#(enemies to lovers to enemies coffee shop au) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blank-potato · 4 months ago

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I Hate Your Stupid Face

Summary:

“That arrogant, smug, scarf-wearing-” "All he did was ask for extra caramel syrup," Scott comments as he sweeps. "It wasn't what he said, it's how he said it. Like I was beneath him. Not to mention the countless other times he's waltzed in here with a superiority complex the size of California." - Stiles is a barista, and Isaac is a vet. They hate each other.

A/N:

The title is from Your Stupid Face by Kaden MacKay because it felt very Stisaac to me. Also, Stisaac is the main ship with a tiny bit of background Scira because I love them. Enjoy!

☕︎☕︎☕︎

"I hate him."

"You don't even know him."

Stiles sighed. He liked this job and was damn good at it. With his quick wit, infectious energy, and overall "puppy-like" charm (Kira's words, not his), he was a natural.

He balanced the line between lovable scamp and sarcastic asshole very well, and everyone seemed to appreciate it. Well, everyone except him.

“That arrogant, smug, scarf-wearing-”

"All he did was ask for extra caramel syrup," Scott comments as he sweeps.

"It wasn't what he said, it's how he said it. Like I was beneath him. Not to mention the countless other times he's waltzed in here with a superiority complex the size of California."

By other times, Stiles meant the way the guy always had a snide remark or a condescending question. He wondered why the guy kept coming back if he hated the coffee so damn much. There are about 4 coffee joints in this area but this particular idiot keeps walking into his particular shop. It was driving him beyond crazy and no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on work, his mind kept drifting to a blue-eyed brunette with a penchant for being rude to him. Without fail, he'd come in after the morning rush like a bat out of hell, order some sugary monstrosity, and leave but not before picking some sort of fight with Stiles.

Stiles thought back to when he first saw him. Curly brown hair and a scarf, but at that point it was appropriate for the middle of winter so Stiles couldn’t protest. His cheeks were tinted red from the biting cold, and he looked almost endearing with how he tried to warm his hands by rubbing them together. But then he opened his mouth.

“Mocha frappuccino, triple shot, extra whip.”

“Sweet tooth?”

“I didn’t realize I ordered snark with my coffee,” Isaac mutters as he slings his bag over one shoulder, barely sparing Stiles a glance.

Stiles can’t believe it. He wasn’t even being snarky (for once). It’s one thing to insult him, but to do it without even looking at him? Rude.

“On the house for customers as charming as yourself,” Stiles deadpans, punching in the order, “Name?”

“Isaac.”

Isaac replies then goes back to idly tapping on his phone while Stiles gets to work. The café hums with the low murmur of conversation and the whir of the espresso machine as Stiles prepares the drink—triple shot, extra whip, just as ordered. He slides the cup across the counter with a saccharine smile.

Isaac takes one sip and pauses. “Is this nutmeg?”

“That’s what you asked for,” Stiles replies, unbothered. “Our house blend comes with a dash of cinnamon, a hint of nutmeg—”

Isaac sets the cup down with an audible thud. “Yeah, no. Make it again.”

Stiles exhales through his nose. He could argue. He wants to argue. But technically, customer service dictates he keeps his mouth shut. Barely.

Wordlessly, he remakes the drink, his movements precise, deliberate but aggressive. Mixing, pouring, topping it with an exaggerated swirl of whipped cream before sliding it back to Isaac with a pointed grin.

“Your coffee, Isaac.”

Then Isaac’s gaze dropped to the side of the cup, where his name was written in bold black ink.

“You spelt my name wrong.”

“I know,” Stiles said with an evil little smile.

From then on, it was an unspoken war between the two, both worryingly determined to ruin each other’s day. Sometimes Isaac would repeatedly change his order, only to ultimately decide on nothing, while Stiles, in retaliation, stooped so low as to serve him nothing but a cup of boiling water.

Stiles could remember it as if it were yesterday. The sense of satisfaction when he handed over the cup and said, "Have a nice day." Scott had told him he was smiling like the Grinch that day. It was one of his favourite victories over Isaac so far, in what had otherwise been an intense draw for most of their verbal sparring matches. Just as he began to replay it all in his head, his spiral was abruptly interrupted.

"Stiles?"

His head snapped towards Scott who had been calling his name for almost a minute.

"You fell into some sort of trance.”

“I can’t help it…”

Stiles started playing with a straw, furrowing his brows in pure concentration. By this point, the shop was desolate, with just a few patrons lingering over some cake, which left Stiles free to pace about like a restless lunatic.

"It’s just Isaac," he muttered, his name sounding like an evil spell on his tongue. A crackle of thunder rang out as the rain poured onto the streets.

"What the hell is his problem?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Scott replied, glancing up at Stiles’s unimpressed and thoroughly pissed-off face but at least he’d stopped moving.

“Seriously dude. You’ll be having a totally normal day then he shows up and you turn into a…maniac.”

“How sweet.”

Stiles thought maniac was more than a mild exaggeration. He couldn’t possibly be that bad.

“Stiles. I mean this with the best of intentions but you need to sort this out. Whatever this is, it isn’t healthy. You need to put this energy into something productive or at the very least positive.”

Stiles sighs tossing his straw towards the bin but missing. As he goes to throw it away he looks over at Scott and realises he’s already put on his jacket.

“You alright to lock up on your own? Kira and I are going out to dinner.”

“Of course, what are best friends for?” he says with a teasing smile, though the hint of sarcasm in his voice doesn’t escape him. Between work and the endless cycle of binge-watching shows, there was nothing and no one he was rushing home to every night so locking up was no problem at all. Scott stops at the door and looks over with a cheeky smile, “Maybe you should put your energy into finding someone.”

“Haha very funny,” Stiles says deadpan throwing an empty cup at him that Scott skillfully dodges because of course he does.

“Just think about it,” he says as he heads towards the door and Stiles is just happy he didn’t push him on it. Who needed a relationship? He considered himself the type of guy who was prone to hopelessly and recklessly pining over someone or hopelessly and recklessly hating someone and that sort of thing takes up a lot of time.

After Scott leaves in favour of his social life, Stiles starts closing up shop. Not that he minded, he actually liked this job, remember? His sarcasm was liked by the staff, which was a fun change from his previous job where his sense of humour wasn't shared. The customers for the most part were nice or at least too busy to give him any lip. Everything about his job was (almost) perfect so how could he complain?

Snapping out of his thoughts he stepped out into the rain in a dimly lit alleyway as he locked the door behind him. And cursed his brain but he noted that it seemed like the perfect place for a mugging. He felt particularly jumpy after reading about recent crime reports, and knowing that muggings had been on the rise in the neighbourhood only made it worse.

Bark.

Stiles screams, nearly jumping out of his skin and regrets not having his baseball bat.

Bark.

His heart rate began to settle. It must be his imagination, he thought. The late nights and copious amounts of coffee must've messed him up.

Bark!

Now Stiles definitely heard that. He spotted a little bundle of grey fur in a box, shivering and letting out a pitiful whimper. He glanced around the area and saw no note and no sign of anyone nearby. The dog yipped and barked up at him and Stiles felt his heart melt. How could anyone leave such an adorable puppy out in the cold?

"Hey, hey, there ya go," he murmured, gently scooping the puppy into his arms, running his fingers through its soft, wet fur. He hurried to his bicycle, carefully wrapping the little pup in his jacket to keep it warm and placing it in the basket. He takes out his phone wiping away the rain from the screen as he tries to find a vet nearby. The sigh of relief he let out when he saw one just a 2-minute bike ride away was a big one. So making haste, he raced off into the night hoping he’d get there before the place closed.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

He arrives at the door with just a minute to spare. The lights were still on and he could see a figure moving in the background through the windows. He picks up the puppy carefully and places it in his jacket, hoping to keep it warm. The door jingles softly as he opens it, and he steps forward, his eyes on the ground.

Before he can even speak, he hears a familiar voice.

"Sorry, but we're closed. You can come back tomorrow—"

"Are you sure there's nothing you can—?" he begins, but his words get caught in his throat.

It didn't register immediately, but then it hit him.

Time seems to slow as Stiles looks up, and there, standing before him is the face that’s been on his mind all week, all month and if his antics persisted, all year.

"Isaac."

"Oh, coffee shop guy."

Isaac's lips formed a small smirk, and Stiles had to admit he looked fine. Just fine, because any more than that and his pride might take a hit.

“It’s Stiles.”

“Well Stiles as I just said we’re closed so you can take yourself and just—"

A bark interrupted him, coming from inside Stiles’s coat.

"Is there a dog inside your coat?" Isaac says in disbelief.

"...Maybe."

A brief pause hung between them as the puppy yipped for more attention. Stiles was almost grateful for it, the absurdity of the situation would give him something to laugh about later when he was alone.

"Fine. Come to the back, I'm feeling generous," Isaac said, leading him inside.

“I feel honoured.”

"I'm doing this for the dog, not for you," Isaac snaps, his voice sharp, the emphasis on "you" dripping with contempt.

Stiles placed the puppy on the examination table, watching as Isaac carefully looked over the little creature. Isaac's soft hands moved gently, and the puppy leaned into his touch.

Then, Isaac smiled. It was a genuine one and that caught Stiles off guard.

“He’s yours?”

“No. Well… I found him.”

“Found?”

“Outside the coffee shop, left in a box in the rain. I couldn’t just leave him there so…” Stiles says before trailing off.

“I see. Well I'll check him over and see about getting him adopted or—"

And Stiles swears in that moment the puppy looked at him, his pleading eyes, the way his little tail swooshed and wagged back and forth. He was perfect and he knew he had to keep him. It was fate.

"I wanna keep him."

The words flew out of Stiles's mouth before he could stop them, his filter apparently out of commission.

"Keeping a dog is a big responsibility," Isaac cautioned, his tone firm.

"I'm responsible," Stiles shot back, gritting his teeth. He could practically feel Isaac’s judgment from miles away, a weight pressing down on him as his frustration simmered.

"Right..." Isaac replied, his scepticism unmistakable.

Stiles squared his shoulders. "Going home with me would be better than going to the shelter, so I’ll take him."

Isaac shrugged, his expression unreadable. "If you say so… but he’s a malamute, so he’s gonna get pretty big."

"I don’t mind," Stiles replied, his voice more resolute than he felt.

Stiles watched as Isaac carefully examined the dog, his hands moving with a surprising gentleness. Each touch seemed to have a calming effect, the dog visibly relaxing as if Isaac’s hands held some kind of quiet magic, soothing away the fear and uncertainty with every careful motion. For a moment, Stiles wondered if Isaac knew just how good he was at this.

"You’ll have to bring him back to get neutered and for his shots," Isaac added, his tone still all business.

"Of course," Stiles responded quickly, nodding. He hoped his voice sounded more confident than he felt, trying not to focus on the weight of the responsibility he’d just taken on.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

He goes back outside, and somehow the rain has managed to get even worse. The wind picks up, whipping through the streets and lashing against his skin like needles. There was no way he was cycling home.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters under his breath, squinting at his phone in a futile attempt to find an Uber amidst the downpour. Just as he’s about to give up, he hears the door open again behind him. The wind picks up, howling around him and soaking him to the bone and Isaac takes notice.

Isaac hesitated before speaking. "I can give you a ride." Stiles looked back at him incredulously. "I'm not a complete asshole," Isaac added, noticing the look. Stiles was still staring at him as if he were half lizard. Isaac sighed, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “And I’m doing it for the dog. Don’t want the little guy to freeze in that sad excuse of a bike.”

“Asshole.”

“Is that a no?” Isaac says with a quirk of his eyebrow. He had the high ground and they both knew it.

Stiles hesitated, but after a moment, hearing the dog panting and barking, he nodded and accepted the offer. “Fine. Just this once.” A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched Isaac’s expression shift to one of triumph.

He’s about to load up his bike before forgetting the fact that he’s holding a dog.

“Hold him for a second?” he asks, placing the puppy into Isaac’s arms because if it wasn’t clear enough to Isaac, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He attaches the bike to the back before climbing into the front seat.

As he looks to his side, he sees Isaac being attacked by the dog’s playful licks, a genuine smile breaking across his face. It’s not his usual evil smirk or that annoying shit-eating grin; it’s a soft, warm smile that makes Stiles feel his heart melt for a second time that night. At least until the memories of Isaac and all the feelings associated with him rush back in, solidifying his heart in an instant.

Isaac hands the puppy back to him, clearing his throat as he does so. He had let the mask slip and he didn’t plan on doing that again.

The car ride is mostly silent, punctuated only by the occasional barking of the dog in the back (the only one truly comfortable there) and the sound of the rain lashing against the windows. Then again, that all paled compared to the sound of his heart rattling in his chest.

“So…you do this for everyone that stops by your clinic?”

“Only the pathetic ones,” Isaac retorts almost instantly like he was just waiting for the opportunity to insult him. If he weren’t giving him a ride home, he probably would’ve verbally eviscerated him but he couldn’t afford to be left on the side of the highway in what felt like the rainstorm of the century. They continue down winding roads, Stiles interjecting every once in a while to give directions.

“It’s on the left.”

Looking over at Isaac's face, Stiles found himself memorising every detail, the curve of his nose, the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated. He had never spent this much time with him before. Their interactions typically lasted only five to ten minutes, filled with quick insults and scathing looks. It felt strange just being next to him, devoid of the usual defensive posturing.

Before he could confront these thoughts further, the car pulled up to his apartment building.

“Bring the dog by, and I’ll check to make sure everything’s okay,” Isaac said, turning to him with an earnestness that caught Stiles off guard.

“Yeah, I told you I would. You must really want to see me again,” Stiles replied teasingly, feeling a spark of the old competitive energy rise within him.

“Not on your life,” Isaac shot back, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, but the glint in his eyes was serious.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

“And now you have a dog,” Kira says, raising her eyebrows. It’s clear she’s confused but supportive.

“A really cute one,” Stiles replies, beaming at her.

“Is this a responsible decision?” she asks, concern etched on her face.

“I’ve had enough of people questioning my responsibility lately,” Stiles replies, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “I’m the most responsible guy I know.”

“Who’s been questioning your responsibility?” Kira presses, crossing her arms.

“Isaac,” he says, seething at the thought of the other guy.

“Isaac?” Kira raises an eyebrow, turning to Scott, who grins.

“Stiles’s archnemesis, the evil scarf guy,” Scott interjects.

“Oh him? Wait, how was he questioning your responsibility? And what does he have to do with the dog?” Kira asks, her curiosity piqued.

Stiles hesitates for a moment, remembering their conversation. “He was the vet that I took Matcha to and he basically said I wouldn’t be able to handle having a dog and that I’m not ready for the commitment. Can you believe it?”

“Now, did he actually say those words, or did you infer that?” Kira asks, raising an eyebrow.

“In my defence, he inferred it very heavily,” Stiles replies, crossing his arms defensively. Just thinking about it had him feeling annoyed again.

“You’re making him sound like a supervillain,” she comments, shaking her head.

“He is!” Stiles insists, frustration bubbling over, “He’s smarmy and smug and he wears scarves in this weather! I’m sweating my ass off, and he’s probably wrapped in one right now like a douche.”

“He’s on your mind then…” Kira observes, a sly smile creeping onto her face. Scott and Kira exchange knowing glances, their amusement evident. “We’re not saying anything…” Kira teases.

“Because I don’t think we have to,” Scott finishes her sentence and Stiles has never felt more betrayed. He knew what they were implying and he didn’t like it one bit.

Just then, the door swings open and the devil himself walks in.

“Evil scarf guy?” Kira whispers, trying to stifle a laugh.

“The evil scarf guy,” Stiles confirms, his eyes narrowing. Isaac strides up to the counter, his hair in an adorable mess, clearly in a rush.

“The usual. I’m in a hurry,” he says, glancing at Stiles, barely paying him any mind.

“What’s the usual?” the barista replies, not looking up from the counter. He refused to dignify him with his full attention if he wouldn’t do the same. Isaac scoffs, crossing his arms. If Stiles wanted to play, Isaac would play too.

“You and I both know you know what I order, so make it for me.”

“I’m sorry but I haven’t a clue what you order.”

“Stiles—”

Stiles? That was new. He wasn’t used to hearing his name on his so-called archnemesis’s lips but it had a nice lilt to it especially when said in his familiar tone.

“Not. A. Clue.”

“I’ve been coming here for about eight months—”

“Congratulations, but I’m afraid I don’t know your usual. Eric? Is that your name?” Stiles shoots back, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Isaac,” he snaps, biting back a smirk as his expression twists into a deeper frown. He’s only mildly annoyed, but it’s clear Stiles is getting under his skin.

“Right, Isaac. So what would you like to order?” the barista asks with mock politeness.

“I’ll have a mocha frappucino, triple shot, with extra whip and caramel syrup. Make sure you remember it for me. It’s my usual,” Isaac says, leaning on the counter and invading Stiles’s bubble.

“We’ll see,” Stiles mutters, trying to keep his focus as he starts making the order. The air felt lighter as he could feel Isaac’s eyes following his every move. To get one over on him was a beautiful thing, and the way Isaac’s brows furrowed just slightly in playful annoyance made him cherish it all the more.

“Order for Eri—sorry, Isaac?” Stiles calls out, placing the cup on the counter.

Isaac snatches the cup, inspecting it with a critical eye. His brows knit together in confusion. “These are just random consonants.”

“And…? Goodbye,” Stiles replies as he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Don’t think I won’t remember this next time,” Isaac counters.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Isaac swallows his insults, stepping away from the counter with a huff.

“I don’t think he’s evil scarf guy; I think you’re evil coffee guy,” Scott quips as he restocks the muffin display next to him.

“The evil coffee guy,” Kira corrects with a cheeky grin, her laughter ringing out as Stiles shoots them an annoyed glance before heading into the back room. The spare coffee cups couldn’t tease them, could they?

☕︎☕︎☕︎

The day Stiles had been dreading had arrived. He had to bring in Matcha to get his shots.

He stood outside the vet clinic, hesitant to go in. Sure he could have gone to a different vet but he didn’t want to give in to his fear.

The bell above the door lets out a cheerful jingle as he enters, and Isaac’s head snaps up, his face lighting with a faint smirk.

“You came.”

“Well, you’re my favourite vet…well, actually the only vet I know, but…” Stiles shrugs, trying to play it cool despite the nervous energy radiating off him.

Isaac chuckles dryly. “It’s the thought that counts, I suppose.”

Without missing a beat, Isaac turns on his heel and gestures for Stiles to follow, leading him down the hall to the familiar room. The walls, painted a calming pale blue, do little to settle Stiles’ nerves as Isaac starts gathering supplies.

The door clicks shut behind them, the soft hum of the overhead light filling the silence as Stiles sets Matcha’s carrier on the metal table. Isaac’s practised movements are calm and efficient, but there’s an unmistakable softness in his eyes as he glances at the wide-eyed dog peeking out nervously from the carrier.

“Cute,” Stiles says, smirking as he watches Isaac scratch behind Matcha’s ears.

“My dog, not you. You’re as cute as a gremlin, so…”

“Right back at you,” Isaac shoots back without missing a beat, his lips curling into a teasing grin.

Stiles huffs out a laugh, folding his arms as he leans against the counter. “Well, at least gremlins have personality. Better than being all broody and mysterious like some people I know.”

Isaac arches a brow, leaning slightly closer. “Broody? Mysterious? You’ve been watching me too much, Stiles. Starting to sound like you’ve got a crush.”

“Not on your life,” he replies, relishing the opportunity to throw Isaac’s own words back at him. The look on Isaac’s face is absolutely delicious as he swallows his words, just like he’s had to do so many times before and gets back to the task at hand.

After the appointment, Stiles had walked away with one and only one thing to say about Isaac: he was good at his job. Annoyingly good. The kind of good that made it hard for Stiles to come up with a decent comeback or find a flaw to poke at.

It wasn’t just the steady way Isaac handled Matcha, or how he talked Stiles through every step of the process like it was no big deal. It was the way he smiled afterwards, soft and smug all at once, that stuck with Stiles as he headed out the door.

“Stupid, stupid, annoyingly perfect vet,” Stiles muttered under his breath, glancing down at Matcha, who looked far too content for someone who had just betrayed his human.

Matcha yawned, oblivious, and Stiles sighed. “You’re not supposed to like him more than me.”

☕︎☕︎☕︎

Stiles was bothered, unbelievably bothered, even more bothered than the time Scott went to stay with his dad and left him on read for an entire weekend. It’s been a whole week. A whole week without his snippy remarks or his stupid face or his kinda perfect smile and Stiles was bothered and annoyed and… worried. In all the 8 months he had known him there was never a time where he went more than 3 days without stopping by. Did Stiles weird him out at the vet appointment or did Isaac find some other barista to argue with? The questions were eating him alive. He sighs heavily curling his toes into his blanket as he mindlessly scrolls from channel to channel.

Amidst his anxiety-induced spiral into self-doubt, he hears a knock at his door. He gets up and walks over with a reluctant grumble, expecting nothing more than a delivery or a wrong address. To his surprise, the face that’s been plaguing his thoughts all week stands in front of him, slightly damp from the rain and looking as exasperated as ever.

Before he could fully register the moment or process what was happening, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, grateful that Isaac was okay. It had been a week of silence, and the tension that had built up inside him began to dissipate.

As Isaac starts to ramble, his words spilling out in a rush, Stiles can’t help but focus on how distraught he looks. It was a look he was very unfamiliar with Isaac and he didn’t like it one bit.

“I know you hate me, and I …but I just didn’t have anywhere to go. Fuck, I’m sorry this was a stupid idea-”

“Come in.”

“Really?”

“No, stay outside and freeze to death in your ridiculously thin hoodie,” Stiles quips, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.

Isaac, clearly too emotionally and physically tired to argue, comes in without another word.

“I’m sorry for just showing up here like this. I never do this kind of stuff I was just…” Isaac paused, struggling to piece together the words in a way that felt comfortable for him. There was just far too much going through his mind, far too much for him to mince his words into coherent sentences. Stiles sees him start to fiddle with the sleeves of his sweater, his demeanour so different from the cocky asshole he had become acquainted with. This Isaac looked tired and scared.

“Um, welcome to Casa Stilinski. Have a seat. We have questionable snacks and mediocre entertainment, but a good time is always guaranteed,” Stiles announces, trying to keep the mood light.

Isaac takes off his jacket shakily, his fingers fumbling with the fabric. “Where can I…?” he starts, glancing around the living room as if unsure where to put it.

“I’ll take that,” Stiles says, stepping forward and reaching for Isaac's hoodie. Their fingers brush against each other, sending an unexpected spark of electricity coursing through him. He quickly pulls back, clearing his throat as he puts the jacket on a hook.

“So, Mario Kart, movie, ice cream, or a one-man play performed by me?” he suggests, a playful grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t you want to know why I showed up here in the middle of the night?” Isaac asks with a half chuckle, keeping his eyes trained on the ground as if the floor had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Stiles replies gently, his tone softening. “If you do, I’m here to listen. If not, I’m totally down to perform that play.”

Isaac attempts to stifle a smile at the absurdity of the offer, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly. “You really think you’re that entertaining?”

“Absolutely,” Stiles retorts, a playful glint in his eyes. “But in all seriousness. Whatever you need, we can figure it out together.”

Isaac looks up, meeting Stiles’s gaze for a moment. The warmth in Stiles’s eyes makes him feel a little more at ease. Isaac pauses to take it all in the closest thing he had to an archnemesis and yet here he was basically offering ice cream and hugs. He lets out a sigh, too exhausted to resist something that sounded so good after the past couple of days he’s had.

“Mario Kart then?”

Stiles smirks, a glimmer of confidence in his expression. “You’re on, Isaac.”

☕︎☕︎☕︎

They sit together, huddled close, surprisingly comfortable as they try to best each other in Mario Kart. The room fills with laughter and the occasional playful nudge, each one timed perfectly to throw the other off when they’re ahead. It feels strangely easy, this camaraderie that neither of them expected.

For all their usual banter and one-upmanship, there’s a rhythm to it now, a balance that feels natural. It’s weird to Stiles but a good weird?

“Cheap shot,” Stiles mutters after Isaac bumps his elbow mid-turn, sending him careening off the track.

“Strategic gameplay,” Isaac counters with a grin, his eyes glinting with victory as the finish line approaches.

Stiles can’t help but laugh, the sound breaking the competitive tension. Yeah, this was starting to feel a lot less like hate. Isaac was sad and that called for a strategic retreat on their little feud, a seize fire if you will.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

They spent another hour talking about life, about nothing, about everything. Meaningless stuff that somehow felt important and eventually landed on each other's names.

“Isaac Lahey,” Stiles repeats, letting the name roll off his tongue like he’s testing it out. “Huh. Not bad. Pretty straightforward. Kinda boring, though.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward. “Boring? Says the guy whose full name is apparently a state secret.”

“Hey,” Stiles shoots back, holding up a finger. “It’s not boring… it’s mysterious. There’s a difference.”

Isaac leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. “Sure there is. But now I’m dying to know. Is it something embarrassing? Like... Stanley? Stephen? Stewart?”

“Not even close,” Stiles says with a smirk, clearly enjoying Isaac’s growing curiosity.

“Guess I’ll just have to figure it out,” Isaac replies, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Stiles snorts. “Good luck with that, Lahey.”

Suddenly barking comes from the other room, and Stiles chuckles. “Oh, we must’ve woken Matcha up.”

The dog yips excitedly and bounds up to Isaac with unrestrained enthusiasm, tail wagging furiously as if it’s just seen his long-lost best friend. Matcha leaps into Isaac’s lap, nudging him with a wet nose and licking at his chin, clearly thrilled to have the attention.

“Hey there, buddy!” Isaac laughs, his earlier tension melting away as he scratches Matcha behind the ears. The pup seems to bask in the affection, wagging his tail even faster, and for a moment, all worries fade into the background.

Stiles watches the scene unfold, feeling a warmth spread in his chest. It’s a simple moment, but seeing Isaac interact with Matcha reminds him just how much he appreciates this guy. “Looks like someone missed you,” he remarks, unable to hide his smile.

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t miss a face like this?” Isaac replies, grinning as he cradles Matcha in his arms. Stiles scoffs but finds himself thinking about how true that statement was but he catches that egregious thought and pushes it down to a place where he can’t find it.

Matcha eventually falls asleep on Isaac’s lap, his head nestled in the crook of his elbow as he rubbed circles along his fur.

“He looks happy.”

“He sure does, doesn’t he?”

☕︎☕︎☕︎

Isaac is awoken by the sound of clattering dishes and music playing in the distance. Only when he hears humming does he snap back to reality and remember that he’s not in his apartment. The window is facing him, sunlight pouring in from the slightly cracked blinds, painting stripes across the bed. The faint hum of early morning traffic seeps through the glass, mingling with the warm, homey chaos coming from what he assumes is the kitchen.

He blinks a few times, trying to shake off the grogginess, and stumbles into the kitchen. The moment he steps inside, he’s met with the delightful aroma of breakfast cooking. Bacon sizzling in a pan and something sweet baking in the oven. Stiles was cooking up a storm and he looked good doing it much to Isaac’s chagrin.

“I’m making eggs. If you don’t like them scrambled then shit I guess.”

Issac’s hair was messy and ruffled like he fell out of bed during the night and wrestled with a bear. But he looked cute at least Stiles thought so. The thought caught him off guard as his sleep-addled mind continued to fuck with him.

“Bacon?”

“Coming right up.”

Stiles serves him a cup of coffee and slides a plate of deliciousness right in front of him, and Isaac swears he’s never been so hungry. The crispy bacon, eggs, and toast almost seem to glow under the light, and Isaac digs in without hesitation. As he chews, a shift in the air settles between them, and Isaac can feel it. Before the tension can settle too deep, Stiles breaks the silence.

“You can stay here in my spare room if you need to.”

Isaac’s movements still. He pauses mid-bite, the words hanging in the air longer than they should. He looks down at his plate, trying to ignore the heat crawling up his neck. There’s something about the offer, he said it so casually and that makes him feel oddly vulnerable.

“I just mean if you don’t want to be alone tonight, my spare room is open.”

“I know,” Isaac says with a lopsided smile as he stirs his coffee and Stiles feels his heart leap in his chest yet again, betraying him for the umpteenth time.

“I think I’ll be okay but thanks for offering.”

Isaac made his glorious return to the coffee shop the next day, his signature grey scarf wrapped around his neck despite the sweltering heat. The way he wore it looked almost absurd, but something was endearing about how he clung to it like a comfort blanket.

“Back from the dead, I see,” Stiles quipped, leaning against the counter with a smirk.

“Reluctantly,” Isaac replied with a playful eye roll. “Can I have a—?”

“Mocha frappucino, triple shot, with extra whipped cream and caramel syrup,” he says as he passes him the cup.

“Thanks,” he says slowly as if suspicious.

Stiles scoffs, “Don’t look at me like I asked for your firstborn child. You show up at almost the same time every day and order the same thing. Blame yourself for being predictable.”

“Whatever and thanks,” he says as he digs in his pocket looking for a 5-dollar bill.

“Keep it.”

“Stiles, I don’t need your charity,” Isaac grumbles, pity was the last thing he wanted right now.

“It’s not charity, consider it my apology for giving you only boiling water that one time.”

Isaac gasps in horror, “I knew that wasn’t a mistake! You’re pure evil.”

“I’m apologising now, aren’t I?”

“You're lucky this is the closest coffee shop to the vets’ office otherwise I’d be taking my business elsewhere.”

“Oh no, whatever would I do without you?”

They both lean in closer and the closeness felt so natural to the two of them like they had been friends longer than they had been enemies.

“Shut up, Stilinski.”

“You first, Lahey.”

Stiles’s manager clears her throat and he tries to regain some modicum of professionalism.

Isaac nods at him to say goodbye but just before he walks away with it he looks at the cup and stops in his tracks.

“You spelt my name right.”

“Look at that. Miracles do happen.”

Isaac laughed and Stiles had never heard anything so sweet.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

He’s sitting on his couch one night when a knock on his door breaks him away from his thoughts, pulling him back to reality. He opens it to find Isaac standing there, looking more vulnerable than Stiles had ever seen him. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin pale. His lips were dry and bitten, and he had his hands curled tightly into the fabric of his sweater as if he were trying to hold himself together.

Without a word, Stiles ushered him in, feeling a surge of anxiety rush through him. The unspoken weight of the moment hung heavily in the air as Isaac stepped inside, his shoulders slumped and his demeanour withdrawn.

“Hey,” Stiles said softly, closing the door behind them. “What happened?”

Isaac took a moment before answering, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s gone,” his breaths came out fast and panicked like he couldn’t catch his breath even as he spoke.

“Just take your time.”

“My dad’s gone. He uh… he died today. Heart attack.”

“Isaac, I’m so…I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was…he wasn’t the best father.”

Isaac’s words came out disjointed, starting and stopping sentences… unable to organise his thoughts, as if each one was tangled in a web he couldn’t escape.

“He um… and I should miss him, right? But … He wasn’t the same after my mom… and my brother… But he was an abusive asshole but he was still my dad and I don’t know how I’m supposed to just….deal with all of this. Shit, I’m getting overly emotional, aren’t I?”

“There’s nothing you should feel. Grief is weird like that I guess… and you can vent, I’m a barista therefore an exceptionally good listener.”

“I thought people vent to bartenders.”

“Same difference,” Stiles says with a smile, nudging Isaac’s shoulder playfully. They both fell into a comfortable silence, neither looking at the other but content in each other’s presence.

“You lost someone too, I can tell,” Isaac says, breaking the stillness, his tone more serious.

“My mom,” Stiles replies, his voice softening. “She died … I still remember the happy memories. I think about her a lot, especially when I’m cooking. She loved to experiment in the kitchen, and I guess I inherited that from her.”

Isaac smiles softly, the weight of the conversation creating a deeper bond between them. “That’s a nice way to remember her. It sounds like you have some great memories.”

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles replies, warmth flooding his chest at the thought. “It makes me feel like she’s always with me even though she couldn’t be further away.”

Isaac looks at him, his blue eyes sincere. “I get that. It’s like… we carry those people with us in different ways.”

Stiles nods, appreciating Isaac’s insight. “And it’s okay to talk about them, even when it hurts. I get that it might be different for you but… we can talk about it.”

Isaac lets go of a deep breath that was trapped in his lungs and turns to Stiles hoping he doesn’t reject what he’s about to say.

“I’m having him cremated. I know this is weird and borderline insane but would you come with me? I just don’t wanna go alone and there’s no one else.”

“I’ll come with you.”

☕︎☕︎☕︎

Watching his father burn was no easy thing. The sense of relief was overwhelming, almost suffocating, but it wasn’t a simple thing. It was tangled with guilt, with anger, with years of unresolved feelings. The relief felt like it shouldn’t be there like it was wrong, but it was there all the same. He had never thought he’d feel like this, free and trapped at the same time. He had felt like he was carrying a weight for so long, and now it was gone… but it was so complicated, so tricky.

“I’m not sad,” Isaac finally said, his voice steady despite the chaos around them. “I’m kind of… happy. Or at least glad to have this behind me. To know that he’s not coming back, that he can never hurt me again. Is that bad of me to say?”

Stiles, standing beside him, squeezed his hand tightly. The warmth of his grip was reassuring, grounding Isaac in a moment that could easily spiral into something overwhelming. “No, it’s not bad,” Stiles replied softly, his eyes fixed on the flames. “It’s normal. You’re allowed to feel relief, especially after everything.”

They stood in silence, hands intertwined, as the fire crackled and popped. It felt cathartic like it was his first step to letting go of the past.

As the flames began to diminish, leaving only embers glowing softly in the night, Isaac couldn’t help but smile, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “Thank you for being here with me,” he murmured, gratitude spilling from his heart.

“Always,” Stiles replied, turning to meet Isaac’s gaze. And for the first time in a long time, Isaac didn’t feel alone.

“Wanna get ice cream?” Stiles asked, his eyes lighting up with a playful gleam.

“Is that your solution to everything?” Isaac shot back, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Basically, yeah,” Stiles replied, his enthusiasm infectious.

They made their way to the seaside, the salty breeze tousling their hair as they walked along the shore. With each step, the weight of the past seemed to lift a little more. After grabbing their ice cream, Stiles opted for a double scoop of mint chocolate chip while Isaac settled for a classic vanilla, they headed to the spot where they had decided to scatter the ashes.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting vibrant hues of orange and pink across the sky, Isaac took a deep breath and knelt, gently letting the ashes slip from his fingers. “Bye, Dad,” he whispered, a mix of sadness and relief washing over him as the wind carried his words away.

Stiles knelt beside him, offering quiet support. He placed a hand on Isaac’s back, a comforting presence as they both took in the moment.

As they stood up, the weight of what they had just done began to settle. Stiles turned to Isaac, feeling a rush of gratitude and a sense of closeness that had blossomed between them. “Here,” Stiles said, tossing him a set of keys.

Isaac caught them with a surprised look. “What are—?”

“Keys to my place,” Stiles explained, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re always over here anyway so take them. I trust you not to rob me.”

“Did you have these cut for me?”

Feeling his ears burning red, “Do you want the keys or should I give them to the other vet down the street?”

“No, no…I want them,” Isaac says softly. So softly, it almost felt like Isaac had just stolen the words right out of Stiles’ mouth, the way his voice held a weight that Stiles wasn’t expecting. Isaac had never really spoken like that before. It was something sweet like candy floss or a freshly baked cookie. It created a whole new feeling between them, one neither of them had anticipated, one neither knew how to navigate.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

If you told Stiles Stilinski he’d be sitting on a couch with Isaac, the biggest menace in his life, and a puppy he decided to adopt, he might just keel over and die.

Sitting on the couch, Matcha nuzzled between the two, his small body a comforting warmth against their sides.

“Why’d you become a vet anyway?”

Isaac paused, glancing down at Matcha before replying. “And one day after school, I saw... the dog was hurt. I brought her to the vet and I stayed because I just had to know she’d be okay. By the end of the visit, she was all better and I wanted to be able to do that too, to be able to take away their pain. It’s beautiful.”

Isaac doesn’t notice it, but Stiles is looking at him in awe, his eyes wide and soft. He hadn’t expected that kind of openness. No sarcasm, no defences up. Just... him. As Isaac rambles on he suddenly feels self-conscious.

“I rambled, didn’t I?”

“Not at all…” Stiles replies, his voice a little breathy, almost dreamy. He knew for sure that he was staring at him like some dope, but he couldn’t help it. Isaac had this way of being completely real without even realising it, and it made Stiles feel like he was seeing him for the first time.

Just then, Matcha lets out a soft yawn and falls asleep in Isaac’s lap. Stiles takes a sneaky photo but is caught by Isaac’s sharp eyes.

“No no no, stay put or you’ll wake him up.”

“Plus… it’s a cute picture.”

Isaac felt his heart thud lightly in his chest, a warmth creeping up his neck. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. The way Stiles had looked at him, soft and easy, like they weren’t two people constantly at odds like they weren’t walking on a line they hadn’t figured out yet. And Matcha, just there, nestled between them like this was the most natural thing in the world.

It felt warm and exciting but terrifying at the same time. Like any minute now, the pin would finally drop and the magic of the moment would disappear. That twang of anxiety always pulsed when he felt himself get comfortable like he was about to lose something precious.

But for now, he let himself sit there, and maybe just for a second, he could enjoy the feeling.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

It was a quiet, tense day when the pin dropped. Isaac had woken up feeling like the weight of everything was crashing down on him, suffocating him with thoughts he couldn’t escape. The truth was, he was on edge and irritable, battling with a spiral of self-doubt. He hadn't been over to Stiles’ in a couple of days, dodging calls and texts, too afraid to face him. The truth was harder to ignore now. Isaac had been distant, and standoffish for no real reason, and every little thing about the situation felt like it was falling apart.

And now, here he was, standing in front of Stiles, the tension palpable between them.

“Don’t pretend like you know anything about me, okay?” Isaac spat, his voice rising despite his attempt to keep it under control. “I’m not what you think I am.”

Stiles paused for a second, his eyebrows raised in confusion, his lips curling into a sarcastic smirk. “Who are you then? The Easter Bunny? What are you talking about?”

Isaac rolled his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides. “You’re so... naive and... clueless. But really, this is just... it’s not even worth it.”

The words hit Stiles harder than expected. He knew Isaac was acting off, but this? This was different. “Where is this coming from?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm, though the confusion and hurt were creeping through.

Isaac shook his head, the self-loathing rising in him like a wave. “You don’t get it, Stiles. You don’t know me like you think you do. I don’t deserve you. I’m not the guy you think I am, and I’m not good for you. So don’t act like this is some fairy tale.”

Stiles’ face dropped for a second, a sharp pain threading through him. It wasn’t just the words, but the way Isaac said them like he was convinced they were true. The sarcasm faded from Stiles’ voice as he took a step closer.

“Isaac, what the hell are you talking about? We’ve been... we’ve been good, haven’t we?”

Isaac looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “I’ve been holding you back. I’m a mess, Stiles. You deserve someone better than me. Someone who doesn’t... fuck everything up all the time.”

Stiles took another step forward, his expression softening as he placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Isaac, you’re not a mess. You’re you. And I’m not looking for perfection. I just want... I just want you.”

Isaac swallowed hard, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him like a physical force. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do,” Stiles said quietly, his voice steady now. “I know you’re scared, but running from this, from me, isn’t going to help you.”

“Take a hint, Stiles. I’m not interested in being your charity case.”

“I never–”

Stiles started to speak but he was silenced by the look on Isaac’s face. So guarded and weary. He could see him hurting but it was like there was an invisible barrier between them that he couldn’t get past.

“Oh please. Offering me a room, coddling me, giving me a key. I don’t need your pity and I don’t want to owe you anything.”

And with that he stood up and started heading towards the door, clumsily putting on his shoes and snatching his jacket from the coat rack. Stiles didn’t even get a chance to prove him wrong.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

He was marooned after an awful encounter with Storm Isaac, he’s surprised he didn’t drown under the wave of scathing looks he gave him that day. His apartment was his island and he had no plans to make an SOS sign anytime soon. Unfortunately for Stiles, his friends didn’t get the memo. A few raps on the door shatter the silence, and he groans, wiping the frustration from his face, letting out a, “Two seconds!” as he stumbles to the door.

“We brought some treats for Matcha.”

“We’ve noticed you’ve been down lately,” Scott says as he glances at him, taking in his tired and dishevelled appearance.

“That’s an understatement.. has Isaac been by?”

Scott and Kira exchange glances and that tells him all he needs to know. He had been avoiding him and he didn’t even know what he had done wrong. He was so used to having him here, that he had left a hole all over the apartment. Every room, corner just echoed with signs reminding him of what he lost.

“You should reach out to him.”

“He’s not returning my calls or my texts.” Stiles tried to sound indifferent, but a flash of hurt and sadness crossed his face before he could mask it.

“It just wasn’t meant to be, guys. Don’t worry about me, I’ll bounce back. Nobody puts Stiles in the corner.” He forced a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Giving up on pushing him further, Kira sighed. “Fine, but we’re cleaning up this place right now,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I know pigs that live better.”

“You know pigs?”

“There’s the sarcasm we’ve been missing,” Scott says as he ruffles his hair and for the first time in a while Stiles feels some relief.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

Isaac decided to make a return to the coffee shop after being gone for over a week. He was going there at the same time he always does to order the same thing but something was different. A certain doe-eyed brunette who was fluent in wit and had a master’s degree in sarcasm was missing.

“Stiles isn’t here. Sick day,” Scott says dragging him out of his thoughts suddenly. It felt like a bucket of ice water had just been thrown on him.

“Oh.”

Isaac had pulled himself from his hole after his emotional strike from Stiles, only to find that he wasn’t there. He felt embarrassed, like an idiot for pushing him away.

“Not seriously sick, right?” his voice betraying the nonchalance he was trying to portray. He picked at his left sleeve and shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could hide how much it bothered him.

“No, he’s fine just…” Scott pauses, trying to find a way to put it lightly, “He didn’t want to…”

“See me.”

Just great. He had chased Stiles away from his job, a job he actually liked, as he recalled him saying.

“Listen... He cares about you. You guys need to actually talk and communicate about how you’re feeling.”

Sensing his discomfort, Scott decided to say what they had both been too blind to see.

“You know, whenever you come in, he drops whatever he’s doing just to take your order. Even before you guys started hanging out, you brought out a fire in him. He’d talk about you constantly, counting the minutes until you came by for your daily coffee.”

“I didn’t know…” Isaac says as he realised just what a fool he had been. But could it really be that easy? To be vulnerable and to hope.

“My advice: Don’t let your fears or pride stand in the way of how you feel or what you want. If you want to be with him, tell him before it’s too late.”

☕︎☕︎☕︎

Entering his apartment, Stiles barely has time to register the excited yipping of his dog before he notices something… off.

The door was locked, but there was noise inside, a distinct shuffling across the floorboards. Lights flickered on in the kitchen, shadows shifting. Someone was shuffling around.

He was being robbed.

Okay, sure, there wasn’t much to steal unless the intruder had a thing for mismatched socks and half-eaten bags of Doritos, but still, this was a full-fledged home invasion.

Grabbing his trusty baseball bat from behind the door, adrenaline surging through his veins, Stiles readied himself. He knew this moment would come. He had been preparing for it his whole life. From watching crime shows with his dad, perfecting his stance, maybe a little shadow-boxing when no one was watching.

This was it.

With an albeit squeaky battle cry, Stiles charged into the kitchen, swinging the bat in the air like a lunatic. The intruder yelped and crashed to the floor trying to avoid his swings. Stiles raised the bat again before recognition slammed into him like a truck.

“Isaac?!”

Isaac groaned from the floor. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What are you doing breaking into my apartment?!”

Isaac pushed himself up onto his elbows, scowling. “You gave me a key, psycho.”

Stiles blinked. Oh. Right. He did do that.

His grip on the bat loosened. “Well, I almost decapitated you.”

Isaac rolled his eyes and muttered, “Yeah, I noticed.” He pulled himself up, brushing off his jeans, still slightly breathless. “I just… I don’t know. I wanted to do a romantic gesture or something.”

Stiles’ brain stuttered to a stop. “A what?”

Isaac avoided his gaze, shoving his hands into his pockets like he suddenly regretted everything.

Stiles looked around and his expression softened. There was a blanket draped across the table, soft candlelight flickering against the walls, and a plate of what looked like homemade cookies. They were a little burnt around the edges but it just made Stiles want to eat them more.

Isaac cleared his throat, still not looking at him. “I like you, Stiles.” The words were rushed as if he were afraid he’d lose the courage to say them. “When I’m with you, I feel… safe for once. You feel… you feel like home to me.”

Isaac’s eyes finally met his hesitant, vulnerable, pleading with Stiles, with himself to not run away from something good. Stiles felt warmth spread through his chest, replacing the leftover panic. He set the bat down carefully and took a step closer.

“I really did almost take your head off,” he said softly, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

Isaac huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well… I guess I should’ve knocked.”

Taking Stiles’s hand in his he moves forward looming at him, “I know when …I ran. I was scared because being with you felt good and I hadn’t felt like that in such a long time.

“I want to be with you.”

Stiles grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him in and kissing him deeply like he was his oxygen, his lifeline. A soft moan escaped between them, lost in the heat of the moment. Stiles smiles against his lips before pulling back, “You taste like cookies.”

“I had to sample them. Make sure I wasn’t poisoning you.”

“Well I have a feeling they taste really good,” Stiles replies as he pulls him back in by his waist, savouring each sweet kiss with Isaac. Feeling the nuzzling of Matcha against their feet he nearly died from what he saw. Matcha was dressed up as Cupid and it was the cutest thing Stiles had ever seen in all his years of living. He started to kiss all over Isaac’s face, not listening to his protests.

“You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

And Isaac’s heart soars at hearing the word boyfriend come from Stiles’s lips.

☕︎☕︎☕︎

The next morning, they woke up tangled together, warmth and sunlight spilling through the curtains. Stiles trailed slow, lazy kisses down Isaac’s neck, nipping at his skin, rolling them over with a satisfied hum. Isaac chuckled, voice still heavy with sleep. “Are you going to tell me your name now?”

Stiles smirked against his skin. “Mieczyslaw. Mieczyslaw Stilinski.”

“Now I see why you said my name was boring.”

#stisaac #teen wolf #isaac lahey #stiles stilinski #stiles x isaac #stiles stilinski x isaac lahey #enemies to lovers #coffee shop au #fluff #angst #happy ending #teen wolf fanfiction #scira #scott mccall #kira yukimura #barista! stiles stilinski #vet! isaac lahey #cross posted on ao3

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dragonflylady77 · 2 years ago

Text

This is my contribution to the Harringrove Relay Race! ✨

@harringrove-relay-race

Read it on Ao3

I took the 500 words minimum word limit and blew it out of the water, so... enjoy.

(unbeta'd)

***********

I wanna do everything with you

the coffee shop au x college au x enemies to lovers x there was only one bed fic you never knew you needed... (also, with basketball!)

***********

“Out of the way, pretty boy.”

Steve grits his teeth and presses himself closer to the coffee machine so Hargrove has room to walk past him. Why the guy decided to bring in another box of coffee grounds during rush hour when there are three full bags in the cupboard already, Steve has no idea.

The Californian import is probably doing it to mess around with Steve as usual. Steve sighs as he gets back to making the next drink on his list. As much as he has enjoyed working at The Dolphin Café over the summer, he can’t wait for fall to arrive and classes to start. He won’t have to see Hargrove again after that.

He isn’t sure why Hargrove has it in for him like that, he’s barely talked to the guy since he started. Not on purpose, but they usually have different shifts and the way Hargrove stares at him sometimes when they’re working together makes Steve uneasy. Makes him feel things he’d rather not think about.

Billy Hargrove is hot and he knows it and he seems to loooooove the attention from everyone, regardless of gender. Golden curls, a killer smile, a sculpted chest he keeps exposing by not buttoning up his shirt, no matter how many times their manager reminds him he should and jeans so tight they look painted on. Yeah, the guy is the full package.

Too bad the full package is also arrogant as fuck and determined to get on Steve’s last nerve every shift. So Steve takes deep breaths and smiles even when he wants to scream, and he focuses on filling orders and the end of summer.

He is counting the days until he can see Robin again, once she’s back from her trip to Germany. He’s really missed his best friend all summer and he knows there is no way his dad would have agreed to their deal without her.

Steve will always be grateful to Robin for helping him craft a proposition Richard Harrington agreed on. They’d even got a lawyer involved and his father had signed off on it, promising he’d pay Steve an allowance while he’s in college if he managed to get accepted and hold a job all summer beforehand.

Steve knows how lucky he is to have gotten in, even if it’s on a basketball scholarship. The look on his father’s face had been worth all the extra work he’d put in. The knowledge Richard Harrington has lost this particular battle against his only son, whom he deems a complete idiot, is the cherry on top.

Now Steve just needs to survive the last couple of weeks at the coffee shop, with Hargrove breathing down his neck at every opportunity. Then he’ll be free, and in college, and he can hang out with Robin again.

***

“Tell me more about this guy,” Robin asks the second she gets in his car, her bags filling the backseat and the trunk of the Beamer.

Steve instantly regrets offering her a ride to her dorm. It’s a long drive back to Chicago and his last shift is still fresh in his mind. Well, what happened when he’d clocked out for the last time anyway. Steve said goodbye to the manager who reminded him he could still come back for weekend shifts. Steve once again declined his offer and told him he was done with the Dolphin Café, as staff anyway. Hargrove was behind the counter and stared at him for the duration of that entire conversation, his eyes full of what looked like hurt. Steve glanced away and walked out without a word.

“You know as much as I do already, why must we spend more time on the subject?” Steve knows he’s whining but fuck, it’s not enough that he spent all summer working with the guy, now his best friend wants to talk about him as well? Steve is so fucking glad he never told her about the dreams. No one, EVER, needs to find out about those.

“Because, dingus,” Robin starts, cutting him that look of hers that means she knows something Steve doesn’t. It’s a look he’s really familiar with by now.

He sighs. “What? Spit it out, Rob. It’s a long drive and I’d rather talk about something else.”

Robin snorts and Steve glares.

“The dingus doth protest too much, methinks,” she says and Steve groans.

"Stop it."

“Oh come on, Steve. From everything you’ve told me about this guy, it’s clear to me you have a crush on him and I th—”

“What? What the fuck, Robin?” Steve swerves a bit from the surprise but manages to keep the car in the appropriate lane. “Leaving aside the fact that I am, you know, straight, how exactly did you get to that conclusion?”

“Really? Did you not hear yourself over the past three months? Hargrove this, and Hargrove that, you haven't stopped talking about him.”

“Because he’s been a pain in my ass since the day he started at work! He’s constantly in my face, calling me names and making a nuisance of himself.” Steve is getting worked up, because why can’t Robin see the problem? He takes a few calming breaths, and focuses on the road.

“He’s pulling your pigtails, dingus.”

“What? No! He hates me, and I didn’t even do anything.”

Robin shakes her head and Steve doesn’t need to sneak a glance her way to know she’s rolling her eyes.

“Steve…”

“No.” There is no way. Is there?

“Fine. Enjoy staying in Egypt, I heard it’s nice this time of year.”

“Whatever.”

Steve is glad that Robin drops it then and moves on to talking about the classes she is gonna be taking when college starts.

***

Billy is stacking the latest batch of lemon blueberry muffins on the display stand when he hears a familiar voice. He glances up to scan the sparse Sunday afternoon crowd and spots Harrington walking towards one of the booths in the back.

He’s chatting animatedly with a girl Billy hasn’t seen before. She’s got light brown hair and big eyes and talks with her hands a lot. Harrington must have said something stupid because the girl punches him in the shoulder and he laughs it off, while rubbing the spot she hit. Their behavior gives off a sibling vibe, which does nothing to quell the longing in Billy’s chest.

They sit on opposite sides and the girl looks up at the menu on the big boards behind the counter. Harrington sneaks a few glances around and Billy looks away before they make eye contact.

It’s a surprise to see Harrington again after he announced his departure a week ago. Billy is still getting over the feeling of betrayal upon finding out his secret crush was leaving, as he was walking out the door.

He thought he’d have more time to try to turn the stupid rivalry into some kind of friendship. But he always seems to rub Harrington the wrong way, no matter what he says. From the day Billy started at The Dolphin Café at the end of July, he’d tried to make friends but Harrington wanted no bar of it.

Billy finishes placing the last muffin on the stand and puts the dome cover on top in time for Harrington’s friend to come up to the counter to order.

“Hello, welcome to the Dolphin Café. What can I get you?” he smiles as he asks and the girl smiles back, her eyes dropping to his name tag for a second.

“Hey Billy. I’m Robin. The best friend. Can I get two of those delicious looking muffins please, a cappuccino and a mocha with four sugars and extra whipped cream.”

“Ah, yes, the Harrington special. Coming right up.”

The girl snorts and Billy chances a glance in Harrington’s way. He is reclining in his booth, glaring at them, and looks away the second Billy’s eyes meet his.

“Is that an actual item on the menu or a name you made up just for him?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the counter.

Billy feels his face warm up and he turns towards the coffee machine, praying Robin can’t tell he’s blushing. He busies himself making the drinks she ordered, mulling over his answer before things get too weird.

“Um…” He shrugs, sprinkling cinnamon on her cappuccino. “I mean, I did ask Hop to add it to the menu as a legacy item since Steve left, but he declined.”

“Aw, my poor dingus is not special enough to make the menu. He’ll be heartbroken.” The smirk on her face and the tone in her voice belie her words and it’s Billy’s turn to snort.

“Pretty sure he hated this place so…” Billy places the drinks on a tray, with the muffins Robin ordered. “You go sit down, I’ll bring them over.”

“Thanks, Billy.”

Billy follows Robin back to the booth and carefully unloads the contents of the tray on the table. He manages to not look at Harrington while he does but he can feel him watching his every move. It’s unsettling and rekindles the fire in Billy’s chest.

Fuck.

“Thanks.” The frosty clipped tone does things that it shouldn’t to Billy’s insides and he focuses on Robin instead.

“Enjoy. Sing out if you need anything else.”

“Thank Billy,” she says again with a grin.

With a nod, Billy leaves, stopping to clear a table and wipe it clean on his way back to the counter. He needs a smoke but it’s a while yet until his break. A loud group walks in and he is happy to be kept busy. He still notices when Harrington and Robin leave and wonders if that was the last time he’s ever gonna see him.

***

A week later, Billy walks into the gym for the first basketball practice. His advisor was surprised he’d picked a sport as an elective, he’s an English Lit major after all. Makes Billy want to cackle really. Seems people either think he’s a meathead and want him for his body, or they’re shocked to learn there’s more to books and case studies in his life.

He steps around the corner in the changing room and a familiar voice stops him in his tracks. Keeping his eyes on the locker numbers, he locates his and heads over, dumping his gym bag on the bench in front of his assigned locker.

“Hargrove?” Harrington’s voice reaches him, surprise and dismay thick in his tone. “What the fuck?”

Billy glances at him and nods once in acknowledgment before focusing on getting changed. He can hear Harrington muttering about him to the guy he’s standing with a few feet away but he manages to tune them out. Force of habit, really. Growing up with Neil Hargrove has taught him not to react and he has become really good at it.

The coach walks in and sends them into the gym to do some laps as a warm up. After some drills to see where they’re at, he splits them into two teams. Billy plays skins, and to his great delight, Harrington ends up on the opposing team.

They’re both point guards which means Billy can get up close to try and stop Harrington when he gets the ball. He is thrilled to discover that Harrington is as competitive as he is on the court, even if he seems to have trouble staying upright when Billy crashes into him to steal the ball.

Billy offers Harrington a hand, half surprised when the other guy takes it, and he leans down close, the pendant around his neck nearly touching Harrington’s chin.

“You were moving your feet. Plant them next time, draw a charge!” He lets go of Harrington’s hand, his fingers tingling from the contact and steps over him to go back to his side of the court as they reset the play. He feels Harrington’s eyes on his back as he walks away but forces himself to look straight ahead, trying to get his breathing under control.

Fuck, that was exhilarating. Billy knows he needs to be careful how close he gets to Harrington because basketball shorts don’t hide much and he doesn’t need the embarrassment or the rumors that would follow him like the plague.

Once training is over, he showers in a corner as fast as he can and gets out of there, glancing at Harrington on his way out. He nearly walks into the door jamb when he clocks the hair on the guy’s chest and manages to dress in record time, despite the semi he’s now sporting.

Tight jeans conceal anything, thank fuck for small mercies. He shoves his gym clothes in his bag and hightails it out of there like hellhounds are on his tracks.

Once in his car, he allows himself to breathe, closing his eyes and letting himself remember the literal fur covering Harrington’s fucking chest. He’d give pretty much anything to run his fingers through that.

Billy groans, pressing his palm on his crotch to relieve some of the pressure and turns the engine on. He’s got a shift at the Dolphin in ten minutes and he can’t afford to be late. Jerking off to the memories of Harrington naked in the shower will have to wait.

***

“One Harrington special!” Robin announces as she puts down Steve’s drink on the table, before flopping on the chair across from him.

“Shhhh, Robin, we’re in a library!” Steve whispers and Robin rolls her eyes.

“No one cares, dingus.”

Steve takes a sip of his coffee, watching Robin get her laptop out of her bag. He frowns. “What did you call my drink just now?”

“Oh, um, the Harrington special. That’s what Billy called it the other day when we were at the coffee shop.”

“I’m sorry. Billy?” Steve stares at her and she shrugs. “Robin, why are you on a first name basis with that guy?”

“Cos he’s nice? And funny? And, like, really really clever?”

“What. The. Fuck?” Steve has no words. He can’t comprehend the betrayal twisting in his gut right now.

Robin sighs. “He’s in my Romantic Poetry class and also my Literature of the Commonwealth class. He’s also in my Creative Writing Workshop class and we may or may not be working on a project together. Don’t be mad.”

“Robin. I… you… what?”

“See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I know you’d be weird about it.”

“Only because you seem to have swapped me for my fucking nemesis.”

“Oh my god, you’re so fucking dramatic. You’ve been hating the guy for months for no reason.”

“Robin! I told you what he did. How he was with me. All summer when I worked at the Dolphin! If anything, he’s the one who hates me.”

Robin gives him that look that says he’s being a giant whiny baby (her words) and Steve sits back in his chair, sipping his coffee. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Robin won’t listen or take him seriously anyway.

“Steve, let me ask you this,” Robin starts, and he can tell she’s trying to be patient with him. “Why would a guy who hates you name a drink after you?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t know, okay. I don’t know how his brain works, or why he called me pretty boy and sweetheart for three months straight. Makes no sense to me.”

“Really?”

Okay now she’s giving him the ‘oh can you so fucking dense’ look and Steve decides enough is enough.

“You know what, whatever. I’m gonna go.” He closes his laptop and starts gathering his notes. His statistics assignment can wait. He already got an extension anyway. “Need to pack for my trip. We’re leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow and I need to go to bed early or I’ll miss the bus.”

“Ah yes, the basketball trip. Billy mentioned it at our study session last night.”

“Last night? That’s why you blew me off for movie night?” Steve is getting more pissed off by the minute. He closes his backpack and grabs his coffee, though he’s not sure he wants to drink it anymore.

“Did you miss the part where I said we are working on a group project for a class?” Robin asks, leaning forward on her elbows, one eyebrow raised. He hates that she can do the eyebrow thing and he can’t.

“He better keep his hands to himself or I will punch him.”

“Yeah well, you can relax with your macho bullshit, cos he knows about me not liking boys.”

“You told him?”

“It came up,” Robin replies, mysterious as ever.

“Fine. Whatever. You know what? Keep your little secret rendez-vous and your brainiacs study sessions that I will never understand. I’ll see you when I get back, unless Hargrove kills me while we’re away.”

He leaves the library in a huff, Robin’s cackle following him out the door.

The next morning, Steve gets to the bus with two minutes to spare. He shoves his bag in the luggage compartment before stepping onto the bus, running a hand through his hair to try and tame it. Of course he slept through his stupid alarm and now he owes Robin, again, because she called him to check he was awake.

He spots Hargrove at the back of the bus, with Tommy Hagan and Jason Carver, so he sits at the front and keeps his head turned towards the window.

They get to the school where they’re playing that afternoon and Coach gets them to run drills and warm-ups for a couple of hours. Steve manages to stay away from Hargrove as much as possible, though Hargrove seems to have dialed down the hostilities and only shoves him once.

Soon enough it’s time for the game and they get stuck into it, the instructions yelled by Coach taking precedence over everything else.

It’s a hard fought battle, the opposition is really good, but their team prevails at the last moment, thanks to Hargrove.

Finally, it’s over, Steve is exhausted but happy. He ends up next to Hargrove for the team huddle and for once he doesn’t mind being this close. They’re all riding the high of beating a good team and it’s a heady feeling.

After they’ve all showered and filed back onto the bus, they make their way to the motel. Once they park there, Coach announces that due to budget issues, they’ve had to reduce the number of rooms they could book and they’re all gonna have to bunk with each other.

A collective groan travels down the length of the bus at the revelation. Steve barely pays attention. He doesn’t care who he gets told to bunk with as long as it’s not Hargrove, and he’s pretty sure the other guy feels the same and will ask to stay with Tommy or Carver.

“Right, lads, me and Ms Ross decided that the easiest and most fair way was to lump you alphabetically.”

When Steve hears that, he knows he’s fucked. Because he knows the names of every guy on the team and he’ll either be bunking with Tommy, who he hasn’t talked to since ninth grade, or Hargrove.

Fuck.

Sure enough, a moment later, Coach says Hargrove’s name then his, and a room number. They get off the bus in pairs and grab their bags, with a reminder that they’re expected to be back on the bus at 8am the next morning.

In the lobby, most of the guys on the team arrange to meet at the diner across the road once they’ve dumped their bags in their rooms. Ignoring the noise, Steve gets the key from the front desk and heads down to room 7.

He gets into the room and stops in his tracks when he sees the bed. As in, singular.

One bed.

It’s a big bed, but it’s only one bed.

Fuck.

With a sigh, Steve drops his bag at his feet and he’s about to turn around to go back to the desk to demand a different room when he hears footsteps behind him. Clearly his day can get worse.

“Hey, Harrington,” Hargrove says as he enters the room, “what are you doing standing here in the dark?” He flicks the lights on and drops his bag on the desk to the side.

Steve watches as he takes in the large bed taking most of the space. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“It’s okay.” Hargrove shrugs then unzips his bag and starts looking through it for something.

Steve turns his head to look at him. “It’s okay? Nothing about this is okay.”

“Oh my god, dude. Don’t freak out because we need to share a bed. Jesus. We can put some pillows down the middle of the mattress if you’re that stressed about it.”

“I’m not stressed about it!” Steve is quick to say, earning himself a look of disbelief from Hargrove.

“Whatever. You going to the diner with the rest of the team?” Hargrove asks as he heads to the ensuite, holding some clothes and his toiletry bag.

“No, I… I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” The door shuts with a soft click and Steve closes his eyes. He needs to talk to Robin but he knows she is out on a date with some girl she met at work.

Once Hargrove has left the room to get dinner, Steve eats a protein bar he found in his bag then gets ready for bed.

He slips between the covers, ready to leave this day behind. He makes a point to not pile pillows between the two sides of the bed. No need to give Hargrove more ammunition.

***

Billy sighs and checks his watch again. He’s been staring at the ceiling for two hours and is no closer to falling asleep than he was when he got back to the room. Less, even. Because he was sleepy after dinner and not in a mood to get drunk with his teammates, on beer purchased for them by Carver’s boyfriend, the only one old enough to legally buy alcohol.

Billy was surprised to see no pillows separating the two sides of the bed when he walked in. Even more surprised to find Steve fast asleep.

He gives up and sits up, hazarding a glance at Steve. He’s lying on his side, the light coming from the crack in the curtains giving a golden shine to his hair. He looks peaceful and soft and Billy would love nothing more than to cuddle up to him and feel his arms around his back.

He runs through his conversation with Robin for the four hundredth time since it happened three days ago. He was surprised to see her in three of his classes but glad they got paired up for the Creative Writing assignment. From the interaction he had with her at the Dolphin last week, she seemed quick and witty and that hunch had proved right. She’d also clocked him as queer faster than anyone beside Heather ever had and her coming out to him had reassured him immensely.

He isn’t a hundred percent on board with her assessment of Steve’s feelings towards him though. That seems a bit hard to swallow considering the past three months, but she is Steve’s best friend, so Billy figures she might know what she’s talking about.

He’s about to turn the side lamp on and grab his book since he can’t fucking sleep when Steve lets out a whimper. Frozen on the spot, Billy listens, in case Steve is having some kind of nightmare he’ll need to wake him up from (Robin mentioned something about that).

But then the guy starts moaning, a low raspy sound, that causes Billy’s ears to heat up as his sweatpants get a bit tight in the crotch. Billy hears the rustling of the bedding, and Steve doing some kind of squirming that has Billy immediately on edge.

It only gets worse when Steve starts muttering. It’s not really words at first, and Billy rolls over so he’s closer, and can hear properly. He regrets it a minute later.

“P-please… Don’t stop, please,” Steve mutters and Billy bites his fist to stop from making a sound.

This is not happening…

Billy can’t believe he has to lie there silently while Steve is having a fucking sex dream. He moves away and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to Steve, hands balled into fists at his sides, willing his dick to go down because this is beyond pathetic. Yes, he has a crush on the guy, but getting off to his sex dream feels one step too far.

Yet, Steve keeps making goddamn sex noises, and apparently willing whoever he’s dreaming about to keep doing whatever they’re doing to him in his mind and Billy is two seconds away from having a cold shower at three in the morning when suddenly he hears his name.

“Billy… Billy, please…”

Oh fuck.

His fingers dig into his thighs with the effort it takes to not touch his dick and get some relief. He can’t breathe, there is no air in the room, only Steve’s moans and whimpers and his desperate pleas.

And Billy knows it doesn’t mean anything, okay? He knows that Steve can’t stand the sight of him, no matter what Robin said the other night. And there’s nothing he can do about it. Maybe he’s just bad at flirting with a guy he actually cares about. Maybe there’s just something about him that Steve just can’t stand and it’s not his fault. But that doesn’t stop his brain from sending images of what he could be doing to Steve with his fingers and his mouth and, fuck, he really needs to stop thinking about that or he’s gonna blow his load in his pants like a fucking twelve year old.

He doesn’t remember ever being so hard as he is in that moment, when Steve’s breath quickens and he keeps saying Billy’s name over and over and over.

Billy needs to do something, either pretend to sleep or lock himself in the bathroom, because there is no way Steve will react favorably once he’s awake. He’ll either pretend it didn’t happen or be angry at Billy for no reason, as usual.

Unable to listen any longer, he races to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and flicking the lock before he turns the shower on to cover any noise he’s about to make. Leaning against the counter with one hand, he reaches inside his pants and wraps his fingers around his cock, hissing at the contact.

He is barely aware of the movements of his hand, his mind still in the room, in that bed, imagining a hand that’s not his touching him instead. He knows he won’t last long because he’s too keyed up from listening to Steve. He squeezes the head of his cock, and groans at the feeling, his knuckles turning white on the counter.

Billy closes his eyes, pretending Steve is there with him. He can almost feel Steve’s lips on his neck, Steve’s body against his as he jerks him off… The visual is so clear, so much what he craves, and he’s so close now, he can almost taste his orgasm.

“Billy?”

Steve’s voice reaches him through the door and wraps around him and he comes with a grunt he can’t silence, making a mess in his underwear. Panting and trying to catch his breath before his legs give out, he washes his hands and wishes he’d have taken the time to get undressed and step into the shower.

Steve is knocking on the door now. “Are you done? Dude, I need to use the bathroom.”

“Gimme a minute!” Billy’s voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears and with the shower going. He shuts the water off and unlocks the door, steeling himself to face Steve before he opens the door.

Steve’s hair is a mess and Billy forces his eyes to a spot to the side of Steve’s shoulder as he pushes past him and into the room.

“Billy?” Steve’s voice stops him in his tracks and he turns around slowly, taking in Steve who’s standing in the doorway, illuminated from behind by the light in the bathroom. Billy doesn’t remember Steve using his actual name before tonight, he’s always called him Hargrove.

“Yeah?” Billy asks softly. He’s still feeling wired from the whole thing and doesn’t have it in him to maintain the usual bravado in front of Steve. He is not sure what to think when Steve steps closer until he’s standing a foot away. Billy makes sure to keep his eyes up, his gaze following the trail of beauty spots on Steve’s shoulder and up his neck.

He is not so out of it that he doesn’t notice Steve’s eyes tracking down then back up, snagging somewhere on Billy’s naked chest then his mouth before Steve locks eyes with him. The warm spot in Billy’s gut starts boiling.

“Um, Robin said… um Robin has this theory, and… and I think she might be right.”

Billy sighs. He just wants to clean up and get into bed but Steve has never looked at him that way before so his curiosity gets the better of him. “What theory?”

“About me and how I’m not actually, you know… straight.”

“Okay…” Bill isn’t sure what to say. He’s not exactly surprised, in light of the dream Steve was having not that long ago.

“She said something else too.”

“Oh?”

Steve moves forward and he’s so close now that Billy can feel the heat from his body. He doesn’t know where to look or what to think. He takes a deep breath to calm down, and realizes his mistake when all he can smell is Steve and it’s overwhelming.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” Steve asks, his tone sounding more assured now. “You know, Robin reckons you have a crush on me.”

Billy chokes back a moan and bites his lip. Steve’s eyes immediately zero in on that and Billy shudders.

“What are you doing, pretty boy?” Billy whispers, his heart in his throat.

“What feels right,” Steve whispers back, his face so close he’s all Billy can see. “Stop me if you don’t wa—”

Billy breaches the gap and slants his lips onto Steve’s, groaning when Steve tangles both of his in Billy’s curls to pull him closer. Steve’s lips are softer than Billy imagined and he grabs Steve by the waist, using Steve’s needy moan to slide his tongue in Steve’s mouth.

The kiss goes on, hands grabbing and pulling, as they stumble backwards towards the bathroom, bodies pressed close from shoulder to toe.

“Fuck meeee…” Billy whispers when they break to breathe, blinking to adjust to the light. He feels like he’s seen God and can’t get enough of Steve’s tongue in his mouth.

“Maybe later,” Steve replies with a grin, and Billy digs his fingers into Steve’s hips at the thought.

“Steve…”

“You know,” Steve starts, moving away to turn the shower on, his eyes never leaving Billy’s even when he takes his shirt off and drops it on the floor, “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say my name.”

“Yeah?” Billy stares as Steve walks back to where he’s standing by the countertop, his eyes straying to Steve’s waistband hanging low on his hips before moving back up.

“Yeah…” Steve stops in front of him. “I wonder how loud I can make you say it…”

Billy gasps then loses the ability to make words when Steve drops his pants. Then Steve hooks his fingers in the waistband of Billy’s sweatpants, a question in the tilt of his head. Billy nods in agreement, and Steve slides his hands around then down, over the curve of his ass, fingers splayed, before he pulls Billy’s pants and underwear down.

“Wanna shower with me?” Steve asks and that shakes Billy out of his trance.

He steps out of his clothes and slides his hands around Steve’s waist, pulling him up, and laughs happily when Steve curses even as he wraps his arms and legs around him.

“Baby, I wanna do everything with you.”

He steps under the warm spray with his precious cargo, pressing him into the wall and finding his mouth again.

*****

Please look forward to the lovely/wonderful/amazing work from the next contributor, @harringrovest.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #dragonflylady77 #harringrove relay race #coffee shop au #college au #enemies to lovers #there was only one bed #all of the tropes #because why not

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