THIS IS AN ARCHIVE NOW

They come in every morning, always ordering for each other.

“Medium drip for him.”

“Large mocha for this handsome man right here.”

“Give this guy decaf, he doesn’t need the jitters today.”

“Put the actual cream in his drink, and tell him his waist looks fine.”

“Says the man who can’t button his cardigans on the bottom anymore.”

Their teasing is pointed but easy, their laughs happy and familiar. It’s hard not to join them in it, even though it’s definitely from outside whatever little bubble they live in with each other, just a glimpse of their fairytale.

Apparently they’ve been coming for years. Always around the same time, always ordering for each other, and always arguing about who’s going to pay.

“It’s all coming from the same place,” the supervisor says. “Just take whatever one comes at you first and grin, they’re just messing with each other.”

They take the drinks with charming smiles and grateful nods, stopping off at the counter for cinnamon and sugar and stirring straws before heading to a table near the door.

“Bring them this plate of biscotti,” the supervisor says one day. “Tell them it’s on the house.”

They always grin delightedly when the plate arrives, always with a different treat to go with their coffee.

“I didn’t order this,” the taller one says, glaring playfully at his companion with bright blue eyes that are much younger than his wrinkles and silvering hair. “Did you?”

“Not me,” the other says, winking. “Maybe they can read minds.”

They always tip extra, too. They’ve put more than one poor barista through college with just a little more comfort, and it’s kind of nice to see them coming in, bright and happy and flirting with each other and the workers.

When they leave, they always clean up after themselves—they throw out their garbage, the plate always returns to the counter with a cheery thank you!The little one with the fedora and the little pot belly and bowties even wipes down the table with little sweeps of a napkin. It’s like they’ve never even been there, except for the smiles on everyone’s faces.

And they always stop just outside the door, just to the side, out of the way of other patrons. They link arms, look around for a moment, and then turn into each other and kiss lovingly. And then, with a grin, they hold each other close and walk off. 

It’s easy to see why the morning shift is such an in-demand slot.

“And this,” Blaine says, helping Jessica scrub her hands over the sink in the back of the classroom, “is why we don’t start finger-painting until it’s actually finger-paint time, Jess.”

Jessica sighs for the third time, sounding as long-suffering as a six-year-old can. “Sorry, Mr. B.” Blaine reaches over to scrub at a spot on her elbow, not even bothering to ask how she got paint that high up her arm. He learned a long time ago that paint gets everywhere - it’s kind of a hazard of the job. He already has a little smudged blue fingerprint on his sleeve from washing Jessica’s hands.

Blaine grins to himself, because he can already picture the way Kurt’s going to grumble at him as soon as he gets home. He’ll never forget the horrified look on Kurt’s face the first time he came home absolutely covered in tiny paint handprints. Kurt had spent hours scrubbing Blaine’s expensive white button down, swearing he’d never do it again, but it’s become almost routine for them now.

Besides, it usually involves Kurt stripping Blaine’s clothes off, and Blaine’s pretty sure neither of them are complaining about that.

Read More

X

“Alright, kids, sit in the circle,” Blaine cries out cheerfully, herding twenty chattering children onto the colorful carpet.

“Okay, before we go, I want you to tell me one thing you learned today.”

One by one the kids start sharing the one thing they learned today, most of it being the same thing. They loved the fingerpainting even though it’s not exactly a rare thing, but it still warms Blaine’s heart every time his kid smiles at him because he lets them paint with their fingers.

Read More