He's sweaty and sore and sticky and he hates his job. The thought of having to service another person makes him want to scream.

"Can I get a large green tea frap with raspberry syrup, please? And java-chips. Wait— No java-chips. Do you still do those graham cracker crumbs? I want that, instead. On second thought, add those java-chips. And the graham cracker crumbs."

Lance keeps the same bright, dazzling smile he's had on since his shift first started at ten in the morning.

It's two-o'clock, now.

With a sharpie, Lance checks off the appropriate tags on a new plastic cup, adding shorthand for java-chips and graham cracker crumbs on the side. "Will that be all?" he asks.

The customer hesitates. Their eyes drop to the pastries on display. "Uhhh…"

Lance is proud to say that, of all the things he could've picked up from this shitty job, his ability to look a blank-faced dumbfuck straight in the eye and not blurt out the first insult to come to mind comes second only to the lord and savior Jesus Christ himself.

When the blank-faced dumbfuck finally goes away, he steels himself for the next one with a fresh coat of his best "Hello, I have to keep this fucking job no matter what" smile and prepares himself to say, "Hi! What'll you have today?" But, for some reason, it comes out all wrong. Instead of his usual greeting, he says, "Hello, I have to keep this fucking job no matter what."

Across the counter, his next customer, who's definitely not a blank-faced dumbfuck, gives him a shocked look.

He's shocked too, and Lance spends the next second or so mentally setting himself on fire and dusting his ashes away. Which is a mistake, because it gives him the time to take a good look at the guy who's standing in front of him and realize that whoa, this guy's cute.

And just like that, Lance turns himself into the very thing he hates most about his job — a blank-faced dumbfuck that says, "Uhhh…"

Lucky for him, the guy on the other side only gives him a look of understanding. "Long day?"

As discreetly as he can, Lance breathes a sigh of relief. "You have no idea," he says, twirling the sharpie between his fingers. He wonders if this looks cool. Is pen-twirling still cool? Does this guy think it's cool?

"Do you have almond milk?"

He stops twirling the sharpie. Normally, it irritates him when people go out of their way to dress up their drinks with off-mainstream choices. Do they think it makes them look cool? Does this guy think it looks cool?

…Shit, he hasn't replied yet!

"Sorry," he says, and he surprises himself by how genuine it sounds, "We only have skim milk. Our almond cows ran away."

Aaaaand, there it goes, folks! His last shred of coolness! Hahahahaha—

He fucking hates his job.

There's a very light, very warm sound that comes from the other side of the counter. Lance balks when he sees it— the other corner of the guy's mouth turning up, the guy's lips parting ever so slightly, the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes—

Is this guy actually laughing at his shitty joke?

Marry me.

"Ahaha, what?"

Shitshitshitshit— ABORT ABORT ABORT—

"Sorry, it's— The music's kinda loud in here. I didn't hear what you said."

Ohjesuschristthankgod—

"Oh, uh… I asked if skim's okay."

The guy's smile drops. So does Lance's telepathic messages of "please marry me." An awkward frown mars the stranger's face. "Uh, actually— I'm lactose intolerant."

"What," says Lance, because his mind is too busy wondering if this guy can still eat cake, because milk goes into cakes, right? You need milk to bake a cake, right? So what's gonna happen to their wedding cake?

Shit, the guy's talking.

"—is okay. Can I get an earl grey?"

Lance puts on his best dazzling smile and, for once, desperately means it for what it is. "Sure," he says. "Will that be all?"

The guy hesitates. His eyes drops to the pastries on display. "Uhhh…"

Lance wants to lowkey slap himself and wake the fuck up. Because despite doing what every blank-faced dumbfuck customer does, he still doesn't have it in him to call this guy a blank-faced dumbfuck. Which means this isn't just a crush. This has gone beyond the level of a crush. And all within a grand total of five whole minutes. Either this guy really is amazing as Lance's mind was sizing him up to be, or Lance is a very attention-starved, very lonely boy.

Hahahahahaha, yeah…

A large, heavy hand suddenly comes down on the top of the glass pastry display. Lance jumps and jerks his head around. It's Hunk.

Hunk grins, tapping the front of the glass above a few selections. "I highly recommend the cranberry-almond scones. Freshly baked on site, by yours truly. An old family recipe that's guaranteed to knock your socks off. The strawberry tarts are killer items, too — also baked by yours truly." Then, Hunk leans back and shrugs his shoulders, waving a hand over the small collection of blueberry muffins on the stand. "Eh, those are okay, too."

"Hey!" shouts a voice Lance recognizes to be Pidge, "I'll have you know I baked them with love!"

Hunk laughs and turns back to Lance's customer with a broad grin. "Ah, they are pretty good, not gonna lie. I mean," Hunk slings an arm over his shoulders and gives him a loving shake, "they're his favorite, you know. He stuffs them down his throat on his breaks like a starved man, like— three, four at a time. I'm always freaking out he'll choke on 'em and die one day—"

Lance elbows Hunk and laughs loudly. "Ah, hahahaha!" Lance's smile turns strained and he grits out, "You're so funny, Hunk!"

"Okay."

The guy speaks suddenly, surprising him. He points to the muffins, and says, "I'll take two."

Lance stares at him. "Uhhh…"

"Coming right up!" Hunk says, opening the display case from the back and opening a paper bag. "Two, right? That'll be— what, Lance?"

He jumps back to the register, frantically tapping against the screen. "Three-fifty. No, wait— Five-fifty," he says, quickly grabbing an empty cup and turning around. He rips open the jar for earl grey and follows the tiny instructions under the cap telling him how many teaspoons to for what size cup, and how hot the water should be, and—

"Here you are," he says at last, sliding the cup of tea over the counter with an awkward laugh. "Almost forgot."

The guy doesn't laugh with him. Instead, he takes his tea and the paper bag of muffins, and quietly pulls a muffin from the bag. This, he sets on top of the plastic lid of his tea. The other muffin, still in the bag, gets placed on the counter. It slides towards Lance.

"For you," he says, a corner of his mouth quirking up. "Don't choke on it."

Lance wants to DIE.

Hunk's hand comes down on his shoulder. "Aw, thanks for worrying about my best bud over here," he says. "What's your name again?"

Lance could shed a tear because DAMN, talk about smooth.

"Keith."

"Keith," Hunk repeats, stretching out the sound of his name and nodding his head, as if he was searing it into his brain. "Thanks again, man. If you come back again, ask for Hunk — your next drink's on me."

Lance almost forgets to breathe, because DAMN, TALK ABOUT BEING SMOOTH? TWICE IN A ROW, HUNK?

Keith's eyes light up, obviously having taken the bait. "Really? Thanks! I guess I'll see you around, then?" He waves at them both, and when Keith looks at him at last, Lance can only manage a tiny, shaky smile and an awkward wave.

As he watches Keith disappear out the front door, Lance whispers a quiet prayer, "Please marry me."

The next customer on line overhears his prayer. "U-Uh, what?"

"Not you," he snaps, and slaps the sharpie on the counter. "Hunk! I'll be back in five!"

Hunk comes over to take his place at the counter with a bright, "Okay."

"Hey, that's not fair!" Pidge cries from the screaming latte machines. "I'm supposed to be on break next! Lance! Lance, come back! Where are you going?"

To chase after the man of his dreams. That's where, you silly girl.

Haha, just kidding.

He was going on Facebook, duh.

To look up the man of his dreams.