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jui-imouto-chan · 6 years ago

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Wanted to write some fluff for my dear @manadrite / @manatheauthor, who was a bit down earlier.

Thanks to @isumi828 for supplying me with some ideas!

The aroma of brewed coffee beans and the syrupy sweet scent of pastries flutter about, wafting through the air and into the noses of the patrons leisurely sipping from their warm mugs, eyes bright and and posture contented.

Forks glimmer in the soft light of sun, tiny clinks following the contact of the tips of the prongs with the small white plates below speared pieces of dessert.

A bell’s tinkle sounds from the door, a swirl of icy breeze immediately quelled by the warmth of the cafe.

“Welcome!” greets the employee behind the counter, eyes and hair mocha as the coffee he prepares. A smile can be heard in his voice, his back to the majority of the room, but clearly he knows who’s entered the building, as his hands work the machine to prepare a drink before he’s told, no one else in the queue.

He spins on the balls of one foot and smoothly transitions into bending over and sliding out a tray of pastries from the display case beneath the counter, picking a slice of raspberry cheesecake to place on a plate he collects from a shining stack nearby.

He sets a fork atop the empty space beside the desert and swipes the plate into his left hand, his other hand grabbing the handle of a mug, now filled with a cappuccino. He seems to have made a heart design in it, and upon the image becoming visible to the customers in the cafe, giggles and teasing smiles arise.

“You need a hand with that?” the man who’d entered the cafe asks the employee, adjusting his bag’s strap to free his hands and immediately moving to take the items from him.

The employee spins gracefully out of reach, grinning smugly at the mocha-skinned man sighing at him, his apron fluttering. It’s impressive, how not a drop of drink spills over the edge of the mug, despite the dangerous slosh of the scalding liquid.

His name-tag glints in the sunlight he steps past, a brief illumination of his, admittedly already quite bright countenance.

He sets the plate and mug down with barely a sound, bending at the waist with deliberation.

Once more, he twirls about on his heel like a misinformed ballerina and in that single movement undoes the bow tied at the small of his back, the apron hanging off of him, now.

“Just a moment.” He says, polite as ever. He usually sounds genially chipper, but now his voice has the adoring undertone of delight.

The mocha-skinned man settles in the cushy booth seat he always sits in, hand curling around the mug with familiarity that is not unusual for the regulars of the cafe. A smile pulls at his lips, freckled cheeks shifting with the uneven expression.

He doesn’t take a sip at any point, an observer would note, and his eyes remain in the distance, past the window he’s beside, where icicles hang precariously over the edges of roofs and gutters and drip arrhythmically, into thick bunches of snow gathered at the corners of sidewalks and roadways. One such corner has a toddler-sized disgruntled snowman sporting a tiny foil fedora.

“I’m waiting on Eli to make my hot cocoa, so I can spare a few moments for you.” the employee, sans his apron, slides into the opposite booth, his arms lain over the tabletop casually.

The tan man gasps exaggeratedly, shoulders rising as a hand moves to hover near his mouth, lush green and soothing blue wide in mock-surprise. “I honestly can’t believe that the Connor Anderson would grant me the privilege of moments of interaction! My poor heart feels blessed; I can die without regrets.”

Connor appears incredibly bemused, though his cheek twitches as he bites back laughter. He tilts his head into a palm, resting on an elbow while his fingers idly drum a vaguely familiar tune.

“Alright Drama Queen--”

“Excuse you, I prefer King of Theatrics.”

“Oh, whatever. I give up on you.” Connor’s eyes roll, but he’s finally let his lips tick up until his eyes crinkle, huffing air out through his nose.

“Aw, man, I guess North wins that bet.”

“Bet?”

“She said that you’d leave my sorry ass in less than 2 minutes.”

Connor allows a soft chuckle out and shakes his head. He moves out of the seat when there’s a call of his name. “What was your side?”

“That it’d take 3 minutes.”

And then Connor closes his eyes as a surprised snort takes over, his shoulders shaking in barely-contained laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m lovable.”

“That, too.”

And the tan man’s eyes blink rapidly, clearly not having anticipated that response. A hint of red creeps up his cheeks, and Connor smirks to himself as he collects his hot cocoa and nabs a small, pink cupcake.

Only after Connor sits back in front of him does the darker man move to slice a chunk off of his raspberry cheesecake. In lieu of bringing the bit to his mouth, he directs it to Connor’s, bumping against soft pink and leaving a small dot of hibiscus-colored-syrup. Connor’s taken off guard for a moment, but his lips eventually part to allow the dessert in, closing over the fork to drag the piece off, lashes batting in an effort to physically express the bliss he’d gotten from the taste.

The fork still hovers near his mouth, heterochromatic eyes watching his reaction raptly, and he takes his chance to snatch the utensil out of the other’s grip. He swallows and cuts another piece off of the very cake he’d tasted, spearing it.

“You’ve got to give it a try, Markus.”

Markus obligingly opens his mouth when Connor mimics his earlier actions and feeds him, savoring the taste of the sweet.

He hums in appreciation. “Good pick.”

“But of course. Only the best for you.”

His line is undercut by the teasing lilt to his voice, but Markus forgives him for that only because another slice is brought to his mouth, which he chases down with a sip of his cappuccino.

“Once again, I’m honored.”

Markus reacquires his silverware with ease and pointedly stares at the hot chocolate near Connor’s elbow, still steaming but thankfully much cooler than the piping hot chocolate-lava that Connor would insist on drinking immediately. Markus has spent plenty of time locking mouths with Connor after filling his with cold water, only for the purpose of aiding him in dealing with the consequences of his stubborn habits.

Well, okay, not only for that, but the other reasons are to be considered added benefits to his good deeds.

Connor and Markus lapse into an amicable silence, their free left hands creeping across the tabletop, until Markus’ rests atop Connor’s, thumb stroking over the back of his hand.

They almost don’t appear to notice the contact, perhaps from how naturally such actions of affection come to them.

“Am I keeping you?” Markus asks, his mug clicking as he sets it down.

Connor blinks, then shakes his head. “No, no. Eli’s got me covered, and it’s a little slow right now. I think you guys are stealing our business for today.”

Markus can’t help the smug grin crawling up his face. “If only we could steal one of the employees, here, too.”

“I’d rather French Sumo than join you heathens.”

“I’m hurt, really, I am. I’m also going to go legally change my name to Sumo Manfred.” Markus’ fingers dance up Connor’s arm and then move back down so he can intertwine them with Connor’s.

“Oh? Such drastic measures, when all you’d have to do is ask and receive.”

Markus finger’s jump, and Connor gives him a squeeze the same time he sends over his favorite methods of stopping Markus’ thought processes and heart at once: a cheeky, mischievous wink.

Markus groans, dropping his fork to shield his face and cover his eyes. “Oh my god, stop. You know I have a weakness for that. --In Josh’s words, ‘you put the wink in twink’.”

Connor scoffs, affronted, but not really. “Josh can catch these hands.”

“Your twinkie-fingered hands.” Markus sing-songs, wriggling his digits.

Connor’s hand tightens over his, painfully squeezing with his lithe ‘twinkie-fingers’. “I will end you.”

“You love me too much.”

A frustrated sigh, and then, “Ugh, why do you have to be right?” Connor shoots Markus a glare when the taller laughs at him, though his scowl may well be a pout, in Markus’ book, with all the effect it has.

“Aw, it’s okay that you have twink hands, babe. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Connor stands, collecting their dirtied plates and mugs with a huff. “Yeah? Well, you’ve got big, meaty, claws.”

“You did not just--”

“Oh, but I did.”

There’s a vindictive satisfaction that takes over Connor’s face as Markus growls.

Markus moves to follow him out of the booth, his messenger bag all but forgotten on the seat, and Connor dances out of the way of his searching hands with all the grace he can muster. Can’t let Markus get too handsy in his workplace, now can he?

He places them on the back counter to take them to the sink, later, about to address Markus’ sulky frown, but the bell’s jingle and a momentary brush of cold air makes Connor snap his attention to the potential customer entering the cafe, cheery disposition coming forth.

“Welcome, how may I--North?”

“Oh, shit, North?!”

Markus makes to hide behind Connor, but, thanks to the factors that are too numerous to list, he’s spotted and approached with a frighteningly calm and blank expression.

“You’re supposed to be working right now. I’ve got Alice taking orders at this point, the fuck are you doing?”

She swipes her hand to Markus’ ear to pinch it between her thumb and fingers and drags him out of the cafe, giving him an earful. Connor laughs nervously, waving to his boyfriend as he goes and watching Markus feebly attempt to return the action and receive a swift smack to the back of the head, the spike of fear that had shot up Connor’s spine upon North’s arrival thankfully dissipating.

He’s only just turned to the back counter when the door slams open, the bell a cry of alarm, and footsteps advance on him rapidly.

Connor’s arm is grabbed and he’s spun around and dipped, and then lips meet his gaping mouth to give him a fleeting but passionate kiss, in front of all of his customers, before he’s set upright and released.

His cheeks burn with mortification and maybe, just maybe, the tiniest surge of arousal, as he uncomprehendingly watches Markus dart to their booth to retrieve his bag and take off out the door, the blast of winter air doing nothing for his heating face.

There’s a wolf-whistle from the back room, followed by muted giggles, and Connor inwardly curses his boyfriend.

Outwardly, he groans and slumps against the counter, panting softly.

Elijah’s never going to let him live this down.

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