[fancypost borderwidth=0][justify][size=8][ 048 ] everyday magic
[ word count ] 2330
[ warnings ] odd names
[ summary ] a human café au where tinykit is the ultimate people-watcher and no one else realizes.
[hr][size=8]Tiny hardly believes how much she learns from watching these people day after day, being as young as she is. Then again, she spends so much time in the café, it’s easy to forget there’s anywhere else. She just about lives here; in fact, she’s got a room in the back with a sleeping bag. Nobody goes in there, anyway, as far as she knows, except for her boss, and he doesn’t have a problem with it. Probably because she’d end up leaving if she had to go home every night. Dealing with the subway every day is just too much sometimes.
So, instead of going home when her shift is over, she sits behind the counter and pretends to wash cups. Her eyes never stray from the customers. It seems as if it’s always the same group now, once the sun is down—the same three, at least, though the others come and go. They’ve got weird names, all of them, but it isn’t as if she can talk when “Tiny” is written on her name tag. It’s gotten her some raised eyebrows from the morning customers. But it’s not important.
Every day feels kind of like a game, trying to figure out what the trio of regulars are thinking. Some days, everything’s sunshine and rainbows; other days, Tiny finds herself dragged down by the gloomy air to the point where she ends up making the unfortunate customer a coffee because it’s all she can do. She’s neither old nor experienced enough to be insensitive to that kind of thing. If someone did it for her, she’d be thankful. But, well, she’s the barista, not them. They’d probably burn the coffee somehow.
She can’t dwell on that for long, though; as soon as the door opens with a gentle ding, Tiny just knows it’s one of those days. The first of the trio to show up seems to drag an entire cloud behind him, clinging to his shivering, sweatshirt-covered frame. He pulls his pale blue scarf tighter around his neck. Tiny peeks out the window and realizes it’s not snowing. Or raining. Or even windy. This customer is Polaris Brides; the name, he told her once, is something he received when he was younger. In grade school, to be exact. She’s not sure she believes him, even when he tells her what the real Polaris is, because she knew nothing about stars until at least tenth grade.
He pulls out a chair in a corner and slumps into it, running a hand through his light brown hair. Clearly, he hasn’t bothered to comb it in days. The rest of him is the same—disheveled, neglected. Even his sweatshirt is threadbare, splattered with stains around the collar and sleeves. Tiny can’t help but wonder what those are supposed to be. As if he knows she’s watching, Polaris straightens up and rubs his eyes with his hands like a child. Really, that’s what he is—a child. A teenager. The way his eyes settle on her, half-closed and faded from blue to something closer to gray—with exhaustion, no doubt—tells her he wants something, though he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. Brushing some hair out of her own face, Tiny walks over.
”Need anything?” she asks, casually sliding into the booth across from him to get a better look. His eyes aren’t only bloodshot—they’re puffy, the skin around them as red as his nose. This hasn’t been a good day. Polaris has never been known for his good days.
He sighs. Swallows. ”…Just a c-coffee, please.” Just as she suspected, his voice is hoarse; she tries not to wince. It seems as if something is always wrong with him, no matter how brightly the sun’s shining on everyone else, and she’s genuinely worried. One week, he was so jumpy he yelped when she sat down across from him. Then he didn’t show up again for three days. But it’s not as if she can bring it up; she’s tactless, she’s Tiny, and all she really knows how to do is serve coffee and get distracted. Now Polaris is looking nervous. Great, she spaced out on him.
”Coming right up,” she says, already on her feet. ”The usual?”
”Yeah.” With that, he buries himself in his scarf; she takes that as a dismissal. It’s rare for him to do that. Maybe she’ll try putting, oh, ice cream in his coffee today. Her boss has the weirdest things in the freezer; if she didn’t know better, she’d say he knows she uses him. He does hang around that room a lot...
As she’s walking back there, she runs into him. Specifically, his familiar mop of red hair. He glances back at her, then does that thing he does where he disappears behind the nearest curtain, which she long ago learned to stop questioning. Nobody questions…Creamsicle? That’s what’s on his name tag, though it’s impossibly weird for his real name. It’s weirder than if someone named their kid Frenchhorn, which is saying something.
When she comes back, Tiny finishes making the coffee—in a boring old coffee machine—and plops two scoops of ice cream directly into it. Leaning over it, she watches it melt; once it’s hardly visible, she slaps a lid on the container and hurries back to Polaris. He gives her a smile. It lasts for a record-breaking five point seven seconds before twisting into something not quite right, and the teen lowers his head before grabbing the coffee and just about shoving it into his face. Tiny watches, her right eyebrow twitching, but she doesn’t ask. Asking has never gotten her anywhere.
Standing around five minutes longer does not get a confession out of Polaris, dramatic or otherwise, so Tiny returns to her spot behind the counter. It won’t be long now; there are two other regulars who haven’t shown themselves yet. And they will. They’re more reliable than Tiny’s car when it comes to appearing right on schedule. More reliable than Tiny herself, actually, but that still stings a bit too much to joke about.
Right on cue, there’s another ding, and the next one stumbles in. Another strange name—Frenchy, a nickname for sure. He’s wearing a scarf as well, though that’s not out of the ordinary; that scarf is as much a part of Frenchy as his arms or legs might be. More than his ears. There’s one thing that sets Frenchy apart from the other somewhat cheerful patrons, and that’s the fact that he’s deaf. Good at lip-reading, but deaf nonetheless. He tried to speak to stuttering, uncertain Polaris once. Once.
He waltzes right up to the counter, hesitating just a bit before coming to a stop. It’s enough to notify Tiny that not everything is all good and fine in Frenchy’s world, either. However, he’s staring intently at her now, waiting for her to ask him the usual question, and she can’t disappoint. ”Hey, French. What’re you here for? Coffee-wise, I mean.” She says it a bit slowly; he seems to get it. They’ve figured something out.
The boy standing in front of her isn’t dumb by any means, but—to her relief, because come on, she’s not even that good at English—he never bothered to learn sign language; instead, he keeps a notepad and at least fifteen pencils on him at all times. He chooses this moment to whip them out with a flourish, successfully messing up his dark hair in the process. Today, the pencil is mechanical and bright green; the notebook’s the exact same olive shade as his scarf, just like always. the usual, he scrawls. Tiny tilts her head to read it, hiding a smile. His handwriting hasn’t gotten any better over the many months she’s been seeing him here. Tapping the paper, Frenchy adds something new: the other usual.
Polaris takes his coffee with almost too much sugar and cream; Frenchy sits at the opposite end of the spectrum. Though there’s a difference between what he orders and what he actually likes. If he ever decides to be honest about what he wants—and he does, seriously, just not that often—he orders something around the middle. In most cases, though, he tries to drink it black and ends up spitting it out at least twice. It’s always entertaining for Tiny, the other customers, and quite possibly the kid himself. This time, he’s giving in to what he really wants. Perhaps something did happen. Tiny knows he saw his uncle recently—a nice enough guy, came in a few times, perfectly decent. Covered with scars, though, the last time he showed up. It’s not anything she wants to get involved with, though, so she makes Frenchy’s coffee in silence as he sits in a corner opposite Polaris’s.
When it’s done, she takes it over. Instead of sliding into the booth, she stands. ”Is that it?” Frenchy shrugs, then realizes that isn’t actually an answer and nods. He smiles, brown eyes bright, and leans back. As relaxed as he always is. Tiny has no reason to worry.
Again, she returns to the counter and observes. Frenchy is contentedly sipping his coffee, spreading himself over more and more of the seat as time passes. Polaris is staring his down, apparently; it’s probably the temperature of Alaska in winter by now, if he has any left. He will not ask for a refill. It will magically appear at his table anyway. Just like always, it does, and Tiny shoots him a smile before she leaves. Just in time, because number three walks in a few seconds after she passes the door. He meets her a few feet from the counter.
Velvet Starke. Easily the most mature of the three, the oldest, the tallest, and the hardest to read. Usually, his face is blank; sometimes, his mouth curves slightly upward if he’s feeling particularly proud of himself. That’s the closest he gets to having a proper facial expression in this place. But what’s on his face is what matters—the things he can’t hide. Like the purple-gray circles forming under his nearly black eyes, or the unnatural paleness to his skin. However, he’s still largely unreadable; it could be a few bad nights or sleep or a complete disaster. Tiny isn’t sure how to ask.
”Hello, Tiny,” he says, pushing his hood down. He’s the only one without a scarf. He’s also not wearing a jacket for whatever reason, which Tiny doesn’t understand at all, since she’s spent all her outside time this winter in something similar to a ski coat. She even wore snow pants to work.
”Hey, Velvet.” Strange name number three. ”What do you want?” He tends to change things up more than the other two; she can never be sure what he’s going to order until he actually says it. Tiny edges toward the coffeemaker, eyes on his. Anything else? No, just the dark circles, that’s all she has to go on. It’s so frustrating, she can’t believe it.
”Coffee,” Velvet answers, shrugging. ”Black?” Of course he can have it black, he’s the only one of the trio who actually enjoys it. Heck, Tiny can’t stand black coffee. She nods, grimaces slightly—Vel won’t be offended, no worries there—and turns completely to finish the final order of the day. Once Velvet comes in, the café might as well just close its doors for the evening. Though that would mean kicking Polaris and Frenchy out, along with Velvet, and the boss wouldn’t stand for that behavior.
Unlike the others, he waits at the counter, adjusting his winter hat from time to time. It has pom-poms on it, something Tiny will probably never stop laughing about. As she straightens up, she finds herself stifling a snort. It’s just so out of place on such a serious person, at least to her. But she hands him his coffee without a word, managing to keep herself quiet when he lifts it to his nose and sniffs. Only when he sits down right in the middle of the café does Tiny duck under the counter and stuff her face into a clean washcloth.
As much as she enjoys watching the regulars sip their drinks in silence—save for Frenchy’s stretching noises, Velvet’s soft humming, and the whimpers that now seem to be coming from Polaris’s side of the café—she’s got to start closing sometime. Despite the fact that her boss probably should be helping her. Oh, well, Tiny’s got this down to a science. She knows how this works, she knows how the café works, she’s trying her hardest to understand how the people work. With a sigh that was meant to sound less content than it does, the brunette pulls a mop out of the back room and proceeds to clean the floor as quietly as she can. She knows how they’ll all react. Frenchy will blink and look surprised for a moment, then refuse to leave until Tiny threatens to turn the lights off on him. Velvet will stand, toss his empty cup in the trash can despite it being halfway across the room, and leave with a ”thank you” and the unspoken ”see you tomorrow”. Polaris will jump to his feet and hurry out the door, often forgetting to throw out his cup on the way, and Tiny will go out into the melting snow to find him dripping wet and staring numbly at his car.
They notice far too soon that she seems to be cleaning, and everything goes as expected. Except for the small problem of Polaris not getting up once he topples into the slush. And Velvet stopping by the counter and actually saying, ”See you.” And Frenchy falling asleep right on the table. All right, maybe Tiny doesn’t have this nearly as down as she thought she did this morning. But she has tomorrow. After all, it's an everyday thing.
