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Lumine wouldn't say she has a passion for coffee, but she was just named Barista of the Month at Mondstadt Cafe, and as she ties her apron and slaps on a smile, she thinks that the ego boost can probably carry her through this eight hour shift.
Three shots of espresso, shotgunned out of a paper cut and tasting vaguely like battery acid, definitely help, too.
After clocking in, Lumine finds herself placed in front of the espresso machine. It's early enough in the morning that business is slow. Patrons wander in for their first cup of coffee; a handful of customers come through the drive-thru, lulling at the order box for what feels like an eternity.
"Okay, we'll see you at the window," Paimon chirps into her headset. She clicks it off and then turns to Lumine, grinning. "Someone needs caffeine to think straight."
The customer's order prints, and Lumine understands. Four minutes of intense, silent deliberation at the order box… only to order a plain latte.
Was it really that hard?
Pouring milk and pulling espresso shots, Lumine shares a giggle with Paimon. Color slowly brightens up the dark skyline. It makes Mondstadt Cafe feel brighter than its fluorescent overhead lighting allows before sunrise, breathing life into the empty coffee shop from the outside in.
If Lumine had a choice, she wouldn't work 5 a.m. shifts at a coffee shop. But every day, every dollar earned, gets her closer to finding her brother.
So she tells herself to grin and bear it every time Diluc schedules her at the ass crack of dawn.
More and more customers fumble their way through the drive-thru, but Lumine doesn't mind the morning's slow and steady pace. It gives her plenty of time to make each drink, confident that she's followed the recipe. She's still new at this job, and she attributes much of the past three months' successes to helpful hints from Paimon, and Diluc staring over her shoulder like a hawk, and perhaps most helpfully, Amber finishing half of Lumine's drinks every time they've been swamped.
But "barista training wheels," as Xiangling likes to call them, don't last forever—and Lumine will be expected to do everything on her own now. The Barista of the Month pin on her apron is a constant reminder of that.
So she takes a deep breath, and she doesn't cut corners, and maybe she even finds a spark of enjoyment in steamed milk and the scent of vanilla syrup.
Even while tracking down a long-lost brother, she's determined to make this shitty minimum wage job fun.
Diluc would remind her and Paimon not to have too much fun on the clock, though.
Lumine finds her rhythm with every latte that she dots with whipped cream and secures a lid on. Paimon nudges her in the right direction on some custom orders, "I pulled that extra shot for you!" here and "You forgot the almond milk!" there. But other than that, Lumine is handling the steady increase in orders on her own. She's feeling confident.
(Barista's famous last words, according to Xiangling—if only she mentioned that to Lumine a bit sooner.)
It's a longer wait than usual before the next ticket starts printing, but Lumine isn't worried. She's on a roll, and she feels like she could fight a Pyro Regisvine one-handed right about now, so she can certainly handle whatever this customer might throw at her—
Lumine looks at the ticket.
She blinks.
"Paimon?"
"I'm so sorry—it's gonna be—just try your best!"
Paimon gives a panicked thumbs-up before she's dragged into taking the next order.
Oh. So this drink is a mess.
Lumine doesn't know whether she should cry, or scream, or vomit. She has to read the ticket, all fifteen lines of it, several times before it even permeates her brain. She starts with heavy cream, and then adds black tea to that, and her stomach curdles as she adds mocha syrup to that.
"Shit," she curses, starting over and being sure to start with strawberry juice, as specially instructed. Fifteen pumps of lavender syrup, chocolate sprinkles next, one pump of raspberry—gag—and five shots for good measure (they're a bitch to pull and can't possibly balance out the monstrosity already taking place in the cup).
Why in Barbatos' holy name someone would drink this, or how someone would even come up with it—Lumine has no idea. She has to stop herself from retching as she scoops in matcha powder, la touche finale.
Lumine shakes the concoction as well as she can. When she finally pours it into the cup, it's a horrifying greenish brownish pink color. With a deep sigh, she lids it and sets it in front of Paimon, already mourning the drink's arrival at its final destination.
But in spite of her abject horror, she also feels ridiculously smug. As though she just accomplished some Herculean feat, like lifting a car off of someone or saving the world.
She wouldn't even mind making it again. Maybe. But not during peak.
Lumine lingers at the drive-thru counter, morbid curiosity pricking at her spine. She wonders who would order something this vile (and as unhealthy as radioactive waste, too). Paimon passes out the drink, and Lumine catches the customer like a blurred photograph. He's gone too quickly for her to register any identifying features, unique details.
Except for his vacant blue eyes.
He looks absolutely dead inside; the order makes more sense to Lumine now.
"He was a piece of work," Paimon mutters, collapsing onto the counter once the drive-thru window slides shut. "I hope he doesn't become a regular."
"Terrible taste in coffee, too," Lumine quips.
Hopefully it won't kill him.
If Lumine thought her mystery customer from a few weeks back looked like a dead man walking, the morning rush today has her feeling similarly unalive. Her half-hour break is gone in the blink of an eye. She drags herself back onto the floor, apron smeared with mocha and matcha and the tears of their short-staffed barista battalion, like a relic of war.
She's grateful when Diluc sends her to the window, relieving her of drink-making duty.
The late morning passes easily. The lull in customer-flow is a much-needed break. Even if it wasn't, Bennett plows through drinks like a seasoned craftsman and not a high school junior. Lumine feels like she can breathe again. Maybe she's finally living up to that shiny pin on her ragged apron.
Her headset dings, and she's ready for anything.
(Again, famous last words, or something like that.)
"Hi, welcome to Mondstadt Cafe," Lumine says, trying to sound as friendly as Amber, even though she's not. "What can I get started for you?"
"How're you this afternoon, girlie?"
Lumine pauses, taken aback. Customers usually launch into their order without a second thought for the person on the other side of the order box. It's… sweet, to be asked how she is once and awhile. Even if company policy claims she has to lie and say she's excellent.
However, customers also don't usually call her "girlie."
She could do without that.
"I'm excellent," Lumine deadpans. "Thanks for asking. What can I get—"
"My order's a little complicated." The voice lilts through the headset, a low timbre with the oddest ebb and flow of color, like an ocean wave. "Sure you can handle it?"
Lumine rolls her eyes. Why did it sound like a challenge? On a coffee order? Karens, they think they've invented the wheel because they substitute oat milk or light ice.
"I can make anything under the Mondstadt sun," she bristles. "Don't worry about that."
The customer's chuckle rings in her ear. She fights the urge to take off her headset and throw it across the cafe.
"Glad to hear it. In that case, can I get a…"
The customer rattles off a list of ingredients, the likes of which hold little rhyme or reason. At first, Lumine has no goddamn clue how he came up with this. It's so off the wall, so random. Like he created it purposely to fuck with her. On top of that, he spews it out far too quickly, a laugh like a trumpet bookending each sentence. Lumine's cheeks heat up, irritated that a customer is pushing her buttons like this—and embarrassed that she didn't catch the entire order.
Then again, the order sounds so familiar… almost like that bizarre drink that's been haunting her dreams for weeks. A nightmare that, in spite of herself, she's wanted to try a second time.
"Sir," she cuts in, then winces. If Amber heard her interrupting a customer...
"Mhm? What's that, girlie?"
"I'm—so sorry," Lumine spits through clenched teeth. "Would you mind repeating that part in the middle? After the black tea and cream, but before the... ah, chocolate sprinkles."
"Strawberry juice, lavender. Raspberry. And five shots."
It dawns on Lumine. So it is him again. With the ridiculous order and the dead blue eyes, and now apparently the penchant for speed-reciting his order like he's being timed, and calling her girlie at the order box.
She wants him to get the hell out of her drive-thru. But she loves a challenge. Why is she turning red?
"Ten shots in a day is gonna kill you," she blurts out.
"If only."
Lumine laughs, then tells herself to cut that out. It'll just encourage him.
"We'll see you at the window."
"And that's one of my easier drinks, too," the customer chuckles, turning up his music. "Thanks."
Lumine grins. Then she scowls.
Bastard.
Lumine would love a minute or two to process the maelstrom of emotions that that interaction stirred in her gut, but then he pulls forward and the headset dings again. She's taking another order—this one much more normal—and then ringing up a customer at the window, sending her on her way with her drinks and a smile.
This routine continues without a hitch, and Lumine almost feels like she has this job, and by association her life, all under control. Sure, it's just her and Bennett on the floor (Amber is on her lunch, and Diluc is dealing with corporate bullshit in the backroom), and the customer flow is picking up, and every shift at this place makes her feel like she's slowly sinking into oblivion—but right now, she's still breathing.
She's Barista of the Month, for Barbatos' sake. Nothing can phase her.
Mr. Difficult with the Dead Blue Eyes rolls up to the window. Lumine reaches to her right, muscle memory reassuring her that she can grab this man's drink off the counter, hand it out, and be done with him forever (or at least until tomorrow).
Lumine grasps air.
She looks down. No drink.
Her eyes dart up to the bar. Bennett stands stockstill in front of expiring espresso shots, clutching that cursed fifteen line sticker. He's the most fearless barista Lumine has ever seen, powered by youth and adrenaline and a fuckton of nitro cold brew. But right now, even he seems paralyzed by this drink.
Lumine has to act fast. She straightens her apron and passes her headset to Bennett. "Here, take this order, and I'll make that one."
"Are you sure?" Bennett shakes in his boots.
"Yep. I got it."
It happens in a blur of sweat, tears, dairy products, curse words, and enough espresso to kill a man. Lumine slaves over this concoction straight out of the Abyss, put on this little drink sticker to make her life a living hell, she's sure of it.
She could spit in his drink—that's probably what Kaeya would've advised her to do, before he was unceremoniously fired from Mondstadt Cafe. But Lumine would never. No, the best revenge is making this drink perfectly. Better than any drink she's ever made before. It isn't easy, but at least she's got practice under her belt.
The moment of truth. Again, she's on top of the world. Customer from hell has not gotten the best of her, and has in fact made her job more interesting.
As she finally lids the drink, Lumine has never felt more spiteful in her life.
"You're good to go back to the bar," she pats Bennett on the back. "I swear, the next order is not insane."
"I hoped so. Even my luck isn't bad enough to get that two cars in a row."
Bennett chucks the headset back into Lumine's hands and scurries back to the blissful land of plain lattes and frappes.
"I'll be right with you," Lumine tells the next customer. She ignores the screen showing their depressing drive-thru times, turning to the window.
She tries and fails to open it gently, throwing it open with a slam.
He still has the same soulless blue eyes, and she now hypothesizes that they're a result of both no sleep and caffeine overload—but the thing is, now she sees his coppery mop of hair. He hands her his card, wearing black gloves over his long, slender fingers. And he flashes her the brightest grin, which might disarm her if she wasn't ready to fight this man.
(Even so, it disarms her just a little bit.)
"Afternoon, girlie."
He's hot. She wants him dead.
"Sorry about the wait," Lumine mumbles. She's experiencing approximately twenty years of embarrassment distilled into one conversation at the drive-thru window.
"No worries."
She returns his card and then grabs her Achilles' heel in drink form. When she goes to pass it out, he rescinds his hand.
"That's not right," he frowns.
Lumine blinks.
"Uh. Yes, it is." Shit. Mouthing off at customers isn't on the company-approved communication model. Lumine wills her brow to unwrinkle. "I mean—what's not right about it? Sir."
"It was supposed to be… iced?"
"Huh? This is iced."
The customer stares at her, a bit like he's observing a baboon in a zoo. This job certainly makes her feel like one.
"Oh," he says. "Then can you make it hot?"
"That will taste like shit."
Lumine clamps her hand over her mouth. Three months of "the customer is always right" and careful repression; one sexy annoyance in her drive-thru, and that all flies out the window. The literal drive-thru window, more specifically.
But the aforementioned sexy annoyance just laughs again.
"Fair enough," he relents. "Just take the ice out, and that should work."
In her periphery, Lumine sees Bennett's soul leave his body as he tries to problem solve this problem drink while also churning out frappes and iced teas. So Lumine pops off the drink's lid and drains the slimy greenish-pinkish-brown liquid into a new cup meant for hot drinks, keeping the ice at bay.
Fun challenge drink is losing its fun and is now just a challenge, that's for sure.
"There." She hands it out with a huff. She's not out of breath, which would be silly. Mr. Pain in the Neck nods like he's satisfied now, sniffing at the hole in the lid.
His nose must be off. Lumine grimaces.
"Okay, that's better," he sets the cup down in his shiny black cup holder. He winks, grinning up at her. "Thanks for the fix."
Lumine scowls deeply at his smarmy words, blushes even deeper at his wink. Blame the heat on Bennett steaming milk about five feet away.
"Anytime," she says, unlatching the window and beginning to shut it. But the glass doesn't erase this guy from Lumine's line of vision; no, it casts him in greyscale, face turning decidedly less friendly.
He's not leaving.
Lumine opens the window again by a few inches. "... Yes?"
"My refund?"
Lumine does a double take, headset nearly flying off of her head. "A refund? For what?"
"You got my drink wrong."
He says it so innocently. Just like a harmless puppy—but Lumine has tried to feed one too many stray dogs, and she knows when she's about to get bit.
"Sir." She narrows her eyes, knuckles turning white on the window edge. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that for you."
"You're providing terrible service."
Lumine sets her jaw. "Well, you're a terrible customer."
The customer raises an eyebrow, laughing softly. Like he's mad and entertained and a little bit of something else that Lumine can't name, but she can name the way her stomach is flip-flopping. She attributes the sickenly sweet sensation to all the espresso she's consumed today, because it's certainly not anything about talking to this positively aggravating stranger.
"Funny," he says, in this flippant voice she can't make sense of. Like velvet, or deadly quicksand, or maybe like being dunked underwater. "I'll let you try again tomorrow then."
Lumine stares at him, face stony. "We're thrilled to hear that. Can you leave now? There are people behind you."
"Yeah, I can."
"Thank you."
The customer's gloved hand stalls on his steering wheel. "One more thing."
"What?"
"You're cute when you're angry."
Lumine doesn't have to see her reflection in the glass to know she's beet-red. No, she feels her flush crawl up her neck, her ears, taking over her cheeks. And she sees the customer grin like he's pleased. He doesn't linger to watch her for too long, rolling up his window and finally exiting the drive-thru.
Bennett grabs her by the waist—and that's how Lumine finds out just how strong he is for a high schooler. He holds her back from crawling through the window and throttling the customer. Or worse, tailing his car in cold blood.
Lumine feels on the verge of death. Which is to say, it's about how she feels at the end of every shift.
With 45 minutes to go before the evening baristas take over, she and Amber are shooting the shit. Business has slowed with the late afternoon lull, so they take turns restocking, wiping down counters, and making quips into their headsets. Lumine is almost surprised to hear the door swing open, bell chiming; most of their frantic customer base acts like the drive-thru vs. ordering inside is a life or death difference. It's almost a pleasant surprise to have a customer in the cafe.
Until she looks up.
"Hey, girlie. I'm back."
Lumine's eye twitches.
"It's you," she says miserably.
He laughs like it's a game. "It's me. Childe, by the way. And you are," he bends his knees to read her nametag—shit he's taller outside of his car, she hates this, shit, "... Lumine."
"I—yes," she shakes her head, mouth dry. "What do you want now?"
She doesn't try to hide her bluntness, and he doesn't seem bothered by it. Holding up his half-empty cup, he shrugs. "I need a new drink."
Lumine drops her rag, and it hits the ground with a squelch.
"You've got to be kidding."
"But I'm not."
"Fine," Lumine sighs, grabbing a new cup. Her shift is so close to done. He can't bother her for much longer (this makes her both elated and disappointed). "What was wrong with the drink?"
"Well—look. Usually, that drink is for me."
"I figured," Lumine shudders.
"But today, the drink was for my little brother. He's ten, likes sweet things, great kid. Well, he hated the drink. Not sweet enough, if you can believe it!"
With that much espresso, Lumine can believe it.
"So," he goes on, "I need it remade. But as something that little kids like." He pauses. "If you don't mind, girlie."
At that, the customer—Childe, and what kind of name is that anyway?—looks sheepishly at her. He doesn't turn bright red, the way Lumine wears her emotions on her sleeve, smeared across her face like a betrayal of her heart. But if she really looks, she can see pink dusting his ears.
He's wearing the silliest tall boots, with longer legs to match. A sliver of his abdomen peeks out from his shirt hem (oh god, that's it, Lumine thinks as she dies internally, no more customers in the cafe). She has to tilt her head to meet his eyes; they're still soulless, yes, but up close… they're actually quite pretty. And of course, the copper hair—and Lumine realizes that maybe that's the color fogging her vision right now. She doesn't see red; she's too overworked and checked out for that. No, she looks at him through an orange tint, anger dampened by the angles and curves of his face, equal parts rage-inducing and charming.
Lumine starts laughing.
"Kids shouldn't be having five shots of espresso," she says. "You're deranged."
"So I've been told."
He flashes her an embarrassed grin. It looks fitting on him, she decides.
"Okay, since you asked so nicely and stopped being a Karen—I'll see what I can do."
Childe protests at the jab, but he stops arguing once Lumine starts moving behind the counter.
His nagging turns to softer banter as he watches her work. Lumine pours milk and pumps syrup at a more leisurely pace than usual. She cracks jokes at Childe's expense—"has anyone ever told you that you take too long to order?" and "that many pumps of lavender is the same as drinking Febreze, just so you know." As Childe laughs with his whole chest and berates her in turn—"I could get you fired so easily, if I really wanted to"—she finds that she doesn't mind the time it takes to make his drink.
For the first time in months, Lumine loves her soul-sucking job. Just a little bit.
"Alright, what do we have here?" Childe asks as she presents him with her final product.
"Strawberry frappe." Lumine draws herself proudly to her full height. "An item that's actually on our menu, for starters. Sweet, easy to make, and most importantly, not caffeinated."
Childe appraises the pink-tinted cup. Then, he nods. "Second time's the charm."
"Third," Lumine corrects. When he raises an eyebrow, she adds, "I've made your drink before. Not an easy one to forget."
He smiles—half-stray dog, half-snake going in for the kill. She can't make sense of both sides put together, but maybe she's okay with his contradictions.
"I don't like being forgotten."
She laughs. "Don't worry, no one will if you keep ordering that drink. But please," she leans forward on the counter, fixing him with a hard stare, "not in the drive-thru. You have no idea how much you held up the line. Just come inside and order it."
"Sure," he smirks. "For the sake of the drive-thru."
She turns around and starts scrubbing at the counter before he can see her blush. "Yep. That's what I said."
Maybe that stray dog thing will keep working; if she just ignores him, he'll leave soon enough. And she can go back to plain lattes and brother-searching and the monotony of a barista's life.
She waits.
"Sorry, before I leave," he says, because of course he didn't leave. "Could you throw this drink away? Since Teucer didn't want it. And it's getting all goopy."
"If that's what it takes to get you out of here. We're about to close."
"Apologies from the bottom of my heart."
He hands her his half empty drink from earlier, its swirl of green-pink-brown contents looking murkier than ever. She notices that he took the ridiculously long sticker off the cup—
And then Childe sticks it to her forehead.
Her hand darts up, fingers brushing past his and churning up anxiety in her stomach.
"Hey!"
"You can recycle that, since it's paper!" He grabs the strawberry frappe and makes a beeline for the door. Glancing back over his shoulder, the sun hits his hair through the glass doorway. He winks at her, looking golden. "Thanks again, Lumine."
She watches his long coat whip behind him as he leaves, the door swinging shut. Amber focuses very hard on wiping down syrup bottles, as if she wasn't hanging on every word of that interaction.
Lumine reaches up and grabs the sticker from her forehead. She tells herself she's just un-ruffling her bangs, even as she lingers on the spot where his glove touched her skin.
Some fucking nerve that guy has, Lumine thinks as she looks at the sticker—
It doesn't just have his stupid order on it anymore. No, there's a string of tiny, neat numbers scrawled along the edge.
A phone number.
Written just beneath it are the words: Call me ;)
"What's that?"
Lumine bumps into the counter, jerking away from Amber who's hunched over her shoulder. "Stop that."
"Oh, I see," Amber says. There's a devious twinkle in her eye, and Lumine hates it. "I thought you were being awfully friendly. Especially on a remake."
Lumine tries to rub the heat from her cheeks. God, she feels crimson from head to toe. "I'm gonna throw it away," she says.
"No, you won't," Amber laughs, carrying a handful of dirty dishes to the back room.
Lumine considers the trash can, filled to the brim with empty milk cartons, coffee filters, used cups. And privately, she wonders if she wouldn't mind it so much if Childe—Mr. Pain in Her Neck With the Stupid Order That Probably Tastes Like Lavendar Gasoline—became a regular at Mondstadt Cafe. It'd be a struggle, but she might be able to get used to making his ridiculous drink each day, and bickering with him over whether she left out the single pump of raspberry, and studying his freckled face as he smirks and laughs and smiles at her.
And since Amber is still in the back, Lumine lets herself grin as she looks down at the crumpled sticker in her hand.
If he makes a scene in the drive-thru again, she's giving him decaf and skim milk. Still, she wouldn't hate it if Childe became a regular, she decides.
In fact, she might actually like that. Just a little.
Lumine turns away from the trash can. Covertly but carefully, she slips the sticker into the pocket of her apron.