A/N: I have previously done a fic with these prompt styles, but I've decided to take this one in a different direction. All the chapters will start with prompts, but it will all be within the same continuity. I have a rough outline of how things will go, but the events will fall into place by the hands of the 17 prompts. Also, I love coffee shops. They're the perfect place for cliche, overly cynical teenagers to work in.

chapter one

1000 words. character study. push to close.

He worked in a coffee shop called Rico's. The coffee was good, but not excellent and he couldn't tell you what the pastries tasted like because of his gluten allergy, but nothing about this place was the best. He would lean over the counter, which was a slightly feminine habit in itself, and observe the small gaggle of customers when he was on slow shifts. He saw a lot of people trying too hard to be obscure, wearing scarves and shooting straight black coffee down like it was their life force as they worked on laptops. He saw businessmen who obviously had no time for the bustle of busy chains like Starbucks rush in and out, a hurricane of briefcases and well-shined shoes. Lastly, he saw everyday people who just didn't want to pay a lot of money for a pick-me-up.

Today, he found himself pouring the whipped cream on top of a coffee for a frazzled looking woman clutching a screaming toddler in her arms. When they exchanged product and money he gave her a sympathetic look, though the sour one she returned made her seem less than pleased with her sympathy. He guessed she was one of those mothers who thought that every painstaking moment of parenthood was a blessing.

Unable to leave the counter, for he was covering his hungover co-worker's shift, he found himself bored. He rubbed his glasses clean on the bottom of his apron and wondered briefly if it was even sanitary. He eyed cream-filled lumps of dough with envy. If it wasn't for his slightly severe allergy to gluten and various other unimportant things like kumquats, he would be huge. In his rare encounters with gluten he found the taste of sugar under his tongue quite nice, the way that pastries would melt in his mouth desirable. However, it always left him feeling like somebody lit a fire in his belly and, on bad occasions, a small trip to the hospital. But alas, he had to follow a strict and also Kosher diet, leaving him skinny. Not even the good type of skinny, either.

He sighed once more and began to drum his fingers on the counter. This was not his preferred job, but one of the many stipulations for his mother returning home was that he find one. He had been walking in this part of town with Beck, talking about Tori's cheekbones of all things, when he saw the Help Wanted sign in the window. He had grabbed Beck's arm, which had been unusually soft for he was wearing only a tank top, having given a shivering Robbie his flannel shirt earlier, and pulled him towards the window. He quickly explained his situation and was met with a shake of the head and a simple "Robbie, that's sort of a little fucked up," but nonetheless they had filled out applications and both gotten a job at Rico's within the hour. It was a new franchise, just testing the water of the coffee shop business. The titular owner Rico was a tall, thin man with very curly brown hair and beautiful skin, and he was nice enough and gave them good pay and hours. And he paid Robbie double when Robbie had to frequently cover for Beck, though Robbie would just (reluctantly) give Beck his money anyway.

He had been working at this establishment for five months. It was doing well, though there were only a total of seven employees-two junior managers for two shifts, two sets of two employees for two shifts, and Rico, who was there seemingly 24/7. Robbie and Beck covered the afternoon shift, from two until eight, which was just fine with him. They'd met the two people that worked the morning shift, college students who took their classes at night, and Robbie felt bad for them. He reckoned that their shifts must be hectic, seeing as coffee and morning go together like school and weekday.

Customers came in steadily over the next few hours, until it was within half an hour of closing. The crowd thinned, only a few people left at the tables and one person lounging on a couch with retro headphones, a doughnut pinched between their lips, eyebrows furrowed and hands hammering the ever-loving anything out of a keyboard. Robbie figured there would only be a few more customers for the rest of the day and began to relax, his clenched back muscles unfurling beneath the polo shirt he wore as part of the unofficial uniform-he thinks that the only person that doesn't follow that is Beck, who just ties an apron around whatever drab outfit he bothered to put on that day-and let out a long breath from his mouth.

His relaxation was cut short by this shift's manager, a burly man named Harold, who decided that this was a great time to clap his heavy hand on Robbie's back. Robbie sputtered and stumbled forward. He could've sworn he heard his spine break in two.

"Good shift today, eh?" Harold said. He had a thick accent, something from the upper east coast, and a deep voice. "Lots of tips. Where's your friend, though, boy?"

"Out sick," Robbie muttered.

Harold took this as enough, told Robbie to straighten his apron and glasses, set him a goal of 5% more speed (what does that even mean?) and headed for the back of the shop.

Ten minutes until closing, and the shop was empty. Robbie assumed that that would the rest of the crowd for today, and he already began cleaning up when a familiar face decided that now would be a great time to burst in for coffee.

He made Trina Vega's frothy concoction silently, slightly embarrassed for no apparent reason. He swore, though, that he saw her smile at him when she left. It stuck in his head the whole time while he untied his apron and hung it on a hook, cleaned and closed up for the day, pulling the door behind him.