Too Sad to Make Crepes

All he wanted was coffee. It was seven in the morning and he had a class at nine. On this typical, blah Wednesday morning, Keith wanted nothing more than to spend an hour in the crêperie before heading onto campus.

Crêperie? Yeah. Some trendy little crêperie had opened up in the hipster section of his college town. During the day, it serviced stuck-on-themselves, self-important people who had too much money and not enough things to do. Snooty Karen's out devastating their husband's credit limits or aspiring writers with shaggy beards and cashmere scarves packed into the place to buy the overpriced delicacy and either gossip about the latest divorce among their peers or write the next great American novel.

However, in the morning, this crêperie made the best fucking coffee on the damn planet.

And, miraculously, they didn't charge Starbucks prices.

Well, unless you bought a mocha double double espresso with half-soy, half-almond, half-half-and-half, light foam, and with a twist of caramel, a cloud of whipped cream (low fat), and a dusting of cinnamon. The morning staff added to the price for each ridiculous request. Seeing as how the customer base from opening (six in the morning) to Karen-time (around ten) were truckers, college/high school students, and teachers, most of the sales for Lion's Den Crêperie were coffees with varying levels of cream and sugar and muffins, the fun morning staff charged laughingly small prices. They knew they'd make up for it once the Karen's and authors poured in.

So, like many college students, truckers, and teachers, Keith would stop on his way to his morning class and nab one of the delicious muffins and a coffee (black, one sugar) to jump start his day and energy to tackle the stupid class he'd decided to take in a moment of weakness that made him get up at the ass crack of dawn.

Didn't help that the night before his stupid morning class was the night he stayed late at the library for his work-study job.

He really didn't think things through or plan things right. Lesson learned for next semester.

Last night was rough. Every student on campus decided to return every book they ever borrowed. Keith was mostly alone in the library – three people had called out sick (Keith darkly thought it was for some dorm party) and the only other two people working had to work the checkout desk and the information desk. Pidge declared that since Keith had horrible people skills (rude, but true) he should be the one reshelving books.

It took forever and he didn't get back to his dorm until midnight, where the paper due today awaited him for its' final edits. He believed the last time he saw on his phone was near three-thirty and he got up at six. Hence, he very much needed the crêperie today and he was glad they didn't charge much for coffee, because he was going to see if they could fill a gallon bucket for him. Or, possibly put it in an IV bag.

Keith liked to enjoy his coffee in the crêperie. It was gag-worthy cute. Like every trendy nightmare with exposed brick, industrial ductwork on the ceiling that Keith suspected was just for show, and enough plants to rival a botanical garden. Wrought iron tables completed the look, along with handwritten menus on the wall. Each table boasted a small container garden stuffed with succulents and herbs and who knows what else. It was so cute he wanted to puke.

Why subject himself to that? Keith firmly told himself it was to support a local business, but Pidge would be quick to point out that sitting among the cottage core barf wasn't supporting the business. He would have already bought their product, so whether he ate and drank there, in the privacy of his own house, or naked in the backseat of a car had no impact on the bottom line of said business. Keith hated logic.

Deep inside, where he never liked to dwell because that meant 'feelings' and 'emotions', he most likely had a different motivation when it came to sitting in the crêperie amid the tchotchkes and fake wood accents. Motivation, say, in the barista whose bright smile and shining eyes had captivated him from the moment he first stepped into the place on Pidge's recommendation.

Keith usually didn't have a problem finding a seat in the crêperie on Wednesday mornings. As noted, most people stopping in the morning did so for take out on their way to their jobs or classes, so they rarely lingered. Keith was always able to hide himself behind the jungle of plants by the fireplace at the smallest and ricketiest of tables, hunched over his coffee and muffin like a dragon guarding its hoard, gnaw on his food and gulp his coffee, and watch the glowing personification of sunshine serve the masses.

The boy (Keith couldn't think of him as anything but 'the boy', though he knew his name was Lance) was kind and friendly to everyone. Nothing, not even the surliest of truck drivers (and truck drivers could be very surly) could knock his smile down one notch. Keith noticed that no matter what the mood of the customer was, the boy had a way of coaxing a smile from them. As they turned away with their order, the boy's cheery "Have a beautiful day!" ringing in their ears, their lips turned up – from the most tired-looking teacher to the most harassed-looking student.

Keith lived for the brief lulls in customers, when the boy's co-worker ducked into the main shop from the kitchen, usually carrying a full tray of fresh pastries. Keith knew this was Hunk and he knew that Lance and Hunk were good friends. He suspected they might even live together, though Keith didn't suspect anything romantic, mainly because Hunk's girlfriend figured often in their conversations.

Because, yeah, sue him. Keith listened to their conversations. He heard everything, mainly because the boy's volume control knob was broken or something. He was loud, Hunk was loud, and the crêperie was generally quiet because the Muzak crap was turned low. Keith learned so much about the boy and about Hunk and about their friends and lives that he felt as if he knew them. He felt as if they were friends. Which was, to be honest with himself, really fucking psycho. He felt shame when he let himself, because getting a glimpse into the life of the boy was a happy part of his week, and the boy had no idea.

Keith was truthful enough with himself to admit that he liked listening to the boy, because he had this crazy dream that maybe someday he'd get the courage to, he didn't know, hit on the boy or something. Ha! That was a good joke. Keith had the personality of a prickly pear and was horribly bad at starting conversations. Especially conversations that might lead to pressing mouths against each other. He had no idea how to get from point A ("Hello") to point B ("May I stick my tongue in your mouth?").

It was difficult enough to order the muffin and coffee, though by now he had become such a regular that the boy never asked for his order. He'd smile that million watt smile at Keith, sing out "Coffee, black, one sugar, and a cranberry muffin!" in his Grammy-worthy tenor that made Keith's knees weak and his vocabulary fly out of his brain. All he could do was grunt in response and thrust his debit and rewards cards at the boy.

He could barely manage the "Hello" part of his point-A-to-point-B plan, so progress in that area had stalled. Could he call it stalled when the engine never really started in the first place?

As for now, he was content to listen to the boy and Hunk as they worked. Their banter was the highlight of Keith's day. Oh, to be included in the fond teasing! He lived for that, because both the boy and Hunk were comedians.

They could be serious, too, though, and Keith sipped his coffee slower when those conversations happened. They were more eye opening for starters. To see this sunshine boy be vulnerable gave Keith the wildest urge to sweep him off his feet, throw him on the nearest horse, gallop off into the sunset with him, and protect him for the rest of their lives. To know that this beautiful young man was insecure and unsure of himself actually gave Keith hope for himself. It was a revelation to know that even perfect people were just like everyone else.

The hardest conversations to overhear, however, were when the boy was crushing on someone. Keith was never certain if the crushes ever materialized into anything more. Some may have, because of vague mentions or complaints of dates. How this gorgeous creature wasn't in a relationship was a complete mystery to Keith.

Keith listened to the conversations for approximately ninety minutes while he picked at the muffin and nursed the coffee. Then, twenty minutes before class, he slunk out of the crêperie and ran across campus because of course his damn class was on the opposite side from where the crêperie sat on its pretentious city block.

Pidge insisted it was creepy, but he didn't think so. It's not as if he didn't hang out there if the boy wasn't there. It wasn't his fault that the boy and Hunk held their loud conversations at the counter within hearing range. Besides, he wouldn't do anything with the information he gleaned. Sure, they fueled his fantasies and daydreams, but there would never be anything between them, so it couldn't be creepy.

It would be creepy if he followed the boy around outside of the crêperie. At least, that's what he told himself.

Keith thought it strange as he rounded the corner this Wednesday morning that the lights appeared to be off for the little crêperie. Usually it shone brightly on the street with a welcoming and cheery light to bring a little happiness to early morning commuters. To Keith's surprise when he got to the door, he found the "Closed" sign flipped to the outside, and another sign pasted to the glass.

"What the fuck?" he hissed. All he wanted was his fucking coffee and muffin and sunshine smile to bless his week. He had a test today and needed those three things in order to function.

He leaned forward, squinting bleary eyes at the handwritten sign – written sloppily with big loopy letters. "What the fuck?" he hissed again.

Sorry we are closed. I'm heartbroken and too sad to make crepes

Seriously? It had to be the boy. He was dramatic enough to pull some shit like this. Hunk seemed too steady, but also the type to go along with whatever the boy wanted. Either Hunk wasn't here or he was in the back consoling the boy and his broken heart.

A mix of emotions ran through Keith as he stared at the stupid sign. Heartbroken? You don't fucking close your damn shop if you're heartbroken. It was probably one of his stupid crushes that never went anywhere. Keith should know all about crushes that never went anywhere. Didn't he have a crush (ugh, he shuddered at the thought of the word) on the very heartbroken idiot probably sobbing in the back? You pick up and go on. Or, in his case, buy coffee and muffins once a week and hide behind some leafy plants and pine from afar.

Didn't the boy know this?

There was a light, dim as it was, at the back behind the counter. Cupping his hands around his eyes, Keith pressed his face against the cold glass to peer through. His breath fogged it up, but before his vision was blurred, he confirmed the light was there, shining around the edges of the swinging door that led to what Keith assumed was the kitchen.

So, yeah, Keith did feel bad that someone was heartbroken. He would understand if it were Hunk, but Keith had learned that Hunk had a long time relationship with someone named Shay and that it was close to being made permanent (sue him again, he'd heard Hunk tell the boy he was looking at rings), so he didn't think the heartbreak centered around Hunk. Besides, Hunk was the type to pick up and carry on, despite broken hearts, and feed crepes and serve coffee up to the masses. The boy was the likely culprit.

Sure, if it were a true broken heart, Keith would feel sympathy. Well, maybe a small twinge of sympathy, because no one likes to see the person they love (oh, shit, the l-word) unhappy. Keith, however, couldn't help but feel a little happy that the boy was heartbroken, because hey, that meant his chances went from one in a million to two in a million.

What? A guy can dream, can't he?

However, Keith's dominant emotion was anger. He needed the coffee. He needed the muffin. He needed the sunshine boy. Without these, he would have a bad day, which would lead to failing his exam, which would spiral into a bad week, a bad month, a bad semester. Then he'd have to drop out of college and probably move back home with his brother.

(Okay. The boy wasn't the only one who could be dramatic. Keith could mentally be dramatic. The boy was openly dramatic. They were both contenders for most dramatic college student at their university.)

Anyway, Keith really wanted that coffee and time was ticking away. A few regulars paused at the door, made a comment, then wandered away to go pay five times as much at the Starbucks on the next block. This was ridiculous. He had to do something.

Before he knew it, his fist was pounding on the door. He was shocked that he did it, because Keith was temperamental, but he wasn't aggressive in situations like this. Normally he'd turn away and grumble about life and unfair boys and head on to school to face this failure of a day.

Nope. Here he was desperately pounding on a door so a sunshine boy could give him coffee.

He saw the light around the swinging back door brighten a little, indicating someone was there and had peeked, but Keith couldn't see who it was. The door gently shut again when Keith's pounding stopped. Oh no. That boy was going to get his cute ass out here and let Keith in, so he pounded more.

This time the swinging door banged open, one tan hand splayed across the surface to hold it open. Silhouetted in the door was the recognizable figure of the boy, haloed by the light from the kitchen. Keith couldn't see his face, but his stance was stiff and trembling. The figure stalked around the counter and across the dining area toward the front door. The swinging door swung sadly back, stopped by the larger figure of Hunk, who watched the scene from the safety behind the counter.

The thin sunlight slogging it's way across the sky lit the boy's angry face as he stared at Keith through the glass, eyes glaring, mouth stretched in a tight line like a knife cut across his face, hands clenched at his sides. His expression shifted to something…odd…when Keith lifted his empty hands in a gesture that he hoped got across his question of 'what the fuck?'

The boy blinked a few times and Keith couldn't follow the flow of emotions that chased across his face, but he wound up looking flushed with downcast eyes. Keith tapped the glass again and yelled, "Can you open, please?"

The boy shook his head and pointed to the sign. So, he could hear Keith.

"Please!" Keith begged. "I need my stuff! I have an exam!"

The boy shook his head again.

"Look! I'm sorry you're heartbroken," Keith yelled, getting a strange look from a middle-aged woman walking by with her tiny, yappy dog. The boy glanced up, his face guilty and his eyes panicked. He lifted his hands, waving them back and forth. "Just please! I'm begging you!"

The boy turned to look back at Hunk, who had stepped up to the counter. Keith could see him a little better and he was grinning. The boy shook his head again and Hunk said something Keith couldn't hear. The boy's shoulders sagged as he turned back, reaching for the lock on the door. Keith felt elated. Yay, he'd get his muffin and coffee. It didn't look like he'd get a sunshine smile, but two out of three ain't bad.

When the door opened, the boy stood in the way, giving Keith a look between a glare and an expression of sadness. They stood off, facing each other as the morning traffic hummed behind Keith. Keith's heart beat erratically at the proximity of his crush and the way the boy was looking at him. "Can I come in?" He could hear how sarcastic his tone sounded.

"Fine," the boy said, and Keith could tell he was struggling to be 'customer-service-friendly'. Keith was a regular customer, and he figured the boy didn't want to lose someone who tipped him every time he bought something. Lance stepped to the side, holding the door wider to let Keith slip in careful not to brush up against the boy, no matter how much he wanted to. Hunk helpfully turned the lights on, sending away the gloomy ambiance but not the gloomy atmosphere caused by Lance's expression.

"Thanks," Keith mumbled. He did feel a slight guilt battling with his feeling of victory. He hated when his routine was interrupted. Especially an interruption that interrupted his creepy stalking of the boy. The guilty/bad feeling came because Lance looked miserable, so he assumed the heartbreak was his, and he was jealous that the boy had a thing for someone that wasn't Keith.

Whatever. Story of his life, wasn't it? Just get the coffee and take off. Don't stay, lingering for the morning and watching the boy. He couldn't deal with Lance's heartbreak while his own was perpetually broken. Not today.

Lance hurried ahead of him, stomping behind the counter and ignoring Hunk's jovial grin. "Coffee, black, one sugar, and a cranberry muffin," he intoned. Not in his sunshine singing voice, but in a dull and lifeless one. He didn't even wait for confirmation, but punched the order into the register and grabbed a cup to write "Keith" on it. When he put the cup on the counter, Keith noticed Lance had drawn a frowny face under his name.

"I know you're heartbroken," Keith said, surprising himself at speaking as he pulled his card out to pay. "But you don't have to take it out on me."

"What?" Lance spat as he completed the transaction.

"I don't deserve a mad face," he answered, pointing at the cup.

Hunk turned and disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging shut and cutting off his laughter. The boy glanced at the door with a frown. "Says you," Lance muttered, sliding down the counter to the coffee machine. "I have to make a fresh pot."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Keith demanded. Everything this morning irritated him, which caused him to speak to his ray of sunshine so harshly. Irritated at the disruption of his routine. Irritated at the café of all places not having coffee ready. Irritated at the hurt look on Lance's face. Irritated at the frowny face on his cup. Irritated at Lance's attitude. And worst of all, irritated that he was irritated by everything, when he had no idea why Lance would be irritated with him.

Lance glanced up, eyes wary and red, ostensibly from crying. "It means there's no coffee. I have to make it."

"No, I meant what you said before you said you'd make a fresh pot."

"Pretty ballsy of you to ask," Lance said with a pout.

"I honestly have no idea why you'd be mad at me," Keith said, pressing his thumb against his chest. "I haven't done anything to you!"

"That's why I'm mad!"

"Can you say something that makes sense? What do you want me to do to you?" In truth, Keith could think of many things he would like to do with and to Lance, but that was neither here nor there.

Lance turned his back to Keith, pretending to busy himself by wiping clean the already clean counter as the coffee maker did its' thing. He mumbled something, which Keith couldn't hear and asked him to repeat, only to get another mumbled response. Keith was so done with this day, with this crêperie, and with the boy being mad at him.

"Seriously," he tried, in his most patient voice (which really wasn't that patient), "I have no idea what I did. Whatever it is, I'm sorry, okay? Just don't be mad at me."

"You didn't text me," Lance shot over his shoulder with a little glare.

Keith blinked a few times. Didn't…text?...Lance? How could he? Keith would never have had the balls to speak more than his order to Lance, let alone ask for his number. "How could I text you?" he asked. "I don't have your number."

"I gave it to you, dummy!"

"No, you didn't."

"I did!"

"You didn't!"

"I did heartbreaker!" Lance yelled, spinning around to fill Keith's frowny-face cup, spilling liquid down the sides and then dumping way too much sugar into the drink. He slammed a plastic cover over the cup and shoved it to the side.

Keith was so stunned that he didn't respond right away. Why would Keith be the heartbreaker? Why would Lance call him that? When did Lance give him his number? Keith was positive he would remember scoring this gorgeous creature's number. It wasn't until Lance practically threw the poorly wrapped muffin at him that he broke out of his mind-freeze.

"I swear I never asked for your number!"

"I know! That's why I gave it to you!"

"That doesn't make sense."

"I wrote it on your cup last week. With a winking smiley face. With a 'text me, cutie'," Lance explained in a slow, emotionless voice as if explaining something to a toddler. "You didn't text me, and you threw the cup out."

"You think I'm cute?"

"That's what you got out of that?" Lance demanded.

"I-I didn't see it. I swear."

"You didn't?"

"No. I would have texted you if I had."

"You would?"

Keith felt a flush warm his cheeks, which further irritated him. "Well, yeah." The knowledge that the boy actively gave him his number and called Keith 'cutie' was catching up in his brain. Did Lance like him? It was too much to hope for, but Keith couldn't help but hope that the connections connecting in his head were pointing to Lance liking him. He should take a chance, right? If he read this situation wrong, he could always drop out of school and enter the witness protection program. "I've wanted to get your number for a long time. I just didn't have the guts to ask you."

A skeptical sort of expression crossed Lance's face and he tapped his fingers in a nervous rhythm on the counter between them. "You're not fucking with me are you?"

Keith will attest until his dying day that the next words out of his mouth were put there by some unknown source. While he didn't believe in divine powers, something sure as hell forced him to say, "Not yet."

The boy blushed the brightest red Keith had ever seen on an individual. He'd never thought that particular shade actually existed, but there it was. Lance completely combusted in front of him, spluttering and hiding his face in his hands, hissing a quick "Shut up Hunk!" toward the laughter in the kitchen. Keith was not someone who caused reactions like this in other people. Despite his own shock at the lack of filter he suffered from, he was strangely proud of himself.

Sue him thrice. He was riding the high from the knowledge that the boy tried to give Keith his number.

"How about you try again?" he suggested. When Lance peeked through his fingers, one eyebrow rising, Keith continued. "Write your number on my cup. I promise I'll text you."

Lance's hands dropped to the counter, the flush still brilliant on his cheeks, and scrambled for the sharpie and a new cup, on which he quickly scribbled something. A smile played about his lips as he silently poured Keith a new drink. In a gentler manner, he pushed the new coffee across the counter and next to the muffin bag. They didn't say anything to each other, but Keith took his order and turned to leave the shop. Normally he'd stay and stare at the boy for an hour, but he had to get out before he screamed.

He couldn't bring himself to look at the cup until he was three blocks away and almost to campus. The frowny face had been replaced not only by a smiley face, but also a bunch of hearts, Lance's name (as if Keith didn't know it!), and a phone number. Yes!

Once he got to class (wicked early because normally he'd still be at the crêperie gazing at the boy), he entered the number into his contacts and immediately typed a message.

Me: It's Keith

The Boy: Took you long enough

Me: That's your response? I had to walk to school

The Boy: I've been waiting a long time

Me: you should have said something earlier

The Boy: so should you

Me: how about we don't argue

The Boy: what else you wanna do?

Me: lunch?

The Boy: sure I hget off at one

Me: l;m in slacks til two

Me: CLASSS

The Boy: I was gonna say ur takin ur pants off when u see me

Me: not on the first date

The Boy: so this is a first date?

Me: if u want

The Boy: I want

Me: good

The Boy: good

Me: Meet u ar the crepe riser?

Me: creperser

Me: fcuk creperie

The Boy: LOL yes!

Me: ❤️

The Boy: 💙

Twitter me: devoosha

Tumblr with me: devooshawrites