Malcolm — Coffee

End of May

Malcolm (14) - Travis (14) - Connor (14)

post the titan's curse

"Can I have a caramel frappuccino and a caffe americano? Both large please."

"I'm sooorrr—sorry. What was that again?"

"A large caramel frappe and caffe americano," Malcolm says, putting forth a smile for the barista. The pretty brunette nods, holding back another yawn as she puts in his order. She mutters something that Malcolm is going to guess as 'it'll be right out sir' before departing.

Malcolm sits down on the couch just beside the back entrance. He slips his knapsack stripe over his head, leaving to close to his thigh. He takes out his book, a Dummy Guide to Knitting, and leaves it by his other side.

Then he waits.

He waits and waits and waits.

Until he can't wait anymore and give to the tick tick tick of his watch.

5:30 am.

An hour and 30 minutes till they're needed for start up at camp. An hour, 30 to complete their mission. An hour, 30 to finalize their plans. It didn't sound doable last week when Chiron put them up to the task and it especially doesn't sound doable now. But they have to do this. Failure isn't an option.

"One caffe americano and caramel frappucino!" the barista calls.

Malcolm retrieves the drinks, say a thank you to the brunette, and sits back down.

5:31 am.

Where are they? One of them is usually on time. Did something happen? Are they okay?

If shove comes to pull he supposes he can do it by himself but it'll kill him and he much rather live to see tomorrow.

By chance, his eyes drift out the window and he stiffens.

This is a nice cafe. Quiet and Empty with Sleepy, unobservant workers who won't bat an eye as he leaves his seat, transform his bookmark into a tessen and slices the cyclop's throat loitering by the entrance. This is a very nice cafe.

Malcolm sits back on the leather, tucking his bookmark back in his knitting book.

5:39 am.

If they're not here in six more minutes, he's leaving. But as soon as he finishes that thought, a bell jingles. The barista, still with traces of sleep in her voice, mumbles, "Good morning. Welcome to—"

And a boy's voice interrupts her, familiar and way too peppy for this ungodly hour, "Hi! Good morning. Sorry, we're in kind of a rush. Have you seen my friend? He's skinny, scrawny, but can kick your ass to Hades and back, have brown hair, gray eyes, these big square glasses, ah wait, I see him. Malcolm!"

Malcolm raises his head expecting to see Travis and Connor but it's just one brother coming to greet him. No. Sprinting to him.

Something's wrong.

"Malcolm! Oh my god you need to help me. Connor. He's, he's trying to kill me! I barely escape with my—is that coffee? Can I have a sip? You don't drink coffee right?"

Without Malcolm having said a word, Travis swoops down on the caramel frappe and slurps it like a vacuum. His initial panic nothing more than a forgotten crisis.

But not to him and Malcolm shakes Travis' shoulders lightly. There's a dampness to his shirt and when he pulled his hand away, its spotted with red. And that's when Malcolm noticed the blood that spots his shirt. In fact, it's a lot of blood. Enough blood that Will will have a mini panic attack if he is here with them right now.

The bell to the backdoor jingles.

Travis jumps and scoots back from him, choking on his drink and eyes widening as he locks eyes on something behind him.

And in response, Malcolm swings his knapsack in an arc behind him.

"Holy fu—"

He didn't really know what state he expects Connor to be in. Starry-eyed, maybe. Sickly. Noncognizant. Probably mind-controlled. Not wide-eyed, not healthy looking, and definitely not able to duck his attack in time.

Travis coughs strenuously, slamming his frappe down on the table and shaking Malcolm hard with his free hand. "Dude, what were you doing?! That could have killed him!"

Connor stands, voice cracking as he says, "You could have killed me!"

"Travis said you were going to kill him. I thought you were being controlled or something," he argued, knocking Travis's hand off and sliding the knapsack back over his shoulder again.

"I was exaggerating, Talc! Ex-ag-ge-ra-ting."

And Malcolm is being shaken again, none too gently either too.

"Sorry, but Connor normally would never try to kill you so I thought—"

Travis screeches again and grabs him by the shoulder, ducking behind him as Connor vaults across a table to them.

"Stop using Malcolm as a shield, you coward," Connor growls.

Travis flinches and clings closer. "Malcolm, don't let him kill me."

And Malcolm pries the fingers off his shoulders. "Okay, this is starting to look like a family issue—"

"No, wait, don't leave me!"

"That can be resolved when we're safe and sound at camp."

"Yes! Yes, definitely!"

At Connor's glare, Travis winces and took off to the other side of the cafe to where the barista is now giving him, them, all three of them the evil eye.

"Let's talk about the plan with me over here, okay?" Travis shouts from the other side, taking a sip from his drink he swiped before leaving.

Connor takes a step towards Travis with possibly murder in his eyes, but Malcolm holds him back. Not really to protect Travis, oh no he's done getting in between relationships, but just to ask a question. Connor isn't injured. His pastel blue shirt is just that. Blue. No wet red, no drying brown, just blue.

"Connor, I need you to calm down for a minute."

"Malcolm, if you don't let me go, I'm going to pick you up and use you as a frisbee."

"And I 100% believe you're capable of that. No sarcasm, but is Travis okay? There's a lot of blood on his shirt."

Connor grits his teeth, but nods. "He's okay. The bleeding stopped."

"What happened?"

Connor tenses underneath his hand and there's a minuscule trembling in his clenched fists. Fear. Shame. Guilt. All three flash across Connor's face before it's all washed away to a carefully blank canvas.

"He was stabbed."

Stabbed? Travis? The fastest demigod in camp? It's hard to believe, but Connor's face is begging him to believe it. To leave it at that, to not ask any more questions and Malcolm forced his features to soften. He picks up the americano and presses it into Connor's hand. "He's fine now, right? I brought extra ambrosia if he needs it and we'll have Will check him out once we're back from our mission."

Connor didn't say anything back, staring at his drink with furrowed brows. Slowly his lips twitch upwards. "You got us our favorite drinks. Are you trying to get on our good side? It won't stop the pranks, you know?"

He shrugs. "I just want to be in your good books."

"Good books? Who told you we have good books?"

"Annabeth."

"Don't believe everything she says."

Still on the other side of the cafe, Travis yells, "Don't believe him. You keep buying us coffee and you'll definitely get in our good books. Hey, is Connor still mad at me?"

"Come over here and find out, asshat."

"Okay, he's still mad."

And Malcolm stifles a sigh as he tightens his strap and double check there's nothing left behind. It has always been like this when working with them. There's always something they're bickering about, sometimes small. Sometimes big. Either way, it's like taking a swig from a Monster.

Who needs coffee when the Stolls give him a bigger wake-up kick than any caffeinated drink ever could.

A tribute. To my all time favorite drink that kept me alive and going last quarter. Honorable mention: lemon water