Dreaming of You

Chapter 1

Hello! So quick disclaimer from me. Again, this is not my story. However, if you were to find this story elsewhere, it would not be written the way it is on here.

Basically, it was a fanfic about Larry Stylinson. I am absolutely in that fandom, however I wanna keep this account Klaine. And while I was reading this, I was just thinking of the glee characters and how they fit so perfectly into these roles so I decided to change things around just a lil bit. Plus, I worked in a Starbucks, and the descriptions are insanely accurate. I hope you enjoy! 

If you are a Larry fan and want to read the original, it is on the website "Archive of our Own". 

Thank you!

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This time baby, I'll be bulletproof.

He's got about five or so minutes before he has to clock in. He's good on time. Excellent on time. Perfect, even.

I won't let you turn around and tell me now I'm much too proud. All you do is fill me up with doubt.

The snow and ice that slather the pavement crunch beneath his overly-priced, slip-resistant, water-resistant, seamlessly-black-because-God-forbid-there's-a-splash-of-character-or-color work trainers, the breeze assaulting his cheeks and threatening to split his dry skin open, slip into the cracks and freeze his bones together. It's a bit fucking Antarctic outside, the sky white and threateningly infinite and on the verge of dumping curtains of soft snow—as it has been, consistently, for the past...three weeks? Give or take?

Blaine is a bit goddamn tired of it. To be quite fucking frank.

This time baby I'll be bulletproof.

His headphones are smashed over his ears, burying the noise of the engines idling in the drive-thru, burying the hustled sounds of shoppers who need to just go the fuck home and enjoy the day like any sane, happy-with-thyself human being.

Like Blaine would be doing if he didn't have to work.

Like always.

Fuck life, fuck it all.

With a firm expression on his face that is not a frown (he's a pleasant person; he's not scowling because his life is sludge and he works at a goddamn Starbucks, no of course not), he slips one frozen, mitten-ed hand out of the sanctity of his pocket and opens the heavy door to the small, mostly-glass building—thanks to those fucking windows with their fucking smudgy handprints left behind from sticky children and bad-mannered plebeians. Said door—the handle nearly burning through his gloves with its cutting chill—is speckled in stickers that boast of warm lattes and joy and individuality and all the other bullocks that is oh-so-charming.

And he's definitely not frowning.

He's happy. Elated, even.

This time I'll be bulletproof.

The minute he walks inside—leaving absolute zero behind and instead being assaulted with nervous, burning energy—his senses are pelted with the all-too-familiar wave of burnt espresso beans and brewing coffee, the undertones of cleaning product and stressed smiles hanging in the air like fog or precipitation or anything else that is mostly unpleasant and sometimes charming.

It all feels very familiar. Or, as Blaine's inner workings have come to begrudgingly label it as: Home.

"Blaine!"

Immediately comes the chorus of the green apron-ed bodies as he slips off his headphones (bye La Roux, sweet friend) with a proficient flick, sliding his iPod into his jacket pocket and assessing the zoo at hand.