OUR LOVE AND PEACE (IS REALLY ANYTHING BUT) for VENTICE

[yeolliepopday]

For: ventice
Title: Our love and peace (is really anything but)
Pairing(s): Chanyeol/Lay, side!Suho/D.O., side!Sehun/Tao side!unrequited!Xiumin/Luhan, side!unrequited!Chanyeol/Kai, side!ninja!Baekhyun/Chen.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): TW for pyrophobia, mostly. That's about it.
Length: 9.6k.
Summary: Sometimes, coffeeshops are just that -- social gatherings, meant to boost caffeine levels and catch one up on the latest gossip. Other times, they're the setting for the ideal romantic get-together or a confrontation between two rivals barrelling down a path towards an ultimate challenge. But sometimes, a coffeeshop is your place of business. Sometimes you're just Park Chanyeol, behind the counter, trying to figure out whether or not coffeeshops are even real places anymore, let alone the kind where cute things happen.
Author's note: thanks to h for holding my hand and being the best, to the little lady for supporting me even though she'd've rather been doing anything else, and the best friend for just...being. making me do it. yep.



They don't find out until about halfway through Love and Peace’s first morning rush, about six am to seven -- it comes in waves, after all: high schoolers, moms with elementary school children, middle schoolers and businessmen looking to get their fix on with their pocket change -- since the good stuff had been pushed to the front of the fridge the night before, and the outcome of their little mishap looks like it’s gonna turn out traumatic, already.

Kyungsoo, their manager and the person who has to report to the boss on behalf of all of them, looks like he's about to commit murder. Not that this is different than any other day; once he lowers his head to peek in at the milk steamer, he appears ready to slaughter a family of baby goats with his bare hands. He probably has, if what everyone says is true -- that he worships at a local Church of Satan and drinks the blood of virgins to keep himself looking young.

This is what happens when chaos ensues at work, Chanyeol thinks, running his palm down his forehead so slowly he can feel his cartilage tug downwards. He gets stuck in his own head and then Kyungsoo’s yelling, Lu Han’s yelling, everyone’s stressed out. He takes a deep breath, pushes the idea of everyone running amok out of his mind, and heaves a quiet exhale.

Everything will be fine, as soon as they get the onslaught of patrons willing to sue them over spoiled milk and a horrible judgment call.

In the meantime, Chanyeol, assistant manager and the one calling the shots when Kyungsoo’s kind enough to leave them to their own devices and grab a half-smoke (to keep from the murdering bits, Chanyeol’s always assumed), sends Jongin, the new kid and the only one behind this counter unable to do anything in the face of screaming, coffee-crazed patrons, to the grocery store down the block, a couple twenties pressed in his hand. “Two gallons each of every kind of milk they have,” he orders, and Jongin, flush with the nervousness that is Suburban Mom Hell, nods, unable to say anything.

That leaves Chanyeol and Lu Han to deal with endless amounts of high-pitched squawking as the women scatter from the counter, knowing that they’ll have to wait for their orders. A few of them storm out, men and women alike, declaring that ‘this is the worst coffee shop in town’ and they’ll ‘never be bringing their business back here again’, but Chanyeol’s been working here just long enough to know that none of that crap is true.

When Jongin’s on his way out the door, having finally shrugged out of his apron, he nearly gets knocked over by an older gentleman in a sharp, grey suit, who immediately curses at him, spitting that he needs to get out of the way, there’s money walking out the door.

Why the hell coffee gives people such a sense of entitlement, Chanyeol will never understand.

The young boy, with his hand securely stuck to the side of his neck as it glistens with the exertion that is a morning rush, turns back to Chanyeol and Lu Han, looking like he’s going to cry. Lu Han’s been working here long enough to have an attitude that clearly states ‘you’re on your own, kid,’ and he gives a look that says at much, but Chanyeol, ever the optimist, at least flashes him a bright smile and gives him an encouraging nod. He mouths you’ll be alright at Jongin, and Jongin, in turn, puts on a weary sort of grin before spinning right out the door… and damn near knocks into a mom with three crying kids.

Shit.

“He’s cute,” Lu Han points out when the door’s safely closed behind their coworker, tugging on the handle of the grinder. “But he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“So were you, when you got here,” Chanyeol dissents cheerfully, going about making three kid’s sized hot chocolates.

The lunchtime rush is almost as bad as the morning, mainly because everyone and their goddamn mothers like to make it to a quaint little coffeeshop at around eleven-thirty to ‘grab a quick bite’.

Ha. As if anything’s quick when there’s a line out the door.

Thankfully, Kyungsoo isn’t there; he’d probably be cracking the proverbial whip for the sole purpose of seeing them bleed. No, it’s his day off, and in his place is… Joonmyun. Chanyeol doesn’t really mind the guy, calls him hyung and is respectful and all that, but there’s something about that smile that makes his skin crawl a little bit. And not in the cool way, like it supposedly does when you’re in a horror movie and the zombies are right outside your door, trying to bust in your window and shimmy through.

“Chanyeol-ah,” Joonmyun is prodding him in the shoulder, which is hilarious, mainly because when they’d met, Joonmyun a transfer from another store in the chain and a shoo-in for a management position, Chanyeol hadn’t been quite sure that the older man could even reach that high. “Chanyeol, you’re doing it again. Please focus on your work or I’ll have to dock you an hour’s pay. I don’t want to do that, and you won’t be very happy if I do.”

Baekhyun, Chanyeol’s best friend and the one person who’s been working here as long as he, swears that everything that comes out of Joonmyun’s mouth is two-hundred-and-ten percent fake, and at moments like these, Chanyeol is vaguely inclined to agree.

“Yeah, you’re right, hyung,” and Chanyeol puts on the same sort of smile, the one that shows too many teeth and makes his right eye wonk up, twitch a bit. “Sorry, I know we’re busy, I just--”

“I know, your brain did that thing it does when you haven’t said anything in awhile.” Joonmyun pats Chanyeol on the shoulder consolingly. “Please talk to me if you need to say something. I’m here to help you.”

He really, really, really wishes Kyungsoo were here right now. Kyungsoo wouldn’t be condescending, just tell him where to stick all his ‘ideas’ and make him get on with his work.

As he turns to go back to the counter, take the next order, he accidentally smacks his forearm right on the open refrigerator door. Who the hell thought to put a mini-fridge on a countertop, Chanyeol will never in a million years understand; it probably goes against a bunch of codes and crap and he’s definitely not a fan of injuring himself --

“Are you alright?” The customer at the counter is, unfortunately, the cute guy that he’s been checking out for exactly a month and a half now; he’s watching Chanyeol with wide, concerned eyes, and Chanyeol makes himself laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m fine. Occupational hazards.” Then he waves his arm, showing that no permanent damage has been suffered, and presses a couple buttons on the register to get it back to the home order screen. “Question, though: why’s it called a funnybone if hitting it is absolutely never funny?”

The guy, clearly spaced out, snaps back to attention, then grins so big it shows off his perfect dimples. Chanyeol swears one of these days he’s gonna faint just from seeing them, from seeing him, that dark hair and those interminably deep eyes and that mouth, God that mouth--

Joonmyun is prodding him in the small of the back, bringing him back to attention. “Uh, sorry. How’re you, Yixing?”

Yixing’s expression never changes, not even when he’s bowing his head respectfully. “I’m doing really well. Better since the last time I saw you. I got hired on as a freelance artist for this firm that specialises in advertisements made to look like street art and stuff. Tomorrow’s my first day.”

Chanyeol’s heart swells with pride -- he’s been blessed enough to be in while Yixing was poring over his own portfolio about a month ago, trying to decide which pieces he would send in to potential employers. “You did?” he asks, keying in the entry he knows Yixing’s going to ask for anyway; he’s been coming here for the better part of a year, having moved into the neighbourhood directly after college. “That’s amazing, wow! I can’t believe they got back to you so quickly.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of exciting,” and Yixing’s tone’s a little off-kilter; he’s surveying Chanyeol’s face, briefly, judging by the flicker of his eyes from one spot to the next. “What about you, huh? Didn’t you have a date the last time I talked to you?”

Chanyeol had, in fact, had a date. With a complete stranger. And a girl, at that. He loves his best friend, but he’s going to have to figure out how to drill it into Baekhyun’s head that he’s really not the type to go out with randoms. Or people who wear dresses regularly enough to complain about the struggles of the act. “It, uh, it went,” Chanyeol states as sunnily as he possibly can considering the image of the girl in question trying to kiss him only to be met with physical resistance in the form of a tickle attack. “I don’t know, I really don’t have good luck with all these blind dates my friends set me up on.”

“Oh.” Now Yixing’s squinting, but the severity of his expression slackens immediately when Sehun, the kid who’d been slowly-but-steadily making his drink ever since he’d walked in the door, offers him the tall, plastic cup in which his coffee is encased. “Thanks, uh...you’re Sehun, right.”

“That’d be me,” Sehun deadpans, reaching up and toying his fingers through the ends of his neon-green bangs. One would think, Chanyeol surmises, that any amount of time in customer service would cause someone to learn to smile occasionally. But Sehun never does, instead squinting fiercely at the customer, in this case the man Chanyeol’s dying to make out with in the coffee shop bathroom, and Yixing’s still smiling. It’s like a moment out of one of those bad anime Jongin is always talking about, when he manages to speak.

The pause is long, but finally Sehun is non-verbally declared the winner of the standoff when Yixing takes his coffee and bows his head a little, thanking the teenager with way too much zeal. Then he’s ushered off, Chanyeol calling over his shoulder that he’s going on break before launching into about a million and one questions about Yixing’s new job.

“You smell ridiculous,” Kyungsoo mumbles as he presses his back to Chanyeol’s, trying to work the drip machine as best he can with a limited amount of space.

“You’re the one that had me flavouring beans,” Chanyeol points out, as amicable as humanly possible considering the fact that Kyungsoo has attempted to murder him (coincidentally, he claims; the lack of space can be blamed for the almost-decapitation, which everyone agrees almost instantaneously makes absolutely no sense) no less than four times already this morning and they’ve only been open about forty-five minutes. “And anyway, I smell like an awesome combination of things.”

“Is one of those things dead animal?” Sehun is about the least funny member of the staff here as far as Chanyeol is concerned, never even gives so much as a chuckle to let in on the fact that he’s joking, and yet he still manages to make Kyungsoo laugh harder than anyone else has in recent memory. Chanyeol’s a little disappointed; he used to at least be a bit of a contender, but now all Kyungsoo does when he makes his (decidedly lame, even by his own standards; gotta keep it family-friendly in a place of business) jokes is roll his eyes and encourage, as gently as a tiny, angry man can do, Chanyeol to get back to work.

“You shouldn’t pick on the hyungs,” chimes in Jongin, who’s clearly doing better than he had been the last day he’d been working, on what’s officially been declared Spoiled Milk Monday and given a commemorative holiday around the shop that includes sad covers of old punk songs and Kyungsoo refusing to come to work except in case of another such emergency. But the kid’s back to being bright and shiny, full lips pulled into a brilliant grin, and the atmosphere is all the better for it. “They didn’t do anything to you, after all, they’re just trying to do their jobs.”

Lu Han is convinced, beyond all reasonable belief, that Jongin has a crush on Chanyeol. This is not an ideal situation, considering the facts that A) Jongin can barely say two words without getting embarrassed to a customer, let alone a coworker, and B), Chanyeol is horribly In Like with one of their regulars and wouldn’t know how to give Jongin the time of day he needs in order to make this situation better, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. Quiet boys who don’t know how to speak up for themselves just aren’t Chanyeol’s type. Or at least they’re not yet; they might be sometime in the distant future when he’s old and grey and people yell at him like he can’t hear--

“What’d I miss?” Kyungsoo’s back to reality, all wide eyes and attentive stares from the face of one employee to another.

“Just the opportunity to kill someone,” Sehun mutters, setting to work reorganising the flavoured beans Chanyeol had been working on.

Suddenly, Jongin and Kyungsoo exchange a Look, and Chanyeol doesn’t understand why until the soothing sounds of relatively-low-key hip-hop music filters in his ears and he swears he hears the sounds of The Weeknd which, by the by, definitely doesn’t need to be played when there’s a bunch of people with children hanging around--

Then Jongin, blanching, is off like a shot, a steady stream of curses spilling from his lips as he’s running into the back as safely as he can because apparently he forgot to turn off his iPod after opening this morning and they’re about to get a collective earful from a handful of concerned coffeehouse patrons. Damn the bad luck, Chanyeol thinks, feeling the proverbial-slash-literal sweat dribble down his temple as the first one approaches, a toddler on her hip. “Do you people think you’re being funny?” she demands, hitching the child higher up even as he tries to wiggle down out of her grasp and more thoroughly inspect the counter’s edge. “I bring my children here almost every time I come here, and I don’t think they need to be hearing that kind of trash.”

The song overhead changes, except now it’s blaring metal, which must mean Jongin had grabbed someone else’s device in a move of desperation. Probably Kyungsoo’s, Chanyeol concludes as he shields his oversized ears with cupped hands, fingers folding down the shell to protect his hearing’s integrity. Kyungsoo totally listens to metal while he prays to the Dark Lord and ponders the price of tea in china and plots his church’s next orgy. Everyone in the shop -- save Sehun, of course, because Sehun is the human equivalent of a doorknob and is completely impervious to everything except physical touch about seventy percent of the time -- cowers, and the woman currently attempting to tear Chanyeol a new ass has to put down her child, who apparently is a metal fan and future Satanist himself judging by the way he bops his head.

Thankfully, the sound only lasts a solid ten seconds -- enough to scare off some business, send a couple uptight grandmas on their way to aquaerobics or whatever it is old women do when they’re not gossiping over a hot cuppa speedwalking right out the front door -- but it also manages to attract a few dark-haired, kohl-lined teens, which more than makes up for it. On the downside, the kid that had been let loose in the resulting chaos that had just happened is now using freshly-bagged beans as a means of entertainment since his mother is currently occupied, reacquainting herself with the hearing world, rubbing at her temples and digging her finger into her ear.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” Chanyeol starts awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his palm, eyeing all the while the small child who’s decided that one of their cups for sale is a chewtoy and stuck the entire bottom of it in his mouth. He stares from his mother’s angry face to Chanyeol’s slightly bemused one, eyes wide as dessert plates.

Today is so long already, he thinks as he tries to decide the best way to tell this already-angry customer that she’s just made a sixty-five thousand won purchase without even knowing it.

“So this is what you’re working on?” Chanyeol’s on break and leaning over Yixing’s shoulder, awkwardly because of his height, bent almost at the waist, but not quite. He can feel the other’s heat radiating unto himself and it makes him want to be a complete and total creep, wrap himself around the smaller man until they both turn into one person.

Ah, but those thoughts are unprofessional, which Chanyeol is not.

Yixing’s staring intently into the screen of his computer, trying to modify the contrast in the image he’s taken. “Yeah, it’s, uh,” and he swallows hard, clearly nervous about something, “it’s not what I expected it’d be when I signed on. They really don’t like freelance graphic design as much as they like stuff based on photography.”

“Is that bad…?” Chanyeol feels ridiculous for asking, covers his mouth with his hand as soon as the words slip out of his mouth, turning beet red.
“It just means that I don’t get to do what I thought I’d be hired to do,” Yixing sighs and offers a half-smile that shows off his dimple, reaching out with his mouse hand and grabbing his drink so that he might take a sip of it. “I mean, I’ll adjust.”

Chanyeol smiles brilliantly, nodding. “You’ll do great!” he declares, encouraging as can be, clapping a strong hand onto Yixing’s shoulder. The older flinches slightly, thrown off by the sound, then sets his cup down and goes back to working, making minute adjustments with numbers on a keyboard.

“I hope I will,” he agrees, smiling in that way that makes Chanyeol’s knees weak, even when he’s seeing it faintly in the reflection of a laptop screen. “What about you, hm? How are things going for you here?”

And Chanyeol’s about to launch into a huge story about how he’s got a permanent burn mark on his arm because Sehun is a good, but careless, worker who apparently has no regard for the safety of his fellow baristas, except--

The door slams open, rattling the front windows and knocking over a few bags from the window display of pre-bagged beans. Chanyeol lifts his eyes just in time to see--

Shit. He doesn’t even know if he swears aloud or in his mind, just knows that his entire body emanates the feel of cursing. “Zitao,” he greets, cheerful as can be considering the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s about to get murdered for his leftovers.

“Chanyeol,” Zitao proffers, eyebrows slightly raised as he ducks right on by the taller man. He smells of smoke and cinnamon and he’s more metal than person, dressed in black with tons of studs, even on his sunglasses, which he hasn’t bothered to take off in coming into the building. The writers hunched over their laptops, usually undisturbed by the intrusion of new customers, even look up, bewildered by this obvious mess of a patron sweeping in, tornado-like. “I can make it myself, I figured you were on break if Kyungsoo let you hang out in the front of the shop--”

“No, please, I insist,” Chanyeol interrupts, none-too-kindly as he trails along behind Zitao, whose mouth is curling in that way it does when he’s got something awful going along in his head. He’s probably hungover, out too late last night partying on someone else’s dime, judging by how red his eyes are when he lifts his sunglasses, and the way he walks with a slight limp and his back hunched over. He also probably just rolled out of bed, hasn’t even bothered to fix his usually immaculately-styled hair. Apparently, getting coffee, for once, was more important than getting off scot-free.

Chanyeol loathes to think what this kid’s actual parents did in order to deal with him, let alone the owner, who’s sort of taken the boy under his wing--

“Zitao~”

Chanyeol could swear that that’s the most emotion he’s ever heard in Oh Sehun’s voice, in all their time thus far working together. He stops short, decides that it’s not worth the fight, and tucks his hands back into his pockets. He really doesn’t need to see the boss’s adopted son and Sehun making out again, even if it is just by accident when he walks into the men’s room to clean it up for the evening rush. There are certain nicknames that certain people shouldn’t be called, especially when it’s being hissed out between clenched teeth or, worse yet, garbled by an uncontrollable moan.

Thankfully enough, Yixing has not floated out the front door with his laptop tucked under his arm as he’s so wont to do; he’s still anchored in his seat, still messing with the same settings on his laptop. Chanyeol tucks his hand into his pocket, presses the pads of his fingers to the muscle of his thigh, trying to take some relief from this and praying to all things good and holy that he won’t have to deal with the customer complaint of people having unprotected sex in the handicapped stall again.

“You’re still here,” Chanyeol says with a grin, tilting his head and taking the seat opposite Yixing, folding his hands in front of him. “How can I help?”

And Yixing’s grin grows exponentially, his dimple growing so deep that Chanyeol almost expects to fall in. “So many ways, mister,” he jokes, eyes crinkling up at the very corners, “so many ways.”

Friday is the day of the week on which the Big Boss usually comes in to check on things, deal with Kyungsoo’s way of taking inventory complete with unnecessary marks and upgrades to their relatively new equipment and stock, make sure that Zitao hasn’t accidentally traumatised any of their regulars and that Jongin is able to talk to people without fainting.

Chanyeol thinks that he is lucky, that liking one’s boss is a treasure, something to be sought after when not possessed, and kept hidden from other people when it is. But he is wrong, because literally everyone likes Kim Minseok, and it is impossible to find a divide there.

Well, almost.

“Lu Han,” Chanyeol implores as he’s working on about six different things at once, including one moron’s attempt at the Most Expensive Order Challenge (officially sanctioned by both Minseok and Kyungsoo, available on Friday afternoons exclusively). The rush had been unexpected; there’d been a tournament at a nearby tennis court, mostly high schoolers and their parents, and damn if the parents don’t need a good macchiato or two to make it through a long match or two. “Lu Han, can I possibly get a little help here.” Both Chanyeol and Jongin haven’t stopped moving for a moment in the last forty-five minutes.

Lu Han, though, is leaning against the counter, still clutching tight the cup in his hands that he’d picked up when the first signs of business had started to trickle in. They’d come at about the same time as Minseok had, and Lu Han had been practically immobile ever since, narrowing his eyes as he took his sweet time staring at the owner.

“Lu Han,” Jongin implores, whining quietly; the poor kid has actually had to force himself to talk to customers this go around, and he’s done relatively well, if only because he’s had Chanyeol at his side, trying to quietly coach him through the whole service aspect of customer service. “Lu Han, there’s too many of them.”

“Go on without me,” Lu Han murmurs absently, squinting harder as he watches Kyungsoo and Minseok’s conversation, inaudible over the cacophony of sound that is their main room right now, through the backroom window. “You guys can make it, I have faith.”

“This isn’t a zombie apocalypse,” Chanyeol groans, exasperated even as he’s grinding up ice chips for yet another frozen drink disaster, “there aren’t any heroics here. There’s just us, and coffee. There is no winning side.”

“Even if there were,” Lu Han grunts out, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with the heel of his palm, “we wouldn’t be on it. Me especially. ...No, you especially.” Apparently the backroom meeting has dispersed because Kyungsoo’s jumping onto the milk steamer and getting things done, shooting nothing short of a death glare at Lu Han, who still has not resumed work.

“Hey, hi there, do you like being gainfully employed?” he demands in a sharp hiss under his breath. Lu Han blinks twice, glancing up at his boss for the first time in what feels like forever. “‘Cause you’re about to not be if you don’t get up and do something, there is literally a line out the door right now--”

Except then Minseok comes out, all smiles, waving at the customers and bidding his employees a good afternoon. Lu Han drops the cup he’d been holding; it smacks into the floor with a loud, hollow clatter that dulls out the conversations surrounding their little safehold.

“Bye, you guys!” Minseok cheers, raising his arms over his head slightly in an effort to cheer them on, and Chanyeol notes that he’s got this look on his face -- grateful, maybe, that he’s worked long enough to not have to live the struggle anymore. While every other person gainfully employed by the establishment forces a smile, Chanyeol laughs and waves, happy that at least someone’s in a good mood.

No one is ever happy to see Kim Minseok go, but damn if Kyungsoo doesn’t physically brighten up when Lu Han goes back to work, biting his lip and starting to move again at the sound of the telltale tin tingle of bells over the front door.

“It was an accident, ohmygosh, I’m so sorry, please, here, let me help you--”

Zitao is back again, obviously lacking in a hangover if his eyeliner game is any indicator, and he’s surrounded by unseen forcefield of don’t-fuck-with-me. Might have something to do with the bright-pink streaks he’s got running down the front of him, Chanyeol surmises as he leans against the counter, elbow digging into the cracks in the grout. Also might have something to do with the tiny, tiny, tiny man following him around, flailing, eyebrows pinched together, insisting that it was his fault and there absolutely must be something he can do --

Zitao, apparently bolstered by the familiarity of the environment, does nothing for a long while in the way of acknowledging the guy following him, which is a point of frustration for all parties involved, including the observers, who shoot death glares in the direction of Zitao’s black-clad form. “Chanyeol,” Zitao calls out, eyes narrowed, bottom lip sucked in, “please...like...make him something else. I don’t know. Compensation for his sad loss.” The guy pouts, tucks his hands into his pockets. “Is Sehun here?”

“No, Sehun is not here,” Kyungsoo interrupts, striding out from the back office. He sees the guy following Zitao around, and his expression softens almost immediately. “Hey, Junmyeon, what happened? You lost your frap.”

“I know,” and Junmyeon’s got this bright look over his face, all brimming with inappropriate enthusiasm and maybe a little precious. “I know, but you know how I am sometimes, I was checking my phone while I was going back to my car and I walked right into--”

“Him?” Kyungsoo blinks as he jerks his shoulder in Zitao’s direction, shrugs. “He’ll deal with it. Are you okay? Here, let me make you another.” If no one else is suspicious of Kyungsoo’s treatment of this Junmyeon fellow and how it’s markedly better than he treats anyone he actually works with, then Chanyeol is the queen of fucking England, he swears, muttering under his breath as he sets back to work recalibrating scales they use for grounds. “Oh, Zitao,” and Kyungsoo’s still light and airy, filling a pitcher with a fat load of ice cubes. “Minseok hyung’s out back, he wanted to talk to you about something?”

Zitao’s face goes as white as a sheet, which makes him look like a cartoon from a long time ago, dressed in all black, fists clenched, shoulders raised slightly. Then he nods, for once unable to complete the whole making words thing as he scrambles off to the backroom in search of his sort-of-surrogate-dad.

Kyungsoo finishes with Junmyeon’s drink in record time, scribbles a messy note at the very bottom of the cup before flipping it back up and filling it expertly. “Here you go,” and his heart-shaped mouth is pulled into something that looks conspicuously like a smile, which would utterly terrify Chanyeol if he were in a headspace to be scared of more than one thing at a time. Junmyeon flushes a slight shade, bowing his head as he takes his drink. They exchange idle pleasantries, something that Chanyeol has also never known Kyungsoo to do, and by the time Junmyeon leaves, having been given another free strawberry-flavoured drink, Kyungsoo’s face has not changed from the faint resemblance to a grin it’d adopted at the start of the encounter.

“Is everything okay?” Minseok’s leading Zitao from the backroom now, and Chanyeol shrugs, noncommittal, wiping at the countertop with a damp rag.

“Kyungsoo is just...weird. Cool, but weird,” is the only thing he can manage to say. He notes that Zitao looks like he’s waiting for the invitation to sulk, so he offers, “Do you want something?”

“No,” comes the stiff reply; Zitao’s ring-adorned right hand comes up to scrub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I, um, I mean, no.”

Minseok positively beams, and the both of them are on their way, calling out goodbyes over their shoulders, Zitao never once loosening. “What d’you think happened?” Chanyeol inquires as he watches them go, still scrubbing at a pretty tough spot on the counter.

“Hopefully it means I have to see that kid less,” Kyungsoo scoffs, and it’s even stranger to see him right back to his normal, prickly self without any sense of hesitation.

There is a crowd gathered outside the front doors. Mostly-female, black-clad, smelling of smoke and cloves and the unmistakable cocktail of youth and hormones. Chanyeol’s never seen anything like it here, even on their worst days; the inside of the shop is mainly empty, and yet everyone seems to be clamouring to get inside.

He pushes his way carefully through the congregation, trying his hardest not to elbow anyone in the face by accident, and only barely makes it inside. Being clawed at by a large group of oversized adolescents

“You’re talking to him, today,” Sehun is telling Jongin when Chanyeol ducks into the kitchen to get started on his shift.

“Talking to who?” Chanyeol makes the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad mistake of asking, only to be met with three near-identical stares: blank, and with an edge of ‘who the hell are you, and where have you been?’. Good. Always nice to start a shift with a storm of judgment being rained upon him.

“You haven’t seen him?” Jongin asks, tugging anxiously on the hem of his apron before jamming his hands into the pockets so that he can loudly fiddle with straw paper. “This, uh, this actor guy that’s always coming in here, maybe every couple days or so…”

“He thinks he’s brilliant,” Sehun deadpans, going right on back to work -- no point in working if one can’t gossip at the same time, right. “And he runs some...I don’t know, I think some blog he was telling me about, and he always talks about how he thinks that the French film market is overrated, and have we ever really taken a look into the reason films have been banned? And he just thinks he’s the most interesting human being ever.”

“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak,” Jongin whispers, awed; the two of them exchange a quick high-five, more a touch of fingertips together than vaguely-aggressive encouragement. “Sometimes when we’re slow, he’ll try and get other customers to run lines with him. Or us, when there aren’t other customers who’ll talk to him and he’s really desperate for attention.”

“His French accent is atrocious,” Sehun adds, almost a little too enthusiastically, “and he can’t pronounce the word ‘frustrated’.”

“I think he said his name was Jongdae or something?”

“Anyway, he’s--”

“Literally the only reason I would let him stay if it were up to me is because he’s smoking hot and all the stuck-up little girls that come in here think he’s the best thing in the entire world.”

Chanyeol blinks, takes a step back, leaning against his palms which are resting on the countertop. “What do you mean, little girls?”

“High school, maybe early university,” Jongin hums. “Old enough to be pretentious about watching a film with a particular actor, young enough to still be proud of it. He’s like their little sex god or something.”

“Can we not,” Kyungsoo interjects, “talk about sex gods in the workplace?”

“Do you ever wonder what this place’d be like if normal people worked here?” Chanyeol asks him, flashing him a crooked grin and punching him lightly in the shoulder. Kyungsoo’s face does a thing, and Chanyeol knows that he will come to regret his life decisions very, very soon. “I mean, if we didn’t have to deal with…that crap...all the time?”

“Shh, shh,” Sehun’s all wonderment now, watching the door, and Jongin’s the opposite, abject horror, a deep frown tugging at his full mouth.

The door swings open, and the floodgates must break, because suddenly the shop is filled with the excited murmurs of a hundred young women, their words echoing off each other so deeply that the walls seem to hum with the effort of it. Chanyeol is both panicked and astounded; he reaches up to adjust the hat he’s forced to wear as part of his uniform, swallowing hard, and puts on what he’d like to call his determined face.

“Dude, why do you look like you’re about to shit yourself--”

“Don’t call him dude,” Jongin shushes Sehun quietly as they all man their battle stations. Chanyeol, quickest with his fingers and decidedly the most amiable out of the lot of them, takes the register, and he puts on his prize-winning, halfway-crooked grin. Sehun, unable to make any drink over seven ingredients with any sort of quickness, attends the case of baked goods, his hands wrapped so tight around the metallic handle that tips the lid open that his knuckles turn positively white, and he watches the approaching mob with wary eyes. Jongin, who couldn’t talk to a customer if his life absolutely depended on it (much less a girl, God save him), gets to work on making sure all the machines are clean and ready, wiping everything with hastily measured swipes of a damp cloth.

Kyungsoo’s supposed to be making sure that their supply line is ready.

But as the fabled Jongdae steps towards the counter, hands jammed into the pockets of his suit jacket, Kyungsoo is more visible in the cartoon smokescreen of himself he leaves behind as he rushes into the office, citing paperwork and apologising absolutely not at all.

“Hello there,” Chanyeol greets the man before him, trying his hardest not to glower in the direction of the door instead. “Welcome to Love and Peace. What can I get started for you today?”

“Yeah, I’d like a venti quad half-fat two-pump no-whip mocha.” The man’s tone is exasperated, impatient, as if to say, ‘simple for the simpleton’. Chanyeol’s keying in buttons just as quickly as the words are coming out of Jongdae’s kitten-curled mouth. “And, uh, everything in that case right there for my--” and here he turns to the crowd of adoring females behind him, eyes curved up just enough so that he appears charming instead of a smarmy bastard, “fans.” The way the word sounds coming out of his mouth even sounds utterly saccharine, disgusting, worthy of nausea; Chanyeol can’t possibly imagine what they taste like.

Ah, but at the last command he pauses, blinks. “...Everything?” he repeats slowly, and he knows he sounds like an idiot right now, but he’d rather sound stupid and have the guy treat him as such than accidentally sell out their entire store of pastries for the day in one go. “Everything. Literally everything.”

“...Yes. Literally everything,” and now Jongdae doesn’t look quite so pleased with the situation; his ladies are leaning up against him en masse, pressed into his back, probably prodding him uncomfortably.

“That...will take awhile to ring up,” Chanyeol confesses breathlessly. “We have to count everything to make sure we put in the right numbers, is that okay with you?”

“Hm? Yes, definitely,” and now the actor’s attentions are on some girl in the corner, one of the few who hadn’t entered with him, his eyebrows bunched together in what appears to be confusion. “Who’s she?”

Chanyeol blinks, unsure as to what he’s just heard. “I’m sorry?” he repeats, barely holding back a stutter when he speaks. Does this guy really think he knows who everyone that comes into the shop is? Does Chanyeol give off the air of a man who just knows people? These ideas will probably keep him up late at night for weeks and weeks to come.

Oh, right, situation. He snaps back to attention, cocks his head to the right, only to notice that he’s been abandoned by his current customer, who’s made his way to the corner where the stranger sits and, judging by the way he leans over and rests his elbow on her table, is trying his hardest to look impressive while being a horrible flirt.

Today is, officially, the worst day, Chanyeol thinks as he nudges Sehun in the ribs with an elbow, telling him to hurry up and get to counting cake pops.

He looks up from about his seventy-fifth coffee order to see Yixing standing in the doorway, looking confused, his laptop case tucked neatly under his arm and his lips curled into a little smile that accentuates that damn dimple of his, and Chanyeol damn near forgets what he’s keying in, almost charges the girl before him for six of the drink she’s ordered.

“Hyung,” Sehun warns, working at counting still, his gaze tracing every cake in the case. “Hyung, now is not the time.”

“But--” Chanyeol protests, then bites down on his lower lip, knowing that, at the very least, there is a bright and beautiful and decidedly charming light at the end of the tunnel.

“You think he’s okay?” Chanyeol’s asking, glancing at the handwriting in thick Sharpie on the outside of the cup. “I mean, he looked pretty shaken, but he didn’t look hurt--”

“How do you, of all people, spend time worrying about someone else’s boyfriend,” Lu Han deadpans, looking down at his nails distractedly even as he’s working the drizzle atop a caramel macchiato. “It’s bad enough you can’t find one of your own, now you gotta be all on everyone else’s--?”

“Be nice to Chanyeol hyung,” Jongin chides with a frown, gently jabbing Lu Han’s elbow with a fingertip only to receive an angry yelp in response, “he’s still torn up over the trauma that was yesterday--”

“That you caused,” Sehun points out, raising a shoulder as he sets to work cleaning out the grinders. “I think it’s cute that he’s worried. And besides, Junmyeon hyung had absolutely no idea what was coming for him.”

Lu Han scoffs. “You think he ever does?” he asks, somewhere between irritation and downright malice.

Everyone groans and tells Lu Han to shut up with his negative bullshit and hey, isn’t that Minseok, hey, now Lu Han can act like a normal human being. Fantastic.

See, the day before, Kyungsoo had met the great fortune of having Junmyeon come into the shop again, a shy little smile tugging at his mouth. There was further luck in the sense that the man didn’t cause some sort of accident on this particular occasion, which made things go a whole hell of a lot smoother when he approached the counter.

Or, it would’ve, except for the chain of events that followed almost immediately after.

Chanyeol had observed quietly as Kyungsoo leaned against the countertop, his chin in his palm, his elbow digging into the vintage-styled Formica countertop. He and Junmyeon had been innocently exchanging conversation, every so often exchanging a gentle touch of fingertips or brush of one’s forearm against the other’s as they speak, when the incident had occurred.

A customer who’d arrived about ten minutes before Junmyeon had needed help pulling apart a display of teapots just in front of and to the right of the counter to try and find a very specific product. “A gift for my wife,” the man had said with a grin, all lovesick and precious. All four employees present had commended him on his dedication, and Jongin had gladly jumped in to assist.

That’s when things had gone to hell, because Sehun, also in admiration for this man’s sudden spark of romanticism for his spouse, jumps on the task, and Jongin and Sehun together, while graceful in general, have a tendency to knock into each other by accident. So when Jongin is standing on tiptoe, snatching up the last of a particular brand of kettle, and Sehun knocks into him, Jongin crashes forward violently, knocking over every single box in the stack.

Normally, that’d be it -- they’d clean up and call it a day and be on their merry way.

But the universe was not so kind.

That is how poor Junmyeon, with his shy smiles and his slightly-puckered eyebrows and his soft but assertive voice, ends up buried in a pile of teapots, moaning out something about pain. Kyungsoo was redder than the sink backsplash behind him, he was so mortified (or angry; Chanyeol’s not a good gauge on that dude’s emotions in the slightest); he rushed out from behind the register to start digging the other man out of his tomb.

The music overhead even stopped. The entire shop was silent.

And then Sehun burst into the most inappropriate fit of laughter anyone has ever seen, arms wrapped around his own stomach, fingers digging into his bony elbows. This, of course, set off Jongin, who sets off Chanyeol, whose laugh was so loud and enormous that it echoed through the room, causing absolutely every other customer to start in as well.

Then it was Junmyeon’s turn to be embarrassed, and he definitely did that well, rushing out of the shop with his face in his hands and speaking words that no one could understand. Kyungsoo followed close behind, calling after him, trying to be sure of his physical condition.

Chanyeol blinks. “I think he’s alright,” he determines aloud. “I really do. He gets hurt almost every time he comes in here.”

Sehun snorts derisively, shaking his head. “Only you would notice something like that, hyung.”

Somehow, Chanyeol had never been taught the oldest trick in the book as far as barista-related flirtation went, something that disappointed his coworkers when they found out. After yet another disappointing setup by way of Baekhyun, Chanyeol had come in this morning looking and feeling pretty dejected about the whole thing, and his youngers had flanked him on either side, worried.

“She said she was in love with me because I said I liked her shoes,” Chanyeol mumbles, palms pressed against his eyes.

“Doesn’t he know you’re in love with that one dude that always co--” Sehun stops short, pinned under Jongin’s glare. “I mean. Doesn’t he know you’re not into blind dates?”

“He thinks he’s helping.”

“He isn’t. What a terrible friend.” Sehun rolls his eyes, then goes back to reorganising the fridge, pulling the older milk and cream to the front. “Wait, so why haven’t you made a move on that one dude that always comes in?” At least he gets to finish his thought this time before Jongin’s toeing him hard in the back of the thigh. “I mean, he’s very clearly into you.”

“He what.” Chanyeol stops moving entirely and he thinks his breath seizes in his chest. “He does not, he’s just someone that comes in all the time.”

“Yeah, to make googly eyes at you,” Kyungsoo scoffs from just beyond the heavy plastic curtain that divides the workstation from the office, following up by muttering something about ‘surrounded by idiots’ and ducking underneath the cover to meet them. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you take your breaks when he comes in so you can go make googly eyes right back at him.”

Sehun’s laughing softly now, but he makes himself stop for a half-second, links his hands together and rests them against his breastbone. His eyelashes flutter and he speaks in a breathy voice, a poor imitation of Chanyeol himself but an excellent one of the way cartoons fall in love. “Oh, Yixing~ You’re such a talented artist, however do you do it~”

Kyungsoo laughs even harder, leans against the counter, fingers wrapped around the lip. “Seriously. You’re so obvious.”

Chanyeol frowns deeply. “Okay, fine, maybe I do,” he confesses, glancing around nervously. “What does it matter? It’s...unprofessional.”

“Is it, though?” Sehun asks with a tilt of his head. “How do you think I ended up hooking up with Zitao?”

With an irritated trill of his lips, Kyungsoo dissents, murmuring, “We’re talking about grownup stuff here, Sehunnie, not making out with your high school boyfriend when your mommy will let you out of the house.” Now Chanyeol’s the one laughing and Sehun’s face is slightly pink as he shoots a pointed glare in the elder’s direction. “No, but,” and Kyungsoo continues, reaching up and patting Chanyeol’s shoulder gently, “seriously, how do you think I ended up asking out Junmyeon?”

“I...have no idea?” Chanyeol offers, almost reluctantly. “I just thought it was something that didn’t happen here.”

Both other parties stare at him in shocked silence.

Then Sehun ventures, “Wait. You...you don’t have barista game?”

“...No?”

Kyungsoo scowls. “No wonder, you poor, hopeless fool of a man,” he says solemnly. “It’s okay, we’re here to help. We’re your friends. You can trust us.”

“...what.”

Sehun -- who, by this point, is positively giggling, mouth hidden behind slotted fingers -- sidles up to Chanyeol, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Hyung, it’s simple,” he begins. “Say you’re in the middle of a rush. Everything’s super-hectic and you’re up to your ears in steamed milk and biscotti.”

“And there just so happens,” Kyungsoo interjects slyly, a little grin tugging at his heart-shaped mouth, “to be an incredibly attractive individual next up in your line. You totally wanna see what’s up, but you don’t really have time to get fired to screwing up everyone else’s schedule today.”

“That’s when the barista game comes in.” Sehun nods gravely, biting down on the inner of his lower lip to keep from smirking himself. “See, we have to write names on everything, don’t we? Less confusion that way. So many drinks look so similar.”

“So when you’re writing this incredibly-attractive stranger’s name on their cup so they don’t lose their coffee,” and Kyungsoo picks up a paper cup, stuffs it into a sleeve, and grabs the marker they keep behind the serving counter for just such occasions, “you write them a little note. Maybe something sweet, something sexy, something charming -- whatever you like, your flavour’s up to you.”

“But the thing is this,” and Sehun’s actively trying not to laugh now, as is Chanyeol (but only because the pair of them look like villains out of a Disney movie, for God’s sake). “You have to hand it to them. So do you let them know?” Chanyeol’s about to answer, but is cut off before the breath fills his lungs. “Absolutely not. That reeks of complete desperation. Don’t be that person, hyung. You’re not that person, you’re better than that.”

“No, instead,” and Kyungsoo demonstrates with a skillful flick of the wrist. “You’ve written on the sleeve. Turn it towards yourself so that they don’t even know until they’re halfway down the block, turning the cup in their hands while they drink it. Let it be subtle, let it look like an accident. You have, after all, accidentally fallen for this person.”

“...Did you guys plan this a long time ago?” Chanyeol wonders allowed, blinking twice and wiggling his ears. “‘Cause that sounded way too rehearsed.”

“Nah,” Sehun says with a shrug. “We just really want you to get laid, I guess.”

The lesson stays with him, and he even practices a couple times, trying to get it right. Unfortunately, it almost ends with him getting a coffee to the face at one point, at the hands of Baekhyun, who, when coming in for his daily fix between day job and night school, had been so surprised upon reading the compliment that he’d damn near jerked the cup out of his hand out of sheer bewilderment.

“The fuck, dude,” he’d uttered, staring at Chanyeol with wide, befuddled eyes. “Are you trying to tell me something.”

“Nothing I haven’t been trying to tell you for years,” Chanyeol points out with a sigh, leaning into the counter, arms folded atop one another. “If you were someone that were into me, would you have enjoyed that?”

“Are you okay? Did the last girl try to hurt you or something? Did you suffer a brain injury? Jesus Christ, you scared me to death.” Shaking his head, Baekhyun rests his palm against his temple. “I mean, if someone I were into were to do that to me… I guess it’d be alright. But they don’t usually get the ch--”

“We don’t have to talk about how your metaphorical dick is bigger than everyone else’s, dude. We’re good.” Baekhyun gapes; Chanyeol goes back to work, unfazed, listening to his friend ramble on ad nauseum about some actor currently working in the area, how Baekhyun’s been trying to maybe get a glimpse of him and maybe even an autograph (!!!), but every time he finds out some whereabouts, there’s always a sea of females surrounding the dude.

Snorting under his breath, Chanyeol says nothing, but makes note that it would probably be for the best to hold Jongdae’s next over-

His confidence, however, is bolstered, and the very next day he gets his chance. So, with a plan of action, he’s ready to spring.

It’s a Wednesday, a good day, usually kinda slow besides the scheduled surges of business. Yixing comes in every Wednesday, citing that the house special pastry -- a lemon-blueberry muffin -- is his favourite and he’d rather not live the longest day of his week without one. Chanyeol completely lights up when the man enters, sets his laptop case down carefully at his usual table, and comes to the register. “Hey, you,” he says, all warm-hearted and smiling calmly and sparkles behind those gorgeous eyes. For a half-second Chanyeol swears he could faint. “Um, can I--”

Except Chanyeol, ever the helpful clerk, reaches down underneath the counter and pulls out one of the shop’s signature pastry bags, sets it down between them. “I’ll start your mocha,” he says, smiling softly himself as he turns back. “How’re things? I haven’t seen you since the flood happened the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, what happened there?” Yixing asks, quiet, concerned. “I thought there was something bad going on so I came by to check out, but… you guys weren’t hurt or anything, ‘s’far as I could tell?”

“Yeah, uh,” and Chanyeol half-laughs, half-snorts, sleeving a cup and grabbing the marker. When he uncaps it his fingers shake; when he writes he almost misspells the other man’s name. “Some actor, I don’t know. It got crazy. But for real,” and he pauses to admire his handiwork, scanning over the shapes of the letters before rereading the message itself -- Lost heart. Last seen with Zhang Yixing. If found, please return to Park Chanyeol. -- followed by his phone number and a decidedly precious emoji that he may or may not have imitated with his face as best he could before setting to work, dispensing coffee into the paper cup. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Yixing offers, mostly indifferent, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just really busy, my project is almost done and our deadline is coming up, so everything’s really stressful.”

“That sucks,” Chanyeol sympathises aloud as he finishes the drink, turns back. He sets the cup down next to the bagful of muffin, careful to keep the writing facing himself. “But hey, you know, you’re awesome. I happen to know for a fact that you’ve got a handle on this.”

Is...is Yixing blushing? Chanyeol can’t tell, the lights are just a tiny bit too dim to discern the difference, but his heart sings all the same, happy to know that he’s left an impression. “Thank you,” the other mumbles, smiling brightly. “You’re going on break, right?”

“Um, I can’t today,” and here’s the regret, the lie, the part that makes Yixing come back but makes Chanyeol’s previously flying-high heart ping a bit, “Jongin called earlier and said he’s gonna be about an hour late so I don’t get to go on break until he shows up.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Yixing assures him, sweet as pie, almost making Chanyeol wanna tear up. “It’s okay, we can always hang out another day.”

The implication there is incredible, the truth behind it delicious, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint he has for Chanyeol not to shout elatedly that they most certainly can.

Two days later, Friday. It starts off like any other day, hectic but with a peaceful end.

Chanyeol’s flying high when he shows up that morning, having received the text from Yixing the night previous. Everyone takes notice, even Lu Han who can’t stand him or really anyone, and is happy for him, congratulations all around. Kyungsoo and Sehun exchange secret little glances and smirks and Chanyeol can’t even be creeped out by their solidarity, only rolls his eyes and thanks them for their help.

He’s just about to get off his shift, two PM, and finally get that date he’s been after, when it happens.

The scent of smoke starts faint at first, gently brushing against the tips of noses the way a father would tweak that of his daughter, with a certain amount of affection and presence that cannot be denied. But it escalates out of control before anyone really is able to process it, and just like that the alarms are going off, the sprinklers anchored to the ceiling bursting into a violent fit of water that coats absolutely everything. Great, Chanyeol thinks as he and Kyungsoo usher patrons of their beloved shop out onto the sidewalk and, invariably, across the street to watch the scene unfold.

The truck takes too long to come, and they can see the tips of orange flame dancing bright against the deep blue sky. Everyone watches, astonished, hands over their mouths to keep the remaining oxygen surrounding them in their lungs and the questions from pouring out between their lips.

Minseok arrives shortly afterwards, having received the requisite emergency phone call when the fire alarms had activated. “What happened?” he demands, all breathless and red-faced, his idiot adopted son in tow, watching the scene with about as much silent reverie as anyone else. Privately, Chanyeol enjoys taking note of Zitao’s stunned expression, and the fact that he has never seen that boy as quiet as he’s seeing right now. “Seriously, anyone? No one wants to tell me what happened?” Minseok’s tone is steadily rising, and the rest of them exchange a series of nervous glances.

“We don’t know,” Kyungsoo says at long last, and the collective sigh that bursts forth from their lungs, part smoke and part tension relief, is heavy enough to rival the thick black clouds now pouring out from the roof of the building. “We have no idea, I really wish we did--”

“It, um,” and a new voice joins them, one that makes Chanyeol perk almost instantaneously without him even realising the reason as to why, “it might’ve been a bunch of stuff…”

Yixing is slowly edging his way into the crowd of them now, eyes narrowed under the shield of his hand as he watches the coffee shop slowly burn to the ground. “You’re not confessing to arson right now, are you,” Kyungsoo deadpans, the portrait of unamused, arms folded tight across his chest. “Because there are places that even the police aren’t allowed to take you, and I happen to know a lot of them very intimately--”

“The building was old when you bought it, right?” Yixing’s not even listening to Kyungsoo’s very well-spoken threat, something that makes the tiny man splutter with even more rage. No, he’s got all his attentions focused on Minseok, whose brow is creased with worry even as he leans against Lu Han, his elbow against the other’s shoulder. “I mean...I don’t know, I rememeber it being there when I was a kid, and looking pretty similar to how it did then, but I could be wrong--”

“It was,” Minseok confirms, exhaling sharply as he straightens, now only barely making contact with Lu Han’s evidently disappointed frame.. “It was probably electrical, you’re right, I just--” And here they could all swear they’re seeing their boss, their proverbial rock, break down for the first time, but no, he just shakes his head, tuts at the ground. “This is my place. It’s everything to me.”

“It’s our place, too, hyung,” Jongin points out, nodding seriously as he curls his arm around Sehun’s and pulls the younger closer so he doesn’t almost get knocked into oncoming traffic. “We’re feeling about the same as you are, you know?”

They all exchange a significant look, and the entire feeling of the moment is… profound, if depressing, and finally Minseok sighs, puts his arm around his silent not-son, and pulls the younger man into a tight hug. “Everything’ll be okay,” he says with a definitively optimistic edge to his words, and everyone nods, solemn and, impressively enough, full of high hopes.

Final author's note (optional): I really hope you like this; it was a really fun little project for me. Thank you for your prompts, every single one of them was extremely inspirational and I was blessed to have been given such an amazing person to write for. ALL THE LOVE IN THE WORLD TO YOU! ♥