masters in the fall, and I’ll be so busy that I won’t be able to think about how frustratingly,” he huffed, “beautiful he is.”
“You might change your mind,” Jordan said, draining his cup. “About leaving. If you two end up going out. Love is funny like that.”
“No offence,” Philippe bent over to stretch across the counter beside the till, to stretch his spine out and feel it click comfortably back in to place after a hunched morning. “But I don’t know how I’d feel about working in a coffee shop for the rest of my life.”
“Hey!” Adam called.
“You,” Jordan addressed him with a stern finger at the forefront of his favourite stony glare. “Do not work in a coffee shop. You do your work in a coffee shop.”
“And what work, Ads,” Philippe added, curling back up straight. “What exactly have you written since you got here?”
Adam sniffed. “Musings,” he said proudly, and went back to his typing.
Jordan sighed. But Philippe got the feeling that he considered Adam as part of the furniture too; in the way that someone would grow attached to an old, very comfortable but tastelessly upholstered three piece suite.
“Seriously, Philippe,” he picked up a tray to do a sweep of the tables and the reminder of the eat-in breakfast cutlery. “He’ll be back at half five, and you’re better looking that you give yourself credit for. Just ask him out.”
Philippe swirled foam around the bottom of his cup.
“How,” he said, clearing his throat. “Like I’m not saying I will. I won’t. But- saying I did: how would I even ask him out?”
Jordan shrugged. “I dunno,” he nodded back at Adam, absorbed in his work. And interestingly; sucking on the end of a ballpoint pen, despite the fact that he seemed to always type up his thoughts. “Ask the romantic.”
However, by five Philippe had a plan. And by half five, he had thought it through and shook his nerves out enough times to make it happen.
He waited, and waited, only half paying attention and smiling mechanically as he served; watching the left corner of the window where, at a quarter to six, Dejan would appear; surrounded by who Philippe had solidly decided were other guys from his office: they all wore the same suits. Actually; the snappiness of their dress was the only indication that they worked together. Philippe decided that, should this work out: that would be the first question he would ask Dejan. What it was exactly that he did for a living.
He twisted to look behind the guy he was serving: who was annoyingly broad-shouldered, Philippe had to crane his neck.
“Hey!” he said, smiling. “The usual?”
Dejan looked up, caught his eye and smiled back. And Philippe melted. He may or may not have made a small satisfied sound.
“Excuse me?”
The customer in front of Philippe waved at him to get his attention back. “Excuse me,” he said again, “but I’m in a hurry.”
Ordinarily Philippe would have considered it an obnoxious gesture- in the same way that high-and-mighty people clicked their fingers to summon waiters- but he could probably admit that in this instance it was warranted.
“Sorry,” he apologised hastily, grabbing a cup. “Grande flat white to go, was it?”
The customer seemed surprised, blinking the frown from between his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he said, now raising them in admiration. Or possibly amusement. “Thanks.”
Philippe, relieved at that save, scribbled the details quickly on to the cup; trying to stop his hands from shaking as he caught Dejan’s eye again, and passed it along to Jordan.
“Hey,” Dejan and his chubby cherub cheeks were next.
“Latte to go?”
“Of course.” Dammit. Dammit he was so beautiful.
Dejan smiled. Philippe managed to return it weakly; and quickly scribbled a Call me, hastily followed by his number, the figures unsteady and spiked, he handed it to Jordan while Dejan was searching for his wallet in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Jordan coughed violently, making him turn.
Really? Jordan’s eyebrows said.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam lean forward in his seat; alerted by Jordon’s faux illness.
Way to keep it on the down low, Philippe cursed silently, scowling the two of them back to work. Adam looked like this was the most exciting thing to have ever happened to them. Jordan looked like, that just on the whole, this was a terrible idea. But he looked like that an awful lot.
Philippe quickly filled out the rest of the orders for Dejan’s other work buddies, and then moved over to the other side of the coffee machine to help Jordan out, steaming the foam under the wand and folding it in to the two espresso shots, capping them carefully and making sure to catch Dejan’s eye before placing them down on the end of the counter. He caught Dejan’s eye and nodded before calling out the drinks, and then he turned back to helping Jordan finish up the order. To be all like, nonchalant and cool.
“Hey,” Adam said suddenly. “Uh, Philippe?”
Philippe gave him the briefest of side glances to let him know that he was listening. He gathered the empty pitchers in his arms and cradled them over to the sink.
Adam swallowed nervously, and his eyes darted over to where Dejan and his friends were moving in a boisterous group towards the door. He mumbled something.
“What, Adam?”
“Uh,” Adam started. “Philippe… I. Hum. Erm. I don’t think the guy whom you wanted to take the cup, took the cup.”
“What?” Jordan snapped, as Philippe promptly dropped all of the metallic utensils with a clatter in to the sink.
“The wrong guy,” Adam managed, his hand over his mouth as Philippe’s flew back in to his hair when he spun around to look out the door. “The wrong guy took the cup.”
He looked somewhere between shocked and dying of vicious internal laughter, and Philippe decided he’d kill him after his more immediate problems were resolved.
Dejan and his friends were shuffling slowly through the door, and just before he left he turned and waved back at Philippe behind the counter. Then he lifted his cup and drank from it.
Philippe’s number was not on the cup.
In the time it took for Jordan to ask, “then who did?”; Philippe’s neck had nearly snapped at the speed it turned to search for the other guy who had ordered a flat white, and he found him; he’d paused several steps down the street on the other side of the door, just at the edge of the window. Philippe saw him take a step backwards towards the door, turn his head and then squint at the counter.
Philippe had already dropped to his knees behind the till.
“Did he see me?” he hissed.
“Who?” Jordan asked.
“The other guy,” Philippe almost wailed. “The other guy with Dejan’s cup.”
“Yeah,” Adam said, and Philippe could practically hear Jordan glaring at him. “He saw you.”
Philippe clunked his forehead against the cupboard door on the other side of the counter and swallowed a very long string of swear words.
“He’s going to know it’s not for him,” Jordan reassured. “You barely looked at him the whole time he was in the shop.”
“He’s cute, though,” Adam was saying. This time it was Philippe’s turn to glare at him. “What? He is. Look for yourself.”
Philippe screamed internally and slowly peeked over the top of the counter.
He caught a glimpse of dark hair, almost beard and a navy suit before he ducked back again.
“Adam,” he snarled. “You never said he was looking.” He rubbed his eyes to try and clear the stain of heavy amber from his corneas as Flat White’s eyes had bored in to him.
“To be fair to Adam,” Jordan said, patting the top of Philippe’s head as he slowly curled into a ball of despair on the tiles, “you never asked if he was looking.”
“This is a disaster,” Philippe whimpered.
“It was a terrible idea,” Jordan said, folding his arms now and leaning his back to the counter beside him, looking almost sympathetic. “To write your number on the cup. It could have gone wrong in so many other ways.”
“It was very romantic,” Adam pointed out.
“But clearly also very ineffective.” Jordan shot him a look.
Philippe groaned. “Is he gone?”
Jordan looked over his shoulder for a long minute. “He’s still looking in the window, he looks pretty confused.”
“I don’t blame him; you look like you’re having a conversation with the floor.”
“Your observations are as useful as ever, Adam.”
“Hendo,” Philippe crawled over and tugged at the leg of his trousers. “Help me.”
“Philippe. Please chill.” Adam had slowly gone back to typing, at now what appeared to be his permanent home on one of the high stools at the end of the counter.
“You know you need to chill when Adam is telling you to. The guy probably doesn’t even know who he’s calling.”
Philippe sighed. But he didn’t feel too relieved.
“Why can’t nice things happen to me,” he moaned. He reached up to take Jordan’s offered hand and swayed back upright. “Cute guy flirts with me at work, and somehow I manage to do the opposite of asking him out.”
“Cheer up,” Jordan said, sounding more annoyed than enthusiastic. “We’ll work on a fool-proof plan for you to nab Dejan, if that’s what you really want.”
“What do I do?” Philippe asked, turning on the sink and deciding to drown his sorrows in elbow-deep suds when he scrubbed their best mugs clean again. “If the other dude calls?”
“You say it was a mistake, you apologise-“
“You ask him out and raise beautiful, ebony-haired babies,” Adam interrupted. Philippe looked around just in time to see Jordan’s hand connect with the back of Adam’s head. “Ow! What?” Adam rubbed at the sore patch and scowled. “I’m sorry, but the other guy was smoking hot.”
“Adam,” Philippe begged. “Never say ‘smoking hot’ ever again.”
He honestly couldn’t remember: his memory of the guy had already faded to a broad-shouldered navy blazer and that he was a good half-foot taller than Philippe. But his bad mood dissipated as Jordan looked unbelievably pleased with Adam’s reaction.
“If he calls, you should pass him on to Adam,” Jordan said, giving Philippe the slyest of winks.
“If he calls.”
“Relax,” Jordan’s head turned when the door of the coffee shop swung open again, announcing the arrival of a new string of customers. “He’s not going to call you.”
Philippe wasn’t expecting his right thigh to start vibrating as violently as it did during dinner; he dropped his fork into his potatoes and yelped.
“Alright?” Leandro asked, raising his hand to slap Philippe on the back.
Philippe had started to cough at the sudden amount of excess air in his chest but he waved his brother’s hand away. His hand dove in to his pocket and he frowned at the unsaved number that came up on his phone.
“Uh,” he said out loud.
“Philippe,” he heard his mother say, and something told him it wasn’t the first time. He looked up and his parents’ talks of anti-social behaviour at the dinner table came flooding back to him.
“Uh,” he said again. “I’d better take this. I don’t know who it is?” He held it up for his parents, and then his brother to prove his point. “Okay?”
His parents looked at each other and Philippe sighed and got up anyway. He’d been home from university all of three weeks, had spent most of it at work and already the strain of being at home was getting to him.
He loved his parents. He did. But suddenly being lifted of all those college freedoms was weird.
By the time he’d slid open the glass door out on to the porch, he had decided that this was probably Neymar with yet another new phone. His roommate last semester went through phones like underwear, and each met a more creative fate than the last.
The phones. Not the underwear.
“Yo,” he said in to the mouthpiece, wrapping his cardigan around him tight. The complete lack of clouds in the tentative early summer weather brought a cruel chill to the evenings.
“Hello?” A voice that was not Neymar’s said at the other end of the line. For a start, it was a good deal silkier, and Neymar never spoke at such a low octave. Decibel, even.
“Uh,” Philippe said. A wrong number. Whatever. He was sure he probably could have otherwise ignited his parents’ acrimony purely due to the fact that his professionally successful brother was there. “Who is this?”
“Yeah,” the voice said smoothly. “You wrote this number on my coffee this morning, with instructions to call it.”
Philippe’s stomach flipped. Backwards. And missed the crash mat.
He swore in to his sleeve.
‘He’s not going to call’. Jordan Henderson doesn’t know shit.
“Yeah, uh,” fuck. Fuck. Fuck! “I probably did. I mean. I think I did.” He swallowed. “I did.” ‘Yeah. That was a mistake. Sorry for your trouble’.
“Good,” the voice said. “That could have been awkward.”
Not as awkward as this is about to get, buddy.
Silence fell down the line.
What am I meant to say now? Philippe wondered, absently chewing on his cuff.
“Erm,” he began. “Listen-“
“My name is Emre,” the voice said. Well. Emre said. “And I normally finish before six on week days. If you. If you want to meet up.”
No, Philippe thought. “Okay,” Philippe said.
What?
Emre coughed, and Philippe realised that had been his cue.
Why does he sound like he’s smiling?
This is not meant to end in a date. This is absolutely not meant to end in a date. This is meant to end in “sorry but this whole thing was an accident”.
“Do you like Vietnamese food?” he blurted out. Shocked at his own bold move, he swore silently and kicked at the edge of the patio, mouth spreading in to a silent scream when one of his toes possibly broke.
There was silence while he managed to pull himself together, and he wondered if Emre was waiting for him to continue.
“Because there’s this,” shit! Ow! “place not far from where I work, and I’m closing up tomorrow- at seven- so-“ he swore internally in every single language he could think of, and sat down on the edge of the porch to tug his shoe off and rub at his toe.
Emre has such a nice voice, he thought. It would be really good for late-night radio.
“Tomorrow?” Emre asked, surprised.
Shoot. Maybe that was a bit eager. After all, drinks was normally first date protocol.
But God, if this went terribly Philippe would rather he was burying his face in over-cilathro-ed noodle soup than be anywhere near alcohol.
The problem was, Philippe wasn’t even eager? He literally just wanted to lose this guy as fast as he could. But, Philippe’s first reaction in totally surprising social situations was absolute politeness; no matter how hard he had tried to grow a backbone.
Memories of Adam expressing Emre’s plainly eye-pleasing characteristics did leave him curious though. Although, Adam hit on most things that breathed; and mostly by accident.
“Because he looks like a huge puppy,” Jordan had explained, when they’d traded theories on this. “If you liked dogs at all and came in to this shop you’d just want to coddle him.”
Philippe had drawn the conclusion from this conversation that Jordan was not all that much of a dog person.
He may just have to take Adam’s word for this, though; because a faceless, tall and blazered person who ordered flat whites was not much to go on.
Okay, well now he could add a really good radio voice to things he knew about him.
And, well. It was just one date. If he was truly a creep Philippe never had to see him again. What did he have to lose?
“Yeah,” he said. “Why not tomorrow?”