"What are you doing?!" Michael snatched the Styrofoam cup from his brother's hand and dumped the coffee into the sink with a grimace. He turned to glare at Lucifer. "I swear, if you get us fired I will throttle you."

Lucifer snorted, rolling his eyes and sauntering past his Michael to grab a new, clean cup. "Relax, Mike. It was just some extra... seasoning."

Michael stared at him. "Saliva is not seasoning. Saliva is a health code violation."

Lucifer returned the look, in a somewhat mocking manner. "Did you really just call it 'saliva'? What are you, an old woman?" He shook his head, filling up the cup with espresso, and this time not spitting in it. "Anyway." He pointedly capped the coffee. "Who's to say the kid didn't deserve it?"

Michael just gave him that look of exasperation older siblings always seemed to have, and shouted out the customer's name and a begrudging "Have a nice life," leaving Lucifer to continue taking and making drinks for the few customers who wandered in on that slow summer afternoon.

The weird thing was that on days Michael and Lucifer worked, during the school year when college students abounded anyway, the amount of customers (female) rose even more. Which Lucifer found hilarious because they both kind of went out of their way to be utter and complete assholes—well Lucifer tried very hard to be rude, and Michael did it on accident just by existing as a bitter and strange young man.

Lucifer spit in as many drinks as were humanly possible without Michael (or anyone else) noticing, and mixed the proportions in certain drinks wrong on purpose and made Americanos too cold and hot cocoas too hot, and didn't put enough syrup or put too much in Italian sodas. Crushed pastries. Used milk from the fridge in lukewarm drinks until they turned cold. Purposefully misheard and misspelled the names as poorly as possible so someone named "Jenny" became "Lenny" and "Christian" became "Kitchen."

Michael ignored his antics as much as possible, but occasionally berated him. Mostly he kept quiet and glowered smolderingly at the customers, saying things like "Enjoy your illusion of free will," or "Coffee won't heal the wounds left behind by your father's absence" and subsequently causing either intense bafflement or anger or tears. Occasionally all three.

Lucifer reveled in it.

And still the customers increased when they bickered and insulted and offered all-around poor customer service. Michael's good looks and Lucifer's strange charm were probably what reeled the suckers in, but hey. Gained the shop more money. Spread word around. Even if many girls (and boys) left either shaken, irritated, frightened, or frustrated in general. And they always came back. Even though the coffee Lucifer made was practically liquid shit.

Lucifer smirked. Must be pretty damn hot if they keep coming back for this swill.

"Lucifer! Stop leering into the distance and clean up the counter!" Chuck—the boss—pelted Luci with a packet of sugar before making his way around the little shop (It almost didn't feel like a Starbucks. But it was. Just quirkier as far as decor went.) switching off lamps and straightening chairs. Such a hands-on boss.

Lucifer wondered how he and his brother still had this damn job, while he wiped down everything within reach. While Michael hummed a dirge and swept the floor. God knew they were probably the worst workers Chuck Shurley had ever had to deal with.

But business did boom a bit when they hung around, so...

It was okay.