Chapter Text
Fluixon stood in the center of the living room and wondered, for the nineteenth time this week, how his life turned out like this. The chandelier above him reflected in the polished marble floor, gold fixtures everywhere, the kind of wealth people either envied or complained about on Twitter — and yet he, a trust-fund kid with a house big enough to get lost in, was scheduled for a 6AM barista shift tomorrow.
It made no sense.
Nothing about their family made sense.
His father sat comfortably in his favorite armchair, sipping imported tea with the arrogance of a man who had never worked a cash register in his life. Cynikka sat beside Flux on the rug, hair falling freely, no longer tied in its usual buns. Ender lounged on the velvet couch with his feet up, one arm behind his head, watching the chaos unfold with sick amusement. He had served his sentence already — they had not.
Fluixon’s patience crumbled first.
“Why?” he demanded. “Why do we have to work there? We are literally—” He gestured around them, nearly knocking into an antique vase. “We’re wealthy, ridiculously so. And yet somehow we have a hallway that does nothing except remind you how big this house is and how small my patience is.”
Cynikka chimed in without looking up from her phone. “And a pool reserved exclusively for koi fish, by the way. Explain to me why I’m making cappuccinos for frat boys instead of enjoying inherited luxury.”
Elanuelo only smiled, too pleased with himself. “It’s tradition.”
Fluixon blinked at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Elanuelo said, annoyingly cheerful. “Each of my children must work at the café for at least a year. Builds character. Strengthens discipline. Keeps the ego humble.”
Fluixon stared. Cynikka stared. Even Blue, curled under the table, let out a confused little huff.
“Dad,” Fluixon said slowly, “you could hire an army of baristas, open five more cafés, and somehow still find a way to pay us not to show up.”
“I don’t want strangers doing my job,” Elanuelo replied. His tone softened like he thought he sounded wise. “The café is part of our family history. You’ll understand one day.”
Fluixon felt his eye twitch. “I do understand. It’s child labor.”
Cynikka nodded in solidarity beside him. “And completely unnecessary.”
Ender wheezed laughing. He had been waiting for this moment — to watch them realize the trap.
“You two thought I worked there willingly?” he managed between laughs. “I was forced. I signed no contract. I had no rights. I survived on tips and pity muffins.”
Fluixon looked betrayed. “You never warned us.”
“I tried,” Ender said. “I told you both to run before you turned eighteen, but you didn’t listen. You thought I was joking.”
Fluixon sank into a chair. Cynikka looked like she was planning an escape route involving fake passports and a stolen jet.
Elanuelo set his teacup down with a smile so satisfied that Fluixon knew he was enjoying this — the power, the tradition, the chaos.
“You’ll thank me,” he promised softly, like this was a gift.
Fluixon thought, with absolute certainty, I will not.
Cynikka muttered under her breath, “I’m calling this what it is. Exploitation.”
Blue barked once, almost like he agreed.
And that was it — the official sentencing. Two wealthy siblings with a mansion so big it could be listed on a map now had to wake up before sunrise to serve lattes to sleep-deprived college students.
Not because they needed money.
Not because business mattered.
But because their father decided it was character development.
Ender raised his glass toward them like a toast. “Good luck,” he said. “The espresso machine has teeth.”
Fluixon prayed for a meteor.
Cynikka prayed for emancipation.
Elanuelo hummed happily.
Fluixon’s alarm shattered the quiet at 5:00 AM.
He stared at his ceiling, dead inside. It was Saturday. A day meant for sleeping in, for sprawling across his unnecessarily large bed and basking in the privilege of doing absolutely nothing.
But his father believed in “character development.”
So here Fluixon was — awake before sunrise, hating the world, hating the café more, and hating his future self who now had shifts after his university lectures. Genius or not, even he couldn’t schedule his way out of capitalism disguised as tradition.
He was naturally smart — the sort who could ace an exam with half a brain cell and a pen he found on the ground — but he valued his free time. And this job was eating it whole.
With the dramatic misery of someone who deserved better, he dragged himself out of bed, feet cold on the expensive marble that probably cost more than his tuition. He got dressed lazily: a shirt with a cartoon kitten on the front, because it would get hidden beneath that stupid apron anyway. A black hoodie just in case and sweatpants, because comfort was the only joy he had left at five in the morning.
Still, he fixed his hair and washed his face. Aculon Beans had a reputation — the kind of café university students flocked to with laptops and expectations. He wasn’t giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing him crusty.
He stepped out of his room and began the descent down the mansion’s staircase. It spiraled like something out of a Renaissance painting — beautiful, dramatic, and entirely impractical. He’d slipped on it twice last year and threatened to sue their architect ancestor.
The hallway was quiet except for faint clinking in the kitchen. As he reached the bottom, he found Cynikka sitting on the counter, legs swinging, eating an apple like she was posing for a candid aesthetic photo. Her hair was in two messy buns, her maroon hoodie half-zipped, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Elanuelo stood beside her, casually sipping morning tea and lecturing her about “work ethic.” Cynikka stared at him like she was calculating how many years she’d get for patricide.
Fluixon paused at the doorway, taking in the scene. His sister looked exhausted and done. Their father looked delighted and refreshed. The universe was cruel.
Cynikka spotted him first. “Look who’s awake at a cursed hour.”
Fluixon’s lips twitched into a tired smile. “I’d rather be dead.”
“Same,” she muttered, biting into her apple like it offended her.
Elanuelo turned to them both with the bright cheerfulness of a man who had never worked retail. “Good morning! Ready for another productive day?”
Neither sibling responded.
Fluixon adjusted his hoodie and considered the stairs behind him, wondering if turning around and going back to bed was a crime or simply self-preservation.
Instead, he sighed, picked up the keys on the counter, and looked at Cynikka.
“Let’s get this over with.”
She hopped down from the counter, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Race you to the car. Winner gets to choose the café playlist.”
Fluixon snorted. “You’re still banned from K-pop Fridays.”
“Not if I run fast enough,” she shot back, already darting toward the door.
Fluixon and Cynikka had both dozed off during the ride, heads lolling against the seats, only to be wrenched awake by their father’s chirpy voice far too early in the morning.
“Wake up, kids! We’re here!” Elanuelo announced, practically bouncing with delight.
Fluixon groaned, muffled into his hoodie. “This is an outrage…” he muttered. “Ender, that lucky bastard, is probably sound asleep right now.”
Elanuelo’s eyes twinkled. “Your brother went through this too, so it’s only fair you guys do too!”
Cynikka, slouching in the front seat, muttered under her breath, “Lucky bastard…”
Fluixon muttered a quiet curse as he followed her out of the car. They both silently cursed Ender under their breath while Elanuelo hummed happily to himself, clearly enjoying watching them suffer.
The café was quiet, the doors still closed to customers, but the scent of freshly ground coffee filled the air. Fluixon’s eyes immediately landed on the familiar posters lining the walls — posters he had drawn by hand. His father often asked him to make seasonal promo designs, and though he sometimes grumbled, he had complied because he genuinely enjoyed drawing. He was proud of them — little steam curls over mugs, tiny doodles of pastries, the warm colors he’d carefully chosen.
Fluixon remembered last week, when Elanuelo had brought all three siblings to the café to show them the basics of working there. He had laughed it off, thinking it a joke, until he realized that it wasn’t. That’s also when he learned that one of his friends from university, Magic, would be joining them on shifts.
Magic had been Fluixon’s friend for a few years — the kind of friendship that started unexpectedly, built over late-night calls, shared sarcasm, and the occasional insane adventure. Somehow, it had worked.
Magic walked in just then, hair messy but intentional, carrying her calm, easy aura like a shield. “Morning,” she said, grabbing a cup of coffee for herself.
Elanuelo clapped his hands together. “Alright, team! You’ve already learned the ropes — drinks, pastries, and opening procedures. Keep the café spotless, be cheerful, and remember to smile at the guests!”
He lingered for a moment, giving them last-minute instructions, then finally left, humming happily as he went.
Fluixon, Cynikka, and Magic helped themselves to coffee while waiting for the morning rush. Fluixon took a deep breath of the warm, comforting smell of espresso and baked goods. It was quiet for now, but he knew that once the doors opened, the day would stretch long and tiring before them.
“This is going to be a long day,” he muttered, taking a sip, while Magic nodded, already bracing herself.
The morning rush was brutal.
Fluixon had expected chaos, of course, but somehow the reality still hit harder than anticipated. It was a Saturday, and apparently, there existed students who woke up at ungodly hours to study instead of sleeping in. Some kind of caffeine-fueled masochism.
Cynikka manned the cashier, which was undoubtedly a poor choice. People had always said she looked mad all the time, and the early hour wasn’t helping. Her scowls and eye rolls probably intimidated half the customers before they even ordered. Fluixon secretly smirked every time someone jumped slightly at her sharp efficiency.
Behind the counter, he and Magic worked the espresso machines side by side. The air was filled with the comforting hiss of steam, the earthy aroma of ground beans, and the low hum of the grinder. They moved in a rhythm, pulling shots, steaming milk, and topping lattes with little flourishes — latte art that even made Magic glance up and nod approvingly.
“You’re really fast,” she said once, her voice calm and measured as she frothed milk. “Not just with the drinks — everything.”
Fluixon shrugged, almost embarrassed. “Honestly? I like it. The process, the precision, all the tiny details. Makes me feel like I can control something, even if it’s just a cup of coffee.”
Magic smiled. “Well, the customers seem to agree.”
He glanced up just in time to see a girl’s eyes light up at a perfectly poured cappuccino. Another student inhaled deeply before taking the first sip, nodding appreciatively at the foam art. The reactions, subtle as they were, warmed him more than he expected.
The rest of the morning blurred into a mix of espresso, steamed milk, orders shouted across the counter, and the occasional bickering from Cynikka at the register. Fluixon found himself surprisingly content, even energized. Despite the exhaustion, despite the early hour, despite the relentless pace, he liked it. He liked making coffee. Liked the focus it demanded, the artistry in each cup, and even the tiny moments of human connection it brought, however fleeting.
By the time the first wave of customers thinned, he was tired, yes, but oddly satisfied. He had survived the chaos, and in a small way, he had thrived in it.
The café had settled into a rare lull. Most of the morning rush had passed, and the students who remained were quietly enjoying their coffee, laptops open, half-heartedly pretending to be productive. The hiss of the espresso machine was softer now, and Fluixon finally had a moment to breathe.
“So, Magic,” Cynikka asked, taking a bite of a muffin from the pastry tray, “what led you to working here?”
Magic leaned casually against the counter, smirking. “Well, I needed extra money. And your dad likes me, which apparently means I get special treatment.”
Fluixon scoffed, shaking his head. “He only likes you because Blue likes you. Blue hates everyone but our family and you. I don’t get it.”
Magic’s grin widened. “Told you, man. Blue is our dog now.”
The two of them continued talking, their laughter soft but carrying across the quiet café. Fluixon listened half-heartedly, pretending to be focused on cleaning a counter, though part of him was just glad to hear someone else relax in the chaos for a moment.
And then the door opened.
Fluixon looked up almost instinctively and froze.
Eyes. Golden, striking, and impossibly bright, catching the morning light in a way that made everything else blur. The kind of eyes that demanded attention without saying a word.
For a heartbeat, Fluixon couldn’t breathe. Everything around him — the coffee, the muffins, the soft chatter — fell away. All he could see was the way those eyes seemed to look right at him, curious, calm, and entirely captivating.
Because Cynikka and Magic were too busy laughing and trading stories, Fluixon was left to take the boy’s order. He straightened slightly, trying to act professional, though his brain felt like it had short-circuited the second the golden eyes met his.
The boy studied the café quietly, his gaze lingering on the posters Fluixon had drawn. He traced a line of the latte art illustration with his eyes, then slowly looked up at the menu. He hesitated, his expression open and honest, like he was genuinely trying to figure out the best option.
“Uhh… any recommendations to wake a guy up?” he asked, voice soft and amused. “I’m barely even awake right now. I’d take anything.”
Fluixon blinked, momentarily distracted by those glowing eyes, the warmth in them that somehow made his pulse speed. He opened his mouth to speak, then realized he had no idea what to say.
“Spanish latte,” Magic supplied with a grin, gesturing casually to him. “Flux here makes them really well.”
The boy turned toward Fluixon, tilting his head slightly, and smiled. It was warm and Fluixon had decided that he was fond of this boys smile. It made him feel like he’d been caught staring at something he shouldn’t.
“Alright,” the boy said, voice cheerful, “Spanish latte it is!”
Fluixon cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “Name?”
“Saparata,” he said, still smiling, as if the word itself was part of his charm.
Fluixon nodded, scribbling it on the cup, trying not to stare too long. He caught himself sneaking another glance up at Saparata’s face — the way the corners of his mouth lifted naturally, the faint golden glow in his eyes as he watched the café around him.
It was… distracting. But in a way that made Fluixon’s stomach do something unfamiliar and thrilling. A spark in the middle of an otherwise ordinary Saturday.
Fluixon’s hands shook slightly as he reached for the espresso shot. What just happened? He froze. He, Fluixon — the same Fluixon who intimidated professors, who could make students tremble with a glance — just completely froze in front of a boy.
A boy whose smile— Saparata’s smile had done something impossible. Something that made his usual charm vanish like steam from a fresh cappuccino.
No. Absolutely unacceptable. Outrageous even.
He glanced up cautiously, only to find Saparata still looking at him, head tilted slightly, golden eyes fixed on him with… interest. Interest?
Fluixon almost dropped the brewer. Heat flushed his face. His chest tightened. His normally smooth, precise movements suddenly felt clumsy and exposed.
He took a deep breath, trying to focus. Coffee first. Don’t ruin the coffee. Don’t ruin yourself. Don’t look at him. Don’t —
Too late.
He looked back anyway, caught Saparata’s gaze again, and felt that strange, flustered buzz spiral in his stomach. Why couldn’t he find a seat and wait till his name was called like a normal customer? Panic prickled along his nerves, a small heat creeping through his body.
Then, with a shaky exhale, he turned back to the coffee. If he was going to survive this, he needed a plan — something safe. Something creative. Something that wouldn’t betray how flustered he was.
Latte art.
Fluixon set his mind to it, carefully steaming the milk. As he poured, he decided… why not? A small, playful distraction might calm him down. A puppy. A dopey, smiling little puppy drawn with his hands on the surface of the latte.
He finished, stepping back slightly, trying to act casual while internally panicking. The puppy grinned up at him innocently, completely unaware of the chaos it had just caused in his chest.
Saparata leaned forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “Wow… that’s amazing!” he said softly, voice warm.
Fluixon’s brain short-circuited again. Unacceptable.
Saparata took the latte from Fluixon, eyes immediately drawn to the little puppy smiling up at him from the foam. He leaned closer, tracing the lines with his gaze, golden eyes sparkling. “This… this is incredible,” he murmured, voice soft, genuine. “You made this?”
Fluixon, standing a few steps back, felt his stomach twist in panic and excitement. “Y-yeah… just a… puppy,” he stammered, trying to sound casual while internally combusting.
Saparata smiled wider, that warm, dopey smile that seemed to reach into Fluixon’s chest and poke something frantic and unfamiliar. He lifted the cup carefully, took a slow sip, and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. “Wow… your coffee is so good. Really.”
Fluixon tried not to look at him too long, but it was impossible. Across the counter, Magic caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, smirking knowingly. Cynikka leaned over from the register, shooting him a teasing grin. Fluixon’s cheeks flamed hotter.
Saparata set the latte down carefully on the table and sat, still staring a little at the puppy foam, golden eyes bright with genuine appreciation. He took a slow sip, savoring it as if each swallow deserved a moment of reverence. Fluixon hovered behind the counter, heart hammering in his chest, trying to focus on something — anything — other than the way Saparata’s eyes seemed to make everything else fade.
“Wow, Flux, someone’s got you completely rattled,” Cynikka said, voice low enough for only him to hear.
Fluixon’s face heated instantly. “I am not… flustered,” he muttered, though the shaking of his hands as he prepped the next drink betrayed him.
“Uh-huh,” Magic drawled. “Sure, you’re not flustered.” She glanced at him with that little smirk that said, we see you.
Cynikka leaned in closer, whispering just loud enough for him to hear: “Golden eyes, huh? Cute little puppy latte… I can’t imagine why you’re acting so weird.”
Fluixon groaned softly, gripping the edge of the counter, and silently prayed the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
As Saparata sipped his coffee, Fluixon finally allowed himself to really look at him — the sharp angles of his face, the stark white of his hair against his pale skin, and those tiny matching moles just beneath his eyes that somehow made it even more impossible to look away.
By the time Saparata finished his coffee, Fluixon had somehow managed to steady himself enough to walk over to the table. He reached for the cup, still blinking like the world had gone slightly off-kilter.
Saparata looked up at him, still smiling that soft, warm, dopey smile. “I really like your coffee… and this café. I’ll surely be coming back,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Fluixon froze mid-step, chest tight, brain short-circuiting entirely. “Y-yeah… okay. I’ll… see you then,” he managed, voice barely above a whisper.
Saparata grinned, a small tilt of the head, golden eyes catching the morning light. “Looking forward to it,” he added softly.
Fluixon turned back toward the counter, muttering under his breath, cheeks burning. Cynikka and Magic exchanged satisfied looks, clearly enjoying watching him squirm.
Absolutely unacceptable, Fluixon thought. And yet… completely unavoidable.