Chapter Text
Fel
8:27am: Door's locked
8:29am: Bri
Bri Bri
8:30am: Yeah no shit
8:30am: You have a key. Use it
Fel
8:30am: Lost it
Bri Bri
8:31am: Between your van and the back door?
8:31am: You know how much those cost to replace
Fel
8:31am: Vans or doors?
Bri Bri
8:32am: Are you fucking kidding me
8:32am: The key. asshole
Fel
8:32am: Yeah yeah I know. I'll find it
8:32am: It's probably under the seat
8:34am: Bri please
8:35am: Briala it is COLD
Bri Bri
8:35am: Sounds like a personal problem
Despite her feigned cruelty, the back door unlatches the moment Felassan's phone vibrates against his palm, creaking open only enough for Briala to wriggle her face through. Cinnamon curls swing through the crack, swaying across her shoulders and brushing against her forehead.
Such softness accentuates the eyeliner that is just as sharp as the judgmental up-and-down she gives him.
"You seriously lost your key already?"
He mimics her lilt, accompanying sarcasm with a casual shrug. "I seriously lost my key already."
Glistening red lips betray no trace of the smile Felassan knows she is hiding, but the wrinkles of her nose yet belie her amusement.
"You understand that this is a violation of your probationary period?"
"Uh." He blinks rapidly to signal his confusion. "My what?"
"You have worked here for four days."
"Uh… huh. Right."
"So I am within bounds to terminate."
"Terminate?!" His eyes grow wide, and she mimics the motion sardonically. "You begged me to come over here, Bri."
"And?"
"That means you- by law!- cannot fire me."
Fingers snake out from the crack in the door, drifting to pinch at the bridge of her nose. "… Felassan," she grumbles.
"Oh!" Had he a free hand, it would clutch emphatically at his heart. As is, he swings his head back to convey his theatricality. "Not the government name!"
"Oh yes, the government name."
His brow droops overtop a blank stare. Several chilly seconds pass.
"… I'm changing your name back to Bitchala in my phone," he promises. "Now let me in."
A snort breaks through the pretense of her irritation, though scrutiny yet lingers in the rhythm of her nails- lacquered to match her lips- tapping fiercely against the outer frame. She eventually rolls her eyes to denote her retreat, but leaves her fingers in the jamb, holding the door ajar just enough for Felassan to shove open with the corner of his toolbox.
The transition from overcast skies to harsh fluorescents does little to absolve the minute trickle of migraine already beginning to plague him. A harsh squeeze of his eyelids brings the artificial lighting into focus, just to catch Vivienne eyeing him critically over the top of a hand mirror.
Felassan gives her a terse smile that she does not return.
What a lovely start to the day.
Blessedly, Briala leads him swiftly away from the cold ambiance of the break room.
"You finally able to catch that shower?" she asks over her shoulder as they slip through one door, then turn the corner towards the laundry.
"My hair is literally wet right now."
"And it literally looks the same greased." Their eyes snag when she turns to face him, hands clutching at her hips. Her mouth twists scornfully to one side, mirroring a shrug. "Fifty-fifty chance."
The acerbic clang of his toolbox knocking against the edge of the utility sink draws a groan from them both; four days has apparently not been enough time to recall just how close said sink is to the doorway. He hoists his toolbox to rest on the edge instead, setting it down gingerly.
Carrying such a heavy thing during casual conversation does not behoove him.
"That it's wet or greased?"
"Yes." One of her knees kisses the ground, a prelude to yanking open the washer door. "And you should be styling it before you come in to work, like everyone else."
"I'm not styling my hair in a gym bathroom, Bri."
"Wouldn't make it worse than it already is, Fel," comes a pointed, though muffled reply from halfway within the machine. "Wish you'd let me cut it already."
A self-conscious hand raises to run through damp locks, twirling them around a finger to examine. "I did ask you to shave my undercut, at least."
Glancing up brings together a meeting of raised brows, an assessment that lasts several seconds. It's a silent dare- her eyebrows competing to see just how high they're able to climb before he cracks.
… But he doesn't, so she tips her head forward in question, insisting he continue.
"I'll pay you in butt smacks?" he croons in teasing sing-song, resuming the twirling he'd paused amidst their stare-down.
"I'm sure HR would love that." Another performance of her signature eye roll is half-concealed by the task of shoving damp towels into the dryer. "You know it's not what I meant, though. What you need is a good four inches-"
"I refute that," he interjects, "and you are definitely not cutting any of my hair now." He slides his toolbox from the sink, and the shift of its weight draws a noise befit a middle-aged father from his throat. "I'm going to leave and go get set up, if only to remove myself from your presence. Need anything? Other than to scorn my good looks?"
A resigned sigh echoes from within the dryer. "Steam towels."
Of course.
Bitch.
Ten-ish minutes and a score of prepared steam towels later, Felassan stands behind the front desk whilst Briala balances the till. The view of his schedule over her shoulder is abysmal:
Four kid's cuts in a row.
One measly buzz cut- probably an asshole.
Two more kid's cuts.
Then nothing.
Lunch.
More fucking nothing.
The pain is writ clearly upon his face as he swivels from the monitor to throw her a narrowed eye. She spares no glance from the silver she's slipping from fingers to palm, even with the exaggerated waggles of his brow in her direction.
"I cannot take every single kid's cut for the day, Bri," he tells her, once the silence grows too thick.
"School is out," she replies simply. "We're all taking kid's cuts all day."
"You have…" Fingers fiddle with the apron straps at his waist as he counts, one, two, under his breath. "Three. Viv has none. I have six! I'll be cutting more heads than both of you and still make less."
"Get clients to return to you? Start doing color like Viv?" A lazy, indiscriminate wave tosses in his direction. "The list goes on."
He stalls the tying of his apron to grimace pointedly at her, ears drooping with disgruntlement. "I. Am. A. Barber?" he reminds her laboriously, savoring the absurdity of repeating himself for the whatever-th time.
"Yep. And?"
"… You hired me on so you'd have someone to do shaves for the-" A hand sweeps to her ear and a caustic whisper unfurl behind it. "Shemlen."
She bats him away. "Yes. And?"
"Well, and Dwarves, I guess," he adds on, returning to the task of his straps.
Counting fingers clasp around coins, and exasperation ripples through the groan of his name. "Felassan."
"Wha-at?"
"It's too early for this."
"I'm being very normal for this time of day, actually. All I'm saying is I'm not doing color."
She lands a gentle slap on his shoulder, then trails upwards to scritch at the tightly shaved nape of his neck. A quiet hum of approval rumbles from him as he leans into the touch, the rasp of her fingernails almost soothing despite the barbarity of her next words.
"Then kid's cuts all day it is, Fel."
And kid's cuts all day it was.
The doors opened promptly at 9am.
Two human brothers graced Felassan first. Simple cuts that should have been easy, but issues arose with their mother's incessant hovering. She halted Felassan's work at each flick of his shears, every change of clipper guard- and as a result, their services took far longer than they'd any right to. A pair of siblings in his chair should have taken forty minutes total, at maximum; with her interruptions, he'd run over into his next client.
And though she'd been pleased with the results, her tip was… minimal.
Fortunately, running over wasn't an issue, as Felassan's next client was the son of an elven gentleman from the day prior. So pleased was he with the result that he'd returned, requesting the same "white-glove" service for his progeny.
An excellent tipper, twice over; and gaining his first return clients earned him a crisp high-five from Briala.
His fourth client was a very sweet young elven girl who'd tried to cut her own fringe, accompanied by an older sister fit to burst with anxiety.
"I wanted to look pretty like mamae," she told Felassan sheepishly, little blonde lashes batting shyly over bright eyes.
He clasped his hands onto his knees, bent far over to match her eye level. "You are very pretty, da'len," he affirmed softly. "Would you let me help you cut your hair even prettier?"
She was not quite convinced, fidgeting in her lobby seat as she was. Felassan sank further, down to a knee, and offered a gentle, open palm.
"If you want," he murmured- glancing left, then right, as if it were secret- "I could give you a lovely braid when we're done, too."
Her smile could have easily carried him through the rest of his shift- though, the not-insignificant gift card to the coffee shop across the street from her frazzled guardian helped, too.
The man with the buzz cut was exactly the asshole Felassan expected. Halfway through the removal of the whopping seven hairs atop his head, he had the most intelligent idea of asking Felassan why he'd yet to knife his own ears, as proficient with a blade as he was.
Despite such bigotry, Felassan still completed the service with a smile wrought of sufferance.
The man did not tip.
Shocker.
Two more kiddos rounded out the morning before a swath of empty schedule, mirroring the first; more human siblings, one of which technically received a bald fade. Their parent threw a fit so severe to Briala about the difference in price- ignorant to the fact that it took Felassan forty-five minutes to blend to satisfaction- that they were given half-off just to get them to shut up.
And once again, Felassan was bereft a tip.
Between all of his clients, the possibility of a lunch greater than paltry was simply not in his future, and Briala was not moved by his complaints as he swept his station.
"You got that gift card, didn't you? To Haven?" She asks, leaning against the wall by her office. His method of sweeping is actively watched with insincere criticism.
"Yeah."
The broom in his hand catches brief air to shift his grip closer to the bristles. Hair is forced into dustpan, then dumped unceremoniously into the bin.
"Kiddo's lethallan said there's 'like twelve coffees' on it." A snort breaks free as he dusts his palms together, shaking loose the remaining hairs. One hand then finds his hip, and the other sweeps through the air to punctuate his speech. "Now if she meant twelve drip coffees, it won't be shit. But she looked more like a blended-caramel-whatever-the-fuck drinker to me, so hopefully-"
"Are you not also a blended-caramel-whatever-the-fuck drinker?"
He glares at her briefly for the interruption. "Of course I am." Incredulity reaches his chest this time, palm over heart. "And I'm offended you thought I was judging her for it."
"You? Judgmental? Never." She laughs and shakes her head, then rises from her crossed-arm stance upon the wall. "But how about you get out of my shop and go get something to eat, Fel? Take a long lunch, we're slow."
The cue to leave is not unkind to any degree, though clearly final. Thus, Felassan takes his leave.
It was serendipitous that he'd received coffee as a tip- his migraine has yet to abate despite the egregious quantity of water he'd consumed. The next logical step, of course, is caffeine.
The jaunt down the street to Haven is brisk, made swifter by the cut of blustering winds upon his cheeks. A little bell jingles as he opens the door, and he is forced to slip through naught but a narrow gap due to the amass of people gathered within. It is utterly packed- the line to the front counter trails fully to the door itself.
Felassan is far luckier than the patron behind him, forced to wait beyond the threshold, buffeted by the wind- all in the name of a nice drink.
But the drinks must be nice, if the cleanliness of the establishment and the waft of fresh espresso is any indication. The inside is warm, filled with golden light that spills from vintage-looking fixtures. In contrast, the weight of the cold beyond the glass is a stark reminder of how little time he's granted to spend waiting.
The display cases are cleared of most pastries by this time of day, though there are at least a few croissants in various flavors near to the register. Felassan is busy eyeing one layered with almonds and dusted with cinnamon when he is accosted by delicate fingers brushing against his bicep.
A melodic voice as sweet as the treat he'd been eyeing follows the contact.
"You've finally made it, have you?"
"Merrill," he hums contentedly, wrapping an arm about her shoulders before he's even turned to her completely. A tight squeeze to his side precedes a kiss to the crown of her head, where powdery florals overpower the slight sheen coating her dark hair. "How's my favorite elf?"
"Oh, don't let Briala hear you say that," she murmurs, leaning away to peer up at him with her massive eyes. All moss-green iris and thick, lusterous lashes is the look she gives him, near to obscuring the dainty quirk of her lips. "She'll have your head! Or mine." Her brows furrow with worry. "Or both."
"Fear not, lethallan." He gives her a reassuring, one-armed shake. "She's all bark."
Merrill's eyes lose their sparkle as she casts her gaze to her feet, and they remain matte when she glances back up. "I just don't think she's very fond of me. I don't want to make it worse."
"Briala is fond of no one. And she just hates having her bestie status challenged." They step forward in tandem when the line moves, though it is scarcely a crawl. "Pay her no mind, truly. How are you?" Felassan looks away from her to peer around the cafe, though there is little to see beyond the irritatingly tall gentleman ahead of them in line. "Are you working today?"
"Oh, no, no. But there's much better lighting in here than at home, you know, and I find it easier to concentrate on-"
A little squeak escapes.
"Erm, my studies, of course, when there's background noise."
Ah, yes. 'Studies.'
"Seriously?" he asks her in a hushed tone, eyes darting. "Surrounded by this many people? I mean it's… Uh… Your work is so complex, I figure having so many shems around might be… Distracting?"
"No, I really meant it when I said it was easier to concentrate."
Felassan drops low, to her ear, and words stream like hissing steam from his lips. "That is not what I meant, Merrill."
"The complexity isn't-"
"Merrill," he warns again.
"-And really there's not that many-"
She stops abruptly, eyes growing impossibly wider for a single breath.
"O-oh." Recognition finally blooms. "No, no! It's all just fine! It's far too crowded in here for anyone to pay attention to me. And it's not like I'm waving my hands around, yelling that I'm a-"
"Next, please?"
The air in Felassan's lungs is spent in an instant, replete with relief; making it to the front of the line could not have been more aptly timed.
Merrill scoots away from his embrace just to link their elbows, dragging him awkwardly forwards to the counter. The face behind the register is familiar to him, burly and weathered; gold-flecked sable eyes meet Felassan's lilacs, veiled behind tangled locks of squid ink. Somewhere beneath the matching beard, the faintest stir of a smile is surely starting to stretch, though it's visible only in the crinkles at his temples.
"Fel!" Garrett greets him. The void that is his facial hair splits to reveal remarkably perfect teeth set in a remarkably wide mouth. "You made it!"
"That's what I said!"
"Sure took him long enough."
Something strangled catches in Merrill's throat.
Felassan frowns at the menu laid against the countertop. "You've only been open, what, a month?" He glances up to Garrett, then over to Merrill, then back to the menu. The words printed upon it promptly ceased to make sense.
"Plenty of time for you to have come by." Garrett's tone is not at all chiding; there is a twinge of worry set behind those shining teeth. The grin falters, and his first choice of words are swallowed thickly before he manages to add, "but I'm glad you're here now."
The implication is not lost on Felassan. He tries to smile in return, but it is weak.
Silence looms.
"Well, lethallin?" Merrill asks after too many beats, the softest of blows to stir him from solemnity. "What would you like?"
Truly, he doesn't know, so Merrill orders for him. Coffee- though hot, not blended as he'd like- to sate throbbing temples. She had, at least, made sure it would be loaded with caramel and cinnamon, much like the paper-wrapped croissant now cradled between his hands.
It crumbles like ash on his tongue when he finally takes a bite.
Minutes dig heels into laminate flooring just to spite him; the wait for his drink is stretching longer than the wait to order entirely. Haven is no less busy now than when he'd entered, and the area around the drink pick-up is uncomfortably shoulder-to-shoulder.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Fingers tighten into crinkling paper as he tips a wrist to check his watch.
Bitchala
2:08pm: Client at 2:45
Eyes squeeze together against the notification, the message, and his migraine. The croissant is tucked into an elbow so that he can dig his phone from the pocket at his thigh, though the effort is anything but graceful within such crowded confines.
Fel
2:09pm: ????
2:09pm: I didn't have anyone on my books until 4?
Bitchala
2:10pm: And now you do, and he's at 2:45
Fel
2:10pm: You're serious
Bitchala
2:11pm: Yes
Fel
2:11pm: I quit
Bitchala
2:12pm: No you don't
2:13pm: He's a right of passage
Fel
2:13pm: Kid cuts all day and now a pain in the ass??
2:13pm: Is it that fucking shampoo guy
Bitchala
2:14pm: It IS the fucking shampoo guy, you are so wise
Of course.
Thumb and forefinger slip between his face and his phone screen, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose.
The pressure alleviates nothing.
His phone balances precariously upon his middle finger when it vibrates again.
Bitchala
2:15pm: Do NOT be late.
Fel
2:15pm: I won't. Just waiting for my drink. Cig after
2:16pm: Why me tho? Doesn't that guy see Fen?
Bitchala
2:16pm: Fen called out. Now you're full
Fel
2:16pm: Til 5???
Bitchala
2:17pm: Yep
A groan is liberated from a tight, drying throat. The Irritatingly Tall Gentleman sniffs loudly, then takes a dainty step away from Felassan's side. He is relieved; the man had been standing far too close for comfort, hovering in his… fancy, swishy cloak.
And the fragrant, smoky cologne that certainly did not have Felassan's eyes disappearing unbidden into the back of his skull.
He slips his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulling the zipper closed in time with a mellifluous accent calling out his name. The lissome elf working adjacent Garrett gracefully sets a lidless to-go cup onto the counter; it is unnecessarily lavish for a cup Felassan will be tossing mere moments from now.
There is a lovely design in the milk foam, though, reminiscent of a swan beclad a heart for a head.
He lifts it to examine, then meets the gaze of the elf in thanks. A cordial grin is bestowed upon him with pleasant lips, made moreso by the gentle asymmetry in the way they part around a soft, "enjoy."
A toothy grin bares brightly when half-lidded eyes flicker to his own mouth.
The elf's pretty face and lofty hair are a distraction befitting the mistake of turning away without looking forwards, and thus Felassan slams- latte first- into the chest of the Irritatingly Tall Gentleman.
There is a stilted, flighty dance within the void where the space between them ought to be. The spatter of coffee harmonizes with two startled grunts, shifting quickly to hisses of pain sucked in through clenched teeth.
Panic floods through Felassan.
Boiling heat soaks skin and cloth, and it is reflex- not intent- that calls forth frost to his fingertips, fighting against the scald at his palm and sternum.
Thoughts spiral, then come to a screeching halt as realization finds his second palm pressed firmly against the Irritatingly Tall Gentleman's chest.
And frost has not confined itself but to a single hand.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He is fucked.