Hello all!
This here is an AU that I came up with with the help of a few people on Tumblr-and I'm hoping that this will wind up being another longfic. :) It's pretty much just a fluffy and sexy AU about businessman Ivan falling head over heels for hot young coffee barista Alfred.
This fic will eventually have sexual content, and Alfred is underaged for most of it, so...if agekink is not your thing, be careful.
With that said, enjoy!
Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old.
Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old and just barely sprung past the awkward phase of puberty to the part of his life when his shiny, straw-blonde hair and bright blue eyes can be appreciated and admired despite the scrawniness of his still-growing figure.
Alfred is sixteen years old and working hard at his first real job, a tiny coffee shop fortunately located on the edge of the cluster of behemoth financial buildings downtown but unfortunately nestled between a gym full of pudgy, sweaty locals and a crummy looking dive bar that often required a double shift of "vomit patrol" on the weekends by a very disgusted and thickly-browed co-worker.
Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old, blonde haired and blue-eyed, working his first job as a sunny barista at a stop in a terrible location—but, Alfred F. Jones is also another thing.
He is a insufferable, incurable flirt.
It helps his coy nature, being the only one that their manager, Francis, can bear to put on the frontlines, working the register and greeting the variety of customers with a smile and a happy word. After cycling through Alfred's co-workers—Gilbert, Arthur, and Matthias—Francis decided it more more economic and safer to have Alfred cater to the customers. After incidents that involved thrown and shattered syrup bottles, inexplicably burnt iced tea, and a vicious shouting match at an unfortunate Swedish businessman who had complained about his coffee, Alfred had been promoted from dish duty, a situation that his pruned fingertips found especially advantageous.
But it wasn't only that. Being on register meant that Alfred got to see every customer that came and went during his evening, after school shift—giving Alfred opportunity to glance over the best the downtown district had to offer.
Normally the fare was small, with an occasional cutie coming in flustered to order coffee for his boss. Alfred enjoyed the little moments of flirting and teasing that he had, and never worried all that much about the possibility of anything serious ever springing from his fun.
But Alfred's life—the fun, flirty lifestyle that many teenagers of his age had—was about to be inexplicably changed. Changed in the way that seemed as if it would only happen in some form of cheesy Hollywood romance: in which a plucky young heroine is suddenly swept off her feet by a prince who falls into her lap completely out of the blue.
It's a Tuesday evening, a bit on the slow side as Alfred nods at his post, wanting badly to sit and rest his aching feet by the tables that Matthias is currently cleaning. Alfred sips at a small cup of espresso he'd made an hour ago that had long grown cold. He blows absentmindedly at a strand of hair that falls before his eyes, mind swimming with thoughts of school and homework and hopes that he can carpool with Gilbert back home once both of their shifts end.
But Alfred snaps to attention when he hears the click and jingle of the coffee shop door swinging open, letting in a cool breeze of air as well as the sounds of cars and mid-evening traffic from outside. Alfred lifts his chin from where it's planted in his palm, glancing up at the customer who had walked with first a double, then a triple take.
He's tall—that's the first and only thing that Alfred notices about him when the man walks in for the very first time, almost scraping the tiny bell hanging from the doorframe with the top of his head. He's tall and he looks important in a dark blue suit and tie and crisp white collar and a black messenger bag hung over his shoulder. Eventually Alfred realizes that the man is more than tall and distinguished as he glances briefly up the man's face and body—happy to notice that he didn't appear to be all that old, unlike some of the stuffier businessmen who occasionally stumble upon their coffee house.
Alfred feels excited, glad that at least someone had turned up to jumpstart his uneventful shift.
"Hello there!" He greets, with a bright and sunny disposition, as always. The man glances up briefly and gives a slight wave of his hand. Alfred can see an expensive gold glint peer out of the man's dark suit sleeve, but is distracted as the man's pale lips move.
"Good evening."
The man's voice—calm, collected, but not monotonous or disinterested— immediately catches Alfred's attention. Normally the customers—especially the big, important-looking types that came in the evening after a long day—regarding him with a tired, polite smile and a mumble of an order. But the man's voice is as crisp as his shirt, not at all stiff but—warm. Friendly.
The thoughts put a goofy smile on Alfred's face as the man approaches the register with long, lugubrious strides, taking his time despite the hurried pace that men of his status normally had. Suddenly Alfred feels strange, lighter. He finally realizes that his heart has begun to pick up its beats, as if compensating for the customer's slow steps.
"S-So," He tries his best to contain his stutter as he speaks once the man has stopped in front of the register, "What'll it be?"
The man orders a large coffee, black,and Alfred types the price into the register, glancing up at the man from below his eyelids after each keystroke. Instead of glancing about or staring at the fancy watch on his wrist, the man's eyes are focused at him—or at the top of his head, or at something behind him, Alfred doesn't really know. But he really likes to think that the man's eyes are on him.
Jeez, he really is hopeless, isn't he?
Alfred finishes typing in the order and waits for the receipt to print, the scratchy, mechanical sounds the only noise until Alfred breaks the otherwise prolonged silence.
"S-so, how are you doing tonight, man? Getting a quick pick me up before another boring board meeting, yeah?"
It's stupid to say and nothing like the clever and witty banter that Alfred usually has in store, but at the moment it is all that Alfred could muster.
But the man chuckles, and smiles, and—
And something in the man's smile—the slight, private grin that he sends the young barista—makes Alfred bob a little in place, rocking back on his heels as he gives the older man a quicker, closer look up and down from the shiny shoes barely visible beyond the register to the crown of a head of beige-blonde. Alfred had never seen the color before.
The receipt had long printed out into Alfred's hand, but the young barista has been caught up in listening to the other man speak—talking of how he had finished his work for the day, and was heading home early—and enjoying the comfortable sound and the way that it made him feel.
He only comes back to his senses when the older man lets out a light cough, snapping the young barista back into reality. Alfred realized with a soft blush that the other man had noticed his staring. Averting his eyes, Alfred tears the receipt away quickly and handed it to the older man—perhaps moving his fingers a little more than usual to brush coyly against the customer's palm.
Drawing back from the brief touch and scrambling for some semblance of his usually impeccable customer service—pointedly ignoring the raised eyebrow that Matthias gave him from where the other was clearing tables—Alfred picks up one of the cups and a Sharpie pen, giving the man a sheepish and apologetic grin.
"Ah, um—sorry about that. Name?"
He could've sworn the man's face had more color than it had a moment ago. The pale lips look a bit pinker as they move.
"Braginski," The response is short but not curt, and delivered with a slight bob of the head as the man adjusts his tie.
"Hmm?" Alfred smirks, letting out a small laugh, "Braginski? Yeah, all right-y then, 'comrade'."
Alfred wonders if the stupid jab was a little too much but the man smiles again, so Alfred continues.
"Well, I gotta say, big guy, you're the first Russian that I've had all day," Alfred finishes scribbling the name on the cup and sets it down, leaning forward a bit and coyly looking up at the businessman, "Maybe all month, even."
"Is that so?" Ivan folds the receipt precisely, stowing it into his pocket, "Well, I must say that you are the most—interesting cashier that I have seen all week. All month, perhaps."
Alfred could have kicked up his heels in delight. Responsive flirting is the best, the absolute best, especially when it's with a smokin' hot, foreign-sounding businessman. He smirks, moving, sashaying away from the counter over to the machines where the coffee was brewed
"Oh yeah?" He calls over his shoulder at the businessman, "Wait until you taste your coffee, mister. Then I'll be the best you've had all year."
Alfred would've kicked himself for the fumbling cheesiness of his banter if not for the continuous smile the businessman gives him before he walks over to one of the table to sit and wait patiently for his drink. That smile—it leaves Alfred so distracted that he almost ruins the man's simple coffee, nearly burning his hand on the boiling liquid in the process. Finally, however, Alfred has the order ready without being completely worse for the wear or requiring extensive skin grafts. Wiping his hand on the forest green apron he's wearing, Alfred turns around to give the cup to the customer—
—And his eyes promptly fall on the uncapped black Sharpie lying on the counter. Alfred stares at it for a moment, biting his lip.
He always writes little messages and such on the cups of his regulars, noting their quirks or making an inside joke. He had just met the guy, and probably would never see him again, but—Alfred feels compelled to do the same to this mysterious "Braginski's" cup. Besides, the businessman isn't the crusty old unresponsive type—he might just get a kick out of it.
Grabbing the pen, Alfred begins to scribble on the cup right below the customer's name, writing out a quick message and even daring to doodle a tiny blob of a heart right next to it. Blowing on the message once to make sure it didn't smudge, Alfred pops up and sets the steaming hot cup on the counter. He taps the table once, twice, in order to get the seated man's attention. When he looks up, Alfred is treated to another glimpse of the face that makes his chest squeeze. Alfred clears his throat and makes himself speak.
"Ding ding, dude. Order up."
The businessman gets up from where he had been sitting and, without any fuss or fanfare, takes the cup from Alfred with a quiet thanks and a smile. The message is covered by his large, pale hand, and Alfred wonders, as the tall man leaves, whether or not he will even read the little blurb before he crumples up the cup and tosses it away. Though Alfred knows—even if "Braginski" never saw it—that what he had written had been solid, flirtatious gold.
Even after his shifts ends and he hitches a ride home with Gilbert, Alfred can't get the image of the tall, undeniably hot businessman out of his head. And when he is lying in bed, trying to sleep, he can't help but go over the words he'd written in his head and wonder whether the man had read them or not.
Alfred covers his face with a pillow and speaks the words into the soft, cottony mask.
"To: Mr. Tall Russian Business Guy,
Love: The Most Interesting Barista in the World."