DN -- Mocha, No Whip, Ex. Choc Sauce
Title: Mocha, No Whip, Ex. Choc Sauce
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,200
Warnings: mild language
Prompt: "coffee"
Summary: Matt, possibly the best barista the world has ever known, can't help but have his eye on the newest regular.
Author's Note: Happy not-as-late-as-everyone-else's-is-going-to-be birthday to happy_mystic! XD
MOCHA, NO WHIP, EX. CHOC SAUCE
Pretty much everything in Mail Matthew Jeevas’s life smells like coffee-his clothes, his bedsheets, his hair, his hands. There’s probably coffee in his sweat, having been breathed in and circulated through his whole body, then cheerfully returned to the air. He doesn’t even drink the stuff anymore, because all the ambient caffeine wakes him up just fine.
That’s probably bound to happen when you’ve been working at Jeevas Java for twelve years-unofficially since you were eight, officially since you were fifteen. That’s probably the due of children whose parents are coffee-nut entrepreneurs who sometimes emerge from the back room or stroll through the door, fresh from marketing or managing, and beam with pride to see their son in the bright red company apron, which bears a tacky intertwining Js logo and clashes horrifically with his hair.
Matt doesn’t mind. He likes his bosses, and he’s always been allowed to sit in on job interviews and give a nay or yea to his potential coworkers. Sideways glances on suspicion of nepotism only last until they’ve seen him fight through his first morning rush, which is about the point they realize that Matt is a whipped-cream-dolloping, espresso-savvy, latte-distributing machine, and he does the work of three ordinary employees.
This morning, Matt pushes up his black-and-white-striped sleeves and makes the cash register his bitch, another of the many talents he cultivates daily. Misa is at his right, her black-lacquered fingernails darting above the other register, and together they’re whittling the line down something fantastic. Matt liked Misa from the start of her interview, and she only got sweeter from there. They hang out together on their breaks, him sitting on the back steps smoking cigarettes, her reading out her favorite selections from her poetry classes and telling him about her life in Japan. He used to apologize for never having anything smart to say, and then one time she put her hand on his arm and told him that it made all the difference to her that he listened in the first place.
Matt’s good at listening, even over the bleary hubbub that is a crowded morning in a coffee shop.
At five minutes to eight exactly, precisely the same time as every other morning of the week, the Guy walks in.
The Guy isn’t very tall, but he’s got a presence that tricks your brain into thinking he should be. If Matt glances over right when the bell at the door jingles, he has a two-second window before the counter intervenes in which to confirm that the Guy’s boots look like they give him an extra edge, anyway.
The Guy always wears tight black jeans, an untucked black button-up shirt, and a black leather jacket, and Matt is in love with him.
Like every morning, the Guy pushes his sunglasses up into his intimidatingly gorgeous hair, and, like every morning, he gazes unnecessarily up at the menu above the counter, as if they’ll have changed it in the last twenty-four hours just to spite him. Like every morning, Matt has to force himself to focus on the extraordinarily complicated order that he tags Kristie, then on flashing Lucas a smile, complimenting the new tie, and ringing up the Usual.
The Guy gives a different name every morning, which is even more impressive given that he began this routine just over a month ago. Matt wonders whether he comes up with the new alias the night before, as he’s going to sleep, or when he’s out on the sidewalk, getting nearer. Maybe he waits until he’s heard the question, and something just rolls off of his tongue. Matt wouldn’t put it past him. There’s something weirdly supernatural about the Guy, some promise of too much and everything.
Matt’s heart beats wildly as the Guy comes gradually closer, moving through the line-and then it sinks as he realizes that the Guy is next, and Matt’s not finished with this preppy girl’s order, which means the Guy will end up at Misa’s register instead of his.
He tries not to broadcast his disappointment. It seems like a small thing, but directing perfunctory workplace questions at the young man one is in love with still counts as talking to him, and it’s still strange and scary and elating and kind of addictive.
Matt serves enough caffeine-heads to know addiction when he sees it.
The Guy steps up to Misa’s register-and then receives a bright and apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” she says; “I’m going to be right back. Matt’ll take care of you.” She pats Matt’s shoulder on her way towards the restroom, looking extremely pleased with herself.
Matt takes a deep breath, hands Lauren her receipt, and looks up at the Guy, smiling as warmly as he can given the massive flock of butterflies hatching from his stomach lining.
“Good morning,” he says; “what can I get for you today?”
“A large mocha, no whipped cream, as much chocolate syrup as you can justify,” the Guy answers.
“Coming right up,” Matt promises, punching the buttons. “Can I have your name, please?”
“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” the Guy supplies, and Matt is beaming like an idiot and bewailing his reddening cheeks as he accepts the cash, sorts it, and tears the flimsy paper off of the wheel.
“Would you like your receipt?” he asks, and, for the first time in thirty-four days of history, the Guy nods.
“Thanks,” he says, taking it, and then he wanders over to lean against one of the windows as he waits, and looking away from the slender form silhouetted by the morning sun is one of the hardest things Matt has ever had to do.
Misa is back in time to give him a knowing look as he grins and calls, “Mocha for Dread Pirate Roberts?” a few minutes later. A few glazed-eyed businesspeople laugh, and the Guy smirks and saunters over, accepting the drink with his left hand and slipping three dollars and a folded receipt into the tip jar with his right.
When the rush for the first caffeine jolt of the day has dwindled to a trickle, Misa snatches up the jar, fishes out the paper, and skims it, her eyes bright, one of her painted nails caught between her teeth. Apparently it meets her approval, because she squeals and pushes it at Matt, and he manages to flatten it enough to read:
Ginger-
Are you going to ask me out, or what?
Mello
There’s a local phone number under that, and Matt starts grinning and can’t stop.
He wants to call the moment he gets off work that night, but he manages to hold out until he’s safe in his room at home. Three deep breaths and four flicks of his cigarette lighter later, he dials before he can lose his nerve.
“Hello?” the Guy-Mello-prompts after two rings.
“Hey,” Matt manages. “Matt, from this morning. From the coffee shop.”
“I remember,” Mello remarks. “Question still stands.”
“I would love to ask you out,” Matt tells him, brave with joy, “on one condition.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Matt grins. “We don’t go out for coffee.”
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,200
Warnings: mild language
Prompt: "coffee"
Summary: Matt, possibly the best barista the world has ever known, can't help but have his eye on the newest regular.
Author's Note: Happy not-as-late-as-everyone-else's-is-going-to-be birthday to happy_mystic! XD
MOCHA, NO WHIP, EX. CHOC SAUCE
Pretty much everything in Mail Matthew Jeevas’s life smells like coffee-his clothes, his bedsheets, his hair, his hands. There’s probably coffee in his sweat, having been breathed in and circulated through his whole body, then cheerfully returned to the air. He doesn’t even drink the stuff anymore, because all the ambient caffeine wakes him up just fine.
That’s probably bound to happen when you’ve been working at Jeevas Java for twelve years-unofficially since you were eight, officially since you were fifteen. That’s probably the due of children whose parents are coffee-nut entrepreneurs who sometimes emerge from the back room or stroll through the door, fresh from marketing or managing, and beam with pride to see their son in the bright red company apron, which bears a tacky intertwining Js logo and clashes horrifically with his hair.
Matt doesn’t mind. He likes his bosses, and he’s always been allowed to sit in on job interviews and give a nay or yea to his potential coworkers. Sideways glances on suspicion of nepotism only last until they’ve seen him fight through his first morning rush, which is about the point they realize that Matt is a whipped-cream-dolloping, espresso-savvy, latte-distributing machine, and he does the work of three ordinary employees.
This morning, Matt pushes up his black-and-white-striped sleeves and makes the cash register his bitch, another of the many talents he cultivates daily. Misa is at his right, her black-lacquered fingernails darting above the other register, and together they’re whittling the line down something fantastic. Matt liked Misa from the start of her interview, and she only got sweeter from there. They hang out together on their breaks, him sitting on the back steps smoking cigarettes, her reading out her favorite selections from her poetry classes and telling him about her life in Japan. He used to apologize for never having anything smart to say, and then one time she put her hand on his arm and told him that it made all the difference to her that he listened in the first place.
Matt’s good at listening, even over the bleary hubbub that is a crowded morning in a coffee shop.
At five minutes to eight exactly, precisely the same time as every other morning of the week, the Guy walks in.
The Guy isn’t very tall, but he’s got a presence that tricks your brain into thinking he should be. If Matt glances over right when the bell at the door jingles, he has a two-second window before the counter intervenes in which to confirm that the Guy’s boots look like they give him an extra edge, anyway.
The Guy always wears tight black jeans, an untucked black button-up shirt, and a black leather jacket, and Matt is in love with him.
Like every morning, the Guy pushes his sunglasses up into his intimidatingly gorgeous hair, and, like every morning, he gazes unnecessarily up at the menu above the counter, as if they’ll have changed it in the last twenty-four hours just to spite him. Like every morning, Matt has to force himself to focus on the extraordinarily complicated order that he tags Kristie, then on flashing Lucas a smile, complimenting the new tie, and ringing up the Usual.
The Guy gives a different name every morning, which is even more impressive given that he began this routine just over a month ago. Matt wonders whether he comes up with the new alias the night before, as he’s going to sleep, or when he’s out on the sidewalk, getting nearer. Maybe he waits until he’s heard the question, and something just rolls off of his tongue. Matt wouldn’t put it past him. There’s something weirdly supernatural about the Guy, some promise of too much and everything.
Matt’s heart beats wildly as the Guy comes gradually closer, moving through the line-and then it sinks as he realizes that the Guy is next, and Matt’s not finished with this preppy girl’s order, which means the Guy will end up at Misa’s register instead of his.
He tries not to broadcast his disappointment. It seems like a small thing, but directing perfunctory workplace questions at the young man one is in love with still counts as talking to him, and it’s still strange and scary and elating and kind of addictive.
Matt serves enough caffeine-heads to know addiction when he sees it.
The Guy steps up to Misa’s register-and then receives a bright and apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” she says; “I’m going to be right back. Matt’ll take care of you.” She pats Matt’s shoulder on her way towards the restroom, looking extremely pleased with herself.
Matt takes a deep breath, hands Lauren her receipt, and looks up at the Guy, smiling as warmly as he can given the massive flock of butterflies hatching from his stomach lining.
“Good morning,” he says; “what can I get for you today?”
“A large mocha, no whipped cream, as much chocolate syrup as you can justify,” the Guy answers.
“Coming right up,” Matt promises, punching the buttons. “Can I have your name, please?”
“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” the Guy supplies, and Matt is beaming like an idiot and bewailing his reddening cheeks as he accepts the cash, sorts it, and tears the flimsy paper off of the wheel.
“Would you like your receipt?” he asks, and, for the first time in thirty-four days of history, the Guy nods.
“Thanks,” he says, taking it, and then he wanders over to lean against one of the windows as he waits, and looking away from the slender form silhouetted by the morning sun is one of the hardest things Matt has ever had to do.
Misa is back in time to give him a knowing look as he grins and calls, “Mocha for Dread Pirate Roberts?” a few minutes later. A few glazed-eyed businesspeople laugh, and the Guy smirks and saunters over, accepting the drink with his left hand and slipping three dollars and a folded receipt into the tip jar with his right.
When the rush for the first caffeine jolt of the day has dwindled to a trickle, Misa snatches up the jar, fishes out the paper, and skims it, her eyes bright, one of her painted nails caught between her teeth. Apparently it meets her approval, because she squeals and pushes it at Matt, and he manages to flatten it enough to read:
Ginger-
Are you going to ask me out, or what?
Mello
There’s a local phone number under that, and Matt starts grinning and can’t stop.
He wants to call the moment he gets off work that night, but he manages to hold out until he’s safe in his room at home. Three deep breaths and four flicks of his cigarette lighter later, he dials before he can lose his nerve.
“Hello?” the Guy-Mello-prompts after two rings.
“Hey,” Matt manages. “Matt, from this morning. From the coffee shop.”
“I remember,” Mello remarks. “Question still stands.”
“I would love to ask you out,” Matt tells him, brave with joy, “on one condition.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Matt grins. “We don’t go out for coffee.”