pretty boy and star man

The bell on the door dings a little. Dan hesitates, swallowing hard, because the guy is at the register right now, waiting on some little old lady who doesn’t know the difference between a cappuccino and macchiato.

(Dan doesn’t either, but the guy does. And no, Dan doesn’t know his name, but he’s going to learn it, today. Right now. Once the little old lady is done ordering.)

Dan gets in line, his hand tight around the gift in his pocket. His part-time job down the road won’t miss it, he hopes, because he can just say he threw it out. It went bad. Or something. But maybe this guy will appreciate it—put it in a vase—treasure it, and Dan can come visit him and see it, and they can laugh and laugh and maybe kiss—

“Sir?”

Dan jerks, blinking, then steps forward, his face red. “S-sorry, um—”

“It’s okay,” the guy says warmly, relaxing a little. “Your usual?”

Crap. Dan had a plan—hello, I’d like the usual, your name, and your number, handsome—but that’s thrown it. He flounders, then clears his throat.

“I wanna mix it up,” he says instead. “Give me your favorite.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Dan nods, as if he’s sure of this. He’s not. He thinks it might be the stupidest thing he’s ever said or done, but here he is. What if the guy has awful taste? Or Dan’s secretly allergic to something?

It doesn’t matter. The guy presses a few things, then nods at him. “Alright. I’ll call when it’s done.”

The script is flipped again. Dan almost does a full reboot. “Huh? But I didn’t—I can pay—”

“No, I know,” the guy grins. “But you’re getting my favorite, so it’s on the house for my favorite customer.”

Someone snickers behind the machine, and Dan’s eyes cut to the other cashier that’s here when this one isn’t. This one, Dan knows, is Chris—he’s a little more of a joker, but he’s got good enough jokes that it’s less obnoxious and more good at passing time in the shop.

“He’s been asking after you,” Chris says, deftly avoiding the well-placed elbow aimed his direction. “Why were you late?”

“Shut up!” the guy hisses.

“Um,” Dan says. “I just got my break. Late, today.”

“Yeah? Where do you work?”

“Flower shop. Down the road.” Dan swallows hard, and now’s a better time than any, so he pulls out the tulip from his hoodie pocket. “This is for you, actually.”

The guy’s face goes bright red, but he’s smiling wider now. “For—me?”

“Sure. I mean—yes.” Dan clears his throat. “And, um, if you want to, uh, put your number on my drink, I’d like that.” He puts the flower on the far side of the register, then books it to the back corner around the wall so he can just listen for his name and not stare to see if they’re laughing at him.

As he goes, he can hear Chris gasping “Oh, Phil, your secret admirer isn’t so secret anymore!” and the guy in question—Phil, apparently—retorts back “That’s not what a secret admirer is!”

Dan pulls his hood with the horns over his head, mortified. How stupid of him—honestly—and he sounded like a proper idiot about it too, didn’t he? They know him, which means if this drink doesn’t have a number on it Dan can never come back here again. And even if he does get the number, he won’t text it. That’s what he gets for being brave: a whole lot of regret and churning stomach. He could book it now and never find out and never come back to this place again, he thinks. Maybe he should. After all, Phil is a thousand times cooler than him, and that’s why they both—well, did Phil and Chris laugh? He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. They probably did, though, or they’re laughing now. The dumb kid from the flower shop down the road, coming to ask for a number he hasn’t earned—

Something shakes his table lightly, and Dan comes out of his hood just enough to see Phil sliding into the seat across from him with two cups in hand.

“Figured,” Phil says gently, “I oughta come give you my number myself so it doesn’t get smudged.”

Dan’s face is bright red, but he takes the outstretched cup. He clears his throat softly, and instead of asking about that, he nods at Phil’s cup. “What’ve you got?”

“Oh—your usual,” Phil says, shrugging. “Never tried it, so I figured we could just swap drinks? See what life is like on the other side? If—I mean, if that’s okay. Is that okay? Um—sorry, I’m—I’m Phil. Lester.” He offers his hand this time, to shake. “So you know, before you have to leave for work again.”

Dan sinks back into his hoodie a little, dropping his eyes. “…I lied. I’m not on break. I’m off the rest of the day.”

“Oh.” Phil takes his hand back awkwardly. “Cool.”

And Dan doesn’t know what compels him, but before Phil can say anything else, he blurts out, “Do you want to go get dinner tonight with me on a date? A romantic one?”

(Okay. Not the ideal way to ask, and Dan’s pretty sure he’s going to be embarrassed by this whole thing for the rest of his life—3 A.M. existential crises on the floor, sixteen years from now or longer, thinking about the time he was just a kid and asked out his crush at his job while he was on shift—)

Phil gives a crooked little smile. “Yeah,” he says, though it sounds sort of like a question. “I would—yes. Yeah.” That time sounds more…excited. “Okay. I, um, I get off shift at around four?”

So. Four in the afternoon exactly, and Dan sits outside the shop waiting, scrolling on his phone. His friend keeps pinging him—PJ—but he ignores all the ways his phone buzzes. After all, he’s got a date, and thirty pounds to his name for it—he hopes Phil doesn’t expect much, but maybe his company would be enough.

When Phil arrives, it’s with Dan’s signature drink and a nervous smile, his face half hidden behind his hair. It’s the quintessential emo cut, Dan thinks. He wants to be that cool one day. Maybe he will be.

(Maybe one day he’ll get to watch Phil grow older and get even cooler, put his hair up, down, sideways, shave it a little, dye it a different color, or stop dying it at all. Watch all the different phases and not have to stand outside wishing he was there, because he will be. Maybe Phil will get to watch his phases too. Awkward and gangly to a man, his own hair no longer a mess and not hiding in black, baggy clothes the way he does now. Maybe they’ll both get cool and old together, side by side, holding hands, facing the world together—or maybe just the subway and a taxi—maybe they’ll sit there, unafraid, ready to do anything they want for the rest of their lives.

Maybe. Or maybe Dan doesn’t know the future at all.)

“For me?” he asks, face red when he takes the outstretched cup. “Hey, thanks.”

“I thought you might like it, if you didn’t like my order,” Phil shrugs, but he’s biting back a smile.

“I liked yours. Was a bit sweet, but I liked it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Great.”

“Yeah.”

“Aces.”

Dan grins, hiding his face, and Phil lets a nervous little laugh bubble.

“Uh,” Phil says after a second. “So where were we—”

“I thought we could just go walk around somewhere,” Dan admits, cutting him off. “I—sorry. I don’t have a lot of money to spare but we could always ride the Manchester Eye or something, if you want. Or we don’t—”

“I would really like that,” Phil says brightly. “I love the Manchester Eye.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

“Awesome.”

Dan hesitates, takes a sip of his drink, then jerks his head. He isn’t brave enough to go for Phil’s hand quite yet, but he does make sure that his free hand is the one closest to Phil in case Phil gets brave.

“Did you, um,” Phil starts as they start off down the road. “Did you hear the new Muse album?”

The answer is no. Dan grins. “Haven’t yet, but I was going to. Could you tell me about it?”

“I’ve got it on my iPod, actually,” Phil offers, already pulling out his earbuds. And to the soundtrack of The Resistance, they set off down the road.