Chapter Text
“Extra hot oat milk latte for Zeke?” Nick calls out as he slides another warm mug onto the polished wooden bar of OK Computer. It’s only his third week working at the cafe, but he’d say he’s doing a pretty swell job, all things considered.
Well, except for the double-digits of ceramics he’d clumsily broken.
And the irreparably flooded ice machine (how was Nick supposed to know that the water supply was supposed to be shut off before disconnecting the pipes?).
And the countless drink orders he’s bungled. It's like practically every person who comes through has a specific taste, and wants special flavorings and milk. It's a lot to keep track of! Although, he really should've caught his mistake when he dutifully prepared four peppermint-lavender-hazelnut mochas rather than four separate drinks with one flavor each.
And the two times he’s tripped over Yuki the adorable grey racoon-tailed kitten, which resulted in Nick sending milk foam all over the espresso equipment, menu board, and ceiling tiles.
Other than that handful of mistakes, Nick is doing an outstanding job as a barista. He really wants to impress Tori so she'll keep him around and let him set up Bela Lugosi's Bread operations in the back kitchen. Even though Tori doesn’t seem to be one for feedback, or any conversation at all, really, Nick thinks she likes him well enough. Considering that as soon as he’d demonstrated proficiency in pouring hot liquid into a cup, Tori had left on a long-overdue holiday with family, leaving him by and large in charge of the daily operations of the cafe.
“Ta,” the handsome customer says as he carefully picks up the mug and saucer with a wink.
Nick is no stranger to pretty people flirting with him. It had all started in grammar school, honestly, when he grew four inches and could bench 100kg seemingly overnight. Tons of girls, and several guys too, all suddenly began taking notice of the rugby player turned Rugby King. Especially when his mum refused to buy him new uniforms for the final few months of the school year, so he had to go to class every day in too-small shirts that he could barely pull his tiny blazer over.
So what if he continues to wear clothing that's a bit snug for him? He doesn't do it solely for the attention; he just feels more comfortable in fitted shirts and trousers, is all. He hasn't got a big head about his looks, even if many have described him as simultaneously rugged and cherub-like. There’s no harm in being comfortable with one's appearance, is there? Or putting on a bit of a show for customers?
"Nicholas."
Nick jolts, nearly dropping the giant bag of beans he'd lifted above his head to dump into the grinder. But he doesn't drop it! He mentally pats himself on the back for how far he's come in the week that his boss has been away. He is a beacon of competence.
“Tori! Welcome back! How was your holiday? Did you get in lots of hiking and swimming? Check out any cool landmarks?” Nick asks jovially as he begins brewing another batch of morning blend.
Tori stops in her tracks and looks at Nick, her face unchanging. “My holidays are for sleeping, not for visiting old museums,” she responds flatly before resuming her clip toward the back office.
A chill runs through Nick’s veins. If it weren’t for the chorus of meowing and small parade of domestic shorthairs following his manager, Nick would think that Tori Spring is some sort of otherworldly being haunting him to ensure he doesn’t give off too much of his signature golden retriever energy in front of the customers.
Something Nick appreciates about this job: the slow trickle of customers keeps his mind occupied, but not so busy that he can’t keep up with the demands of baristahood. He can restock milk and syrups between regulars, and he rarely has to spend more than a few minutes restacking takeaway cups or washing a mountain of dishes at the end of a shift.
He likes the work. It’s repetitive and predictable. With the exception of today’s order of fifteen pumpkin spice lattes for an office caffeine run, the demands are regular and easy-going. Each customer’s order is different from the last, which is good for Nick’s ADHD brain. But it’s not like lives are on the line if he were to spill someone’s coffee. That’s good for Nick’s anxiety. In fact, since quitting his previous high-stress job, the only time his nerves really spike is when–
“Nicholas.”
Of course Tori has to emerge from her Quickbooks cave right as Nick is refilling the self-service cream. Dairy spills all over the counter and floor, filling the holes in the rubber mat underfoot.
By now, the shop’s resident opportunistic cats have grown to expect a few klutzy mistakes from the shop’s resident bisexual disaster, so Pelican and Mouse slink over to the spilled milk and make quick work of lapping it up.
"Someone is coming by to pick me up after work." She pauses to take in the pooling creamer at Nick's feet. Damn, it's all down the front of his trousers, too. "Don't embarrass me."
"I–"
Before Nick can swear that he won't, of course he slips on the one square of lino not covered by a floor mat. He loses his footing, doubling forward to compensate for the gravitational pull on his backside. Nick throws both arms out in an attempt to not faceplant; his right hand finds the edge of the counter, and his left hand finds a black plastic handle. It gives him momentary stability, but he realizes too late that the object he's grasped is not actually attached to anything. It's the portafilter, not yet cleaned after the last customer's espresso pull. Compacted grounds fly out and cover Nick's face and hair with damp coffee, as if a llama had just taken offense to something he'd said and spit dramatically in his face.
"...Yeah. Like that."
Nick can't regain any composure before he hears the faint sucking of liquid up a straw fading toward the back office.
Someday, Nick will not make a complete buffoon of himself in front of his manager. Today is not that day.
Nick is glad that the day’s almost over. Shifts went a lot smoother when he wasn’t under the constant threat of being snuck up on by his omnipresent manager. But now that Tori has returned, at least customers are leaving on time under threat of bodily harm if they’re not gone by closing time.
As Nick tucks in the last of the computer station chairs along the back wall, he hears the brass doorbell jangle.
“Sorry mate, we’re closing up, please come again tomorrow,” Nick calls over his shoulder in his kindest customer service voice.
When there’s no response, Nick wipes the last of the moisture rings from the polished wood table and then turns around, hoping to see a would-be customer departing down the street. However, what the barista is confronted with is infinitely more frustrating than a lingerer.
Not frustrating in the sense of needing to use his most saccharine tone again to usher somebody out of the shop, but rather, frustrating in the sense that Nick can’t do a thing to stop the full-body flush that sweeps down his body as a result of laying eyes on the visitor.
Nick first sees dark curls, which spring and bounce with the slightest movement of the man’s sharp, angular features. Thick brows frame piercing blue eyes icier than the Arctic, which bore into Nick cautiously.
He is absolutely stunning.
And not only that, but the man is crouching just inside the entrance, and in the fifteen seconds since his arrival, three cats have approached him and are showering him with more affection than Nick has received in his entire tenure at OK Computer. Brothers Oliver and Tom invade his personal space, with Tom confidently hopping up onto the man’s shoulders and rubbing his black and white face into the dark locks. Oliver remains on the floor to maintain easy access for head scritches, purring loudly as he leans in for maximum contact with his orange fur.
It’s frustrating how adorable this man is.
“Er, sorry, er, sir,” Nick stumbles over his words as the orange cat begins rubbing his face on the bare skin of one of the man’s knobby knees exposed by his ripped jeans. “I’m closing up for the night, but if you come back again tomorrow–”
“Oh! I, um…” The man has the audacity to blush. No person has the right to have such perfect curls, unfairly beautiful eyes, and such rosy cheeks that highlight…dimples? He has dimples. The man says something about the Tories, or maybe he wants to tell Nick a story, or perhaps that he is a Taurus, but Nick’s brain has gone staticky and is filled with sounds similar to the dial-up noises that the computers in the cafe are old enough to have made.
The man averts his gaze to the floor beside Nick’s feet, then stares for a moment before walking his eyes up Nick’s body. Nick would feel excruciatingly exposed if not for the man’s mirthless smirk, which grows into a shy grin when his eyes finally meet Nick’s. That’s when Nick feels warmth spreading slowly up his trouser leg. He glances down to find that he’d accidentally dumped most of the sanitizing solution onto the floor in his momentary stupor. That’s what this person had been looking at a moment prior.
Nick watches the liquid seeping up the cloth, then pulls his lips involuntarily into a half grin, half frown. He once again flicks his eyes to meet the man’s, who is now looking at Nick with a full-on amused smile.
“So?”
“So,” Nick responds.
After a few moments of silence, the crouching man rises to his feet, effortlessly shifting the cat on his shoulders into a baby cradle position. “Sorry. Is, um, is Tori here?”
It dawns on Nick that this must be the guy Tori had told Nick to expect. Good for her, honestly. He’s a really good looking bloke. Nick is a little surprised that Tori would go for someone as…personable as this man? Beautiful? Ethereal?
“I see you’ve met Nicholas, then,” a voice interjects Nick’s floating thoughts from behind his frozen body. When Tori approaches, she stops dead in her tracks and stares deadpan at Nick’s wet leg. Nick’s face feels hot as he watches his boss take in Nick’s faux pas of breaking her one request - to not embarrass her. Oops. Nick focuses harder on the man’s dimple that just begs to be caressed with the pad of his finger.
The man’s face softens slightly under Nick’s gentle, curious scrutiny, then he awkwardly reaches out his left hand as he shifts the furry loaf in his arms to his other arm. “Charlie Spring. It’s a pleasure.”
Nick feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.
At that, the man’s – Charlie’s – smile breaks into a beam so bright that Nick feels dizzy. Nick can barely choke out a ‘hi’ now that his throat has gone drier than the Sahara.
“Hi,” the magnanimous man – Tori’s brother – offers in response.
Nick grasps Charlie’s extended left hand with his own, giving it a kind of wiggly squeeze rather than a more socially appropriate handshake. “N-Nick,” he stutters. “Nick Nelson.”
“Oh, you’re the new baker! I’ve heard your Passionfruit of Lovers pastries are to die for,” Charlie gushes.
Tori careens forward and grabs Charlie by the arm, sending the cats scurrying in every direction. “Come on,” she says with a dramatic eye roll.
In a whirl, the pair is out the door, leaving Nick standing in the middle of the cafe with a sopping wet trouser leg. The Spring siblings pass by the windows, and Nick is heartened to see Charlie offer a small wave back at him. Nick raises a hand in goodbye before the pair disappear down the lamp-lit street and out of sight.