Chapter Text
It’s not like Nyx wanted to work at a coffee shop. It’s not like in third grade when the teacher passed out “What I Want to Be” papers, he scribbled out barista like other kids were shamelessly writing doctor and ballerina; it’s not like he’s got any sort of particular obsession with coffee, even. He hates customer service, because the public-at-large is intolerably stupid most days; but after telling one too many self-entitled people to shove it up their ass, well—he's slowly running out of places that will hire him.
For all the love (and money) that the military seems to get, the treatment of veterans is alarmingly bad; Nyx’s pathetic post-service pension barely pays for the shitty studio on the east side; and while the VA hospital is free, there’s so much bureaucracy that he’s almost better off just suffering with old war injuries that never quite healed right. So Nyx hobbles back and forth along the prep counter, making this iced latte and that caramel macchiato and dozens of other things that barely even sound like coffee anymore; he personally wants to thank the orders that are just “black iced coffee.”
Maybe it’s because he identifies with the bitterness.
Maybe it’s because he’s just lonely, and trying to stay sober is fucking hard— but Crowe throws punches like a professional boxer, and he really doesn’t want to let down his buddies at the weekly meetings. Libertus had a big hand in finally helping him keep a job for more than six months; he owes it to the big guy to suck it up and make the fruity-ass coffee without complaint, because a job’s a job .
At least the majority of the regulars at the tiny-ass café are decent; most of them have a routine that Nyx can recite with military precision. Mrs. Tanaka comes in with her shi-tzu in tow at oh-fourteen-hundred every day like clockwork and orders a large hot chocolate; the Argentum family comes in from oh-seven-hundred to oh-eight-hundred for breakfast with their pudgy (and adorable) son; Mr. Sophiar shuffles in with a cane and his granddaughter for a “plain ass black coffee, none of that fancy stuff, y’hear” at oh-nine-hundred, and tips like a man with nothing to lose.
And then—and then.
Nyx doesn’t know his last name, but that’s largely irrelevant, because he’s pretty sure most hook-ups require a first name only—and boy, does Nyx want to scream that first name all night long. In the abstract, Nyx understood the term “silver fox;” there’s plenty of older male celebrities he’s salivated over, but this guy just takes the fucking cake. He’s always dressed to the nines in a black pinstripe suit with gold accessories that just scream I could buy this café a hundred times over; his radiant silver hair and beard are manicured to a T, never a thick strand out of place. The laugh lines around his mouth and the crow’s feet at the corner of his bright, twinkling eyes only enhance his beauty; Nyx wonders if he’s ever been a model. He could be a model. He’s prime dilf material, and Nyx is ready to be adopted--
If only he ever came in here alone.
But the gods seem fit to cruelly toy with him, so Nyx not only has to gaze upon one hot rich gay man, but two. Together.
“Good afternoon, Regis,” Drautos greets, smiling at Nyx’s crush. His tired eyes flick up to Regis’ partner, who towers over him, protective—like a goddamn brick wall, ready to shield him at any time. “And Clarus. Welcome. What can we get started for you today?”
Nyx always heard the term opposites attract, but he never quite understood it until he saw his two café regulars together. He's overheard more snippets of conversation than he can count over the past several months; hell, he probably cares more about their lives than his own. He hears about Regis’ son going to school and “making friends with that nice Argentum boy;” Clarus will boast about his older son making the wrestling team, and his daughter making the elementary honor roll. Regis likes the fruity-ass coffee, always ordering some grand concoction with an unhealthy amount of whipped cream; and Clarus prefers warm creations, often with plant-based dairy and honey added into the house blend. Regis wears black; Clarus is often in white or beige.
And yet, they look so in love. Nyx wants to know what happened to the women in their lives, or if their kids are adopted. Where do they live? What do they do?
“Ulric,” Drautos sighs; and Nyx snaps to attention.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Quit spacing out and make me two turkey-gouda paninis on asiago toast, a venti java chip frappuccino with extra whip, and a venti blonde roast with almond milk and honey.”
“Right, yes sir.” Nyx takes the two cups from his manager, looking at Drautos’ shorthand scribbles. He momentarily meets Regis’ gaze as the older man hands over a black credit card, keeping one hand steady on the ever-present black cane in his left hand; Regis smiles at him with all the teeth he can manage, and Nyx has to turn away before he melts and becomes part of the sticky tile floor.
____
“Nyx, take your lunch break,” Lunafreya says as she swooshes past him, broom in hand.
“Oh, is it that time already?”
“You’ve been here for six hours already, it’s past that time,” Drautos gruffs. “Don’t get me in trouble with the labor board, now, son. Go on and make yourself something and go in the back.”
Nyx still isn’t used to rest. Drautos is rough around the edges, but he looks out for his team—Luna calls him a toasted marshmallow, which Nyx loves and Drautos hates...which is part of the reason Nyx loves the moniker in the first place. He slaps together a quick sandwich, a Frankenstein creation using ingredients from three of the café’s offerings; pours himself the last of the sweet tea in the designated pitcher; and pushes through the employees only door.
“Oh, damn it all, Reggie! We missed him,” Clarus sighs quietly, eyeing the fabulous ass that’s retreating through the door behind the counter. “I think he just went on lunch.”
“Ah,” Regis says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the recycled brown paper napkin. “We’ll catch him when he comes back out.” Regis turns over his shoulder to look at the counter—now only Lunafreya, Drautos, and the newest hire, Dino, are left to hold the line.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Clarus nibbles the last bite of his sandwich and chugs his now-lukewarm coffee, attempting to quell the nervousness.
“My love, this was your idea, might I remind you.”
“I know. I’m just scared of how he might react.”
“The worst he will say is ‘no,’ and you and I will still have each other, and the café will stay standing, and life will go on.”
“But then it will be awkward.”
“It won’t.”
Clarus closes his eyes and inhales deeply. This was his idea after all—he’s always prided himself on being a keen, observant man; and the way he’s observed the sad barista making quick glances at himself and Regis over the past few months has just wormed its way under his skin. He and Regis have talked this over—they've talked it to death, in fact, laying out the parameters and expectations with each other, were Nyx to accept and become their third. It’s been the two of them for so long, and Clarus has been so utterly content with his mate—but there’s something about the barista that just calls to him.
A bright chime gently lifts Nyx Ulric from his twenty-minute power nap; he yawns, stretching; his overworked body pops like a rice krispie, and he mentally reminds himself to call the VA office and ask about chiropractors. He stands on wobbly legs and crushes the sandwich bag and napkin in his fist, tossing them into the bin by the door. After using the tiny employee bathroom and washing his hands, he steps back out into the dimly-lit café, pleased to see that there’s no line, and that the dining room is deserted—except for Regis and Clarus being disgustingly cute by the wide bay window up front.
Clarus turns and meets Nyx’s gaze; Nyx isn’t sure which happens first, his face heating up, or color draining from it, because now Clarus is getting up and oh Six he’s keeping eye contact and--
“Young man,” Clarus says—hesitant, like he’s soothing a spooked animal, which is about what Nyx looks like right now. “Might Regis and I have a word with you?”
Nyx looks at Drautos, eyes wide, wondering if he’s about to get told off for making their order wrong.
Drautos’ thin mouth upticks at one corner and he nods, knowingly. “You’re fine, Ulric. See what they need.”
Nyx’s heart doesn’t stop thundering as he murmurs, “Sure.” He slides to the far left, pushing through the swinging half-doors that separate behind-the-counter with the dining space, following Clarus to either doom or salvation.
“Ah, Nyx, is it? Pull up a chair, my boy.” Regis smiles at him like they’ve been old buddies for years; Nyx Ulric was always weak for a pretty pair of eyes and a charming smile.
He obeys and dares to shyly gaze at the handsome older men—they're so close, Nyx can smell their intoxicating woodsy cologne. He inhales deeply, then; “Was everything okay with your order?”
Regis blinks at him and then breaks out into giggle fit, which is just so endearing, Nyx struggles not to swoon. “Our order! Oh, dearest, no. The food and the coffee was perfection, as usual.”
“We didn’t ask you over to discuss coffee,” Clarus assures him, sliding one hand to Nyx’s shoulder, squeezing, mentally reeling at the muscle definition he feels under the baggy uniform shirt. He pauses, staring at Regis.
Regis nods, continuing. “There’s no sense in beating around the bush, love.”
Love. Nyx won’t need that chiropractor appointment after all, because he’s pretty sure he’s dropped dead.
“We wanted to ask you if you would accompany us on a date.”
Nyx jerks up, chair squeaking across the floor with surprise. “A--a date?”
Clarus manages to keep his composure, dragging his hand back to his own lap. “If you’re...into...people like us, I suppose.”
Nyx’s tongue lies heavy in his mouth; his throat is dry, his cheeks are flushed; and as much as he wants to get up and run, oh gods does he ever want to stay . He feels himself nod, but his traitorous mouth says, “You--you don’t want me. I’m...broken.”
“I’m good with my hands,” Regis purrs, without missing a beat.
There’s a dozen ways to take that—Nyx can only hope Regis means what he thinks Regis means. “I’m...former military.”
“The tattoos and the hair...Galahd, right?”
“Born and raised,” Nyx smiles, chest puffing out a little in pride. “Drafted at eighteen when the Niff occupation was at its height.”
Regis frowns; it wasn’t that long ago. Some parts of Lucis are still trying to rebuild. “Terrible war.”
“We fought too, probably when we were your age,” Clarus mutters. “We know what it’s like.”
Nyx blinks. “You mean you...you too? With...the nightmares, and the drinking, the aches--”
Regis simply lifts his cane and shrugs. “It does get better, son.”
Nyx bristles. “It’s hard.”
“It’s incredibly hard,” Clarus soothes.
“But you—you understand. You’ll understand if I can’t be everything you want. At least...not right away.”
“I am a patient man,” Regis says.
Clarus raises an eyebrow. “Bullshit,” he counters. “This from the man who was mad that Cupcake Citadel was out of funfetti flavor yesterday, and who tapped his foot the whole twenty minutes while they made new a new batch.”
Regis blushes and smiles, caught. “Ah, well. That’s different. I really did have a craving, you know?” He turns to Nyx. “In matters of attraction, I am no stranger to playing the long game.”
Clarus only shakes his head. “I think you’re scaring him.”
Nyx sputters, “I think I’m in love with you already.”
Regis chuckles brightly, and so does Clarus. Regis slides a warm hand to Nyx’s knee—there's a ring on each finger, and his heavy black wedding ring is the biggest of them all. “In due time, dearest.”
“I want to get to know you so badly,” Nyx mutters.
Clarus grins broadly and claps him on the shoulder again, squeezing. “We have all the time in the world for that.”
He knows he must be as red as a tomato, but he can’t care right now. They’ve touched him. They want him. Nyx can only have faith that they don’t throw him away like everyone else has. Maybe Lunafreya’s persistent optimism has slowly bled into him over the past several months, because for the first time in a long while...Nyx Ulric feels hope.