Dreaming of You

Chapter 2

The next day, as Blaine pulls open the door to the shop and everybody's head flicks up to beam at him ("Blainers!!"), things are much the same as the day before. It's still the Ice Age and it's still fairly miserable and uninspiring and he's tired and wishes he was at home, snuggled up with his heated blanket and a mug of tea.

Again, the café is filled just enough for him to be annoyed. But today he's a bit crabbier; because he has a closing shift. (Yay.) And the only good news is that Wes is his Supervisor through it all—small victories.

"Anderson," Wes greets mildly as he's shifting through some official-looking papers at the work station. He glances up casually, his eyelashes nearly brushing the ceiling, his hair looking deliciously disheveled. Did Blaine ever mention how unfairly fit Wes is? Freakishly and unfairly fit? "Are you my closer tonight?" he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I am indeed," Blaine smiles in response, unzipping his jacket and allowing the fumes of coffee to assault him, hoping they will miraculously seep through his flesh and ignite his very sludgy, still-in-bed veins. He glances around at who's working—neither Nick or Trent.

Damn.

"Looks like we got the dream team, then," Wes mutters as he peruses the schedule, pleased, and glances up at Blaine. "Nick's coming in at five."

Praise!

"Yessss," Blaine suddenly grins, mood lifting immediately as he offers up a cheeky wink. "A night to remember, then, Superior?"

"A night to remember," Wes agrees with a chuckle. "So. You're gonna replace Missy on bar as soon as you get on the floor, alright?" he adds lazily.

Blaine's heart positively sings.

"Sounds perfect," he trills, and nearly skips into the backroom to deposit his belongings, tucking his journal into his pocket as he passes.

**

Nick arrives fifteen minutes before five and Blaine's already in a good mood (business having been pleasantly steady and the customers and partners alike providing Blaine with sufficient laughs and fetching smiles) so the outlook is already pretty positive, all in all. He's been patient and accommodating and hasn't rolled his eyes once—not even when someone ordered a "S'mores" beverage. Which. No.

So he's feeling even more gregarious when Nick steps onto the floor, tying his apron in the back and smiling.

"Well, look who it is," Blaine beams, topping off a white mocha.

Nick rolls his eyes but smiles amiably. "Let the games begin."

"'S not a game, Nicky. It's a matter of life and death, the Starbucks. Ain't that right, Superior?" Blaine calls sweetly, capping the drink and setting it near the drive-thru window.

"Fuck Starbucks," Wes mutters in response from across the way, crouched and entering the code to the safe.

Nick furrows his brow, opening his mouth—to scold Wes' language, no doubt—but Blaine cuts him off, laughing.

"Starfucks?" he offers.

Wes grins, casting an appreciative glance Blaine's way. "Wanna go to the bars after we close?" he asks, rising from his crouched position. "Need a drink after this week."

"I never say no. You coming, Nick?"

Nick shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

Blaine beams. "Perfect. Now let's make sure to close up fast tonight, boys. Don't wanna be here till the wee hours of morning. Blaine's thirsty. Blaine needs pink vodka."