Me: you Idiot. you Absolute Buffoon. I take your ad and instead open my heart and show you the contents inside. Don’t you know I’ve already given them my money? don’t you have access to see the 20+ 1917 Blakefield blogs? Pathetic.
about: Schofield convinces himself the reason he keeps coming back to the local coffee shop is because of the coffee. What Schofield doesn’t let himself admit is that maybe there’s also a really cute barista who won’t ever leave his mind.
wordcount: 853
warnings: fluff, puns, idiots to (sort of) lovers
a/n: i made this so long ago and came back to it and realized i actually really like it?? i wanted to share it with you <3
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Schofield thinks he’s lost his mind. He tells himself the reason he keeps coming to this coffee shop is definitely because of the window seat, the one next to the greenery and the sunlight streaming through the window, and because of the coffee, too.
He doesn’t have to mention the barista, either. Blake is … Blake is something.
When he reaches the front of the line, he’s met with the polite smile of another barista until Blake looks up from the coffee he’s making, and freezes. From his peripherals, Schofield watches amusedly as Blake carelessly shoves his drink into the hands of an irritated Leslie and wheels to the front of the register, smirking casually at Schofield.
“Back again, Scho?”
Schofield tries to stifle his smile, but only really succeeds in hiding his eyes and shrugging. “I told you it’s Schofield,” he says absent-mindedly.
“And you didn’t answer my question,” Blake teases. He’s done something nice to his hair, and he leans forward over the counter, eyes sparkling.
Has he always had eyes like that? And oh --
Schofield shrugs again, motioning to the backpack slung around his shoulder. “You know,” he says, “studying.” He takes in Blake’s raised eyebrow, and adds emphatically, “again.”
Blake groans, tilting his head back in laughter. “Ugh, you’re such a nerd.”
Schofield makes an estranged noise. “Am not.”
“Uh huh. You know, there’s this one story about this college kid who wouldn’t take a break --”
“Not in the mood,” Schofield sighs. “Just --”
Blake laughs. “Not in the mood for what? To get exposed?” He lowers his voice as if he’s about to tell Schofield something confidential and secret, and Schofield nearly falls for it, until Blake’s voice wavers on the last word in haughty mockery. “Nerd.”
“Oh my god,” Schofield says. “I just wanted --”
“Your depresso espresso? Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“Looks like you’ve got my order down,” Schofield says with a raised eyebrow, his mouth quirking in attempt to stop the tug at the corner of his lips. “It’s a bit of a predicament, but it looks like you’re the nerd here.”
Blake grins. “You know it.”
It’s something Schofield doesn’t expect. And it’s another one down for Blake. It’s Schofield who blushes, looking down at his hands to shift in his stance.
“It’s also part of my job,” Blake quips, apparently not noticing Schofield’s flush. He shakes his head as Schofield attempts to hand over money, pushing his hands away with extravagant shoves. “On the house,” he says proudly, and very matter-of-factly. “We can’t have our resident nerd falling asleep. Grind never stops, eh?”
Schofield smiles, bashfully. “Something like that.” He starts to move on, walking towards the table in the corner, then pauses, turning. “And just so you know, I’m choosing to ignore your coffee puns.”
Blake grins even wider, if possible. “I guess I shouldn’t mention the déja brew?”
Schofield shakes his head at Blake, then pauses in front of his table. He frowns at the ‘reserved’ sign sitting on the table, then sighs, walking further toward another table.
Yet Blake catches him before he can set his things down. “Oi, Scho? You blind?”
“It’s reserved,” Schofield says, blandly. “Thanks for that.”
Blake scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re so -- it’s reserved for you.”
Schofield feels warmth rush through him, and he’s hesitant to meet Blake’s eyes again because he knows he’s flushing. “You reserved it? For me?”
“Course I did. It’s your table, you know.”
“My … table?”
Blake rolls his eyes, but it’s with love, Schofield thinks. It’s just like Blake, too. Schofield thinks that if he could write, he’d dedicate thousands of poems on how Blake feels like light, light everywhere.
Schofield feels like the fucking night beside him, because Blake absorbs and glows and shines so brightly that Schofield doesn’t even feel the need to breathe, sometimes. All for Blake. Everything for Blake.
What.
“Yes, your table,” Blake says, startling Schofield back to present. “I’d rather see you sitting there ‘stead of some snobbish old wanker going on about ‘back in my day’ or some shit.”
“If that was supposed to be a compliment,” is what Schofield says, “you could do a lot better. Well, then. Glad to know you’d take me over an eighty-year old grandpa.”
“Scho,” Blake says with dramatics, “you wound me.”
“I’ve been stabbed,” Scho says dryly, in his worst impression of Blake.
Blake glowers, then throws aside the rag he’s holding and marches right up to Scho. “Fine then. You’re the best customer we’ve got, Will.” He smiles this time, eyes bright and earnest, and he almost gets a half-smile from Schofield. Almost.
Until Blake’s eyes glimmer and he leans forward suggestively, raising an eyebrow. “Plus, I’d take you any time, if you know what I mean.”
Schofield groans.
Blake laughs, “kidding,” clapping Schofield on the back and then rushing back up to the counter where Leslie smirks at him, rolling his eyes.
“I’ve got twenty on you, Tom. Better not fuck it up.”
