Alive, Alive, Alive.

carryonsimoncarryonbaz

Glorious art commissioned from sanexiah for my Carry On Countdown fic Strangeness and Charm for Carry On Countdown Day 9: Pattern.

Simon and Baz favor the same coffee shop and engage in a competition over who is the most loyal customer. The competition grows heated but so do their emotions. A non-magical coffee shop AU of boys plotting, pining and falling in love.

Strangeness and Charm

Simon

“Come on, Penny. It’s just a ten percent discount.”

“I told you, Simon, we don’t do discounts.”

“But I’m your best customer!”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Coming in here every day for the free wi-fi doesn’t make you our best customer.”

“I get a coffee every day.”

She huffs. “So do dozens of other people! That doesn’t make you special.”

“That hurts, Penny.” I frown at her. “That really hurts.”

I try with Agatha the next day. “It’s for customer appreciation, Ags.”

“We don’t do discounts, Simon.”

“Well, a loyalty card then. You know I never get my coffee at any other coffee shop.”

“You don’t go to any other coffee shop.”

“See? That’s loyalty, right there.” I lean across the counter. “I could be the first.”

She sighs. “First what?”

“The first customer in the loyalty programme.”

“We don’t have a loyalty programme, Simon. We’ve been through this.”

“Simon, stop pestering Agatha.” Penny materializes across the counter, glaring at me over her glasses. “Order your boring flat white and shove off.”

“So much for customer service,” I complain. They both ignore me.

I’m still stewing over it an hour later. I come to Watford every day, before and after class. I order coffee and a scone to go in the mornings.

I do my coursework here after class. I can’t afford wi-fi at my flat so I come to the cafe and I sit in the front booth and work on my laptop.

I chat with the staff. I know all the other regulars. I’m basically part of the ambience.

I mention it to Ebb.

“Ah, Simon, love. I don’t make the rules.”

“But you’re the manager.”

“I’m the manager but I’m not the owner. Mr. Mage doesn’t believe in loyalty programmes. Says loyalty can’t be bought.”

“That’s rot.”

“It’s company policy.“

It’s rubbish is what it is.

I’m still thinking about it a week later as I’m waiting for my coffee. I’m standing by the bulletin board at the back of the cafe, looking at the flyers people have posted on it. There aren’t that many–a few people selling furniture, a flyer from someone who’s looking for a flatmate, an advert for the upcoming production of Rent at the local theatre.

And that’s when it comes to me. Watford may not have a punch card or a loyalty programme.

But it can certainly have a customer of the week.

And that customer is me.

I go home to muck about on my laptop. I find a decent selfie and create a flyer with my face in the middle of it and “CUSTOMER OF THE WEEK” at the top. I put a little quote from me talking about Watford beneath my photo and finish it off with “presented for outstanding coffee purchasing at this store” at the bottom.

I tuck it into my backpack.

When I go to Watford the next morning I tack it up in the center of the bulletin board. Looks damn good, if I say so myself.

I’m back later that afternoon. I get my coffee and settle down in my spot, laptop open. I have a paper due tomorrow so I end up being there for a few hours.

I could use another coffee.

I’m waiting for my order when I see it.

There, in the middle of the wall, is a framed photograph of some bloke.

It’s a black and white photo. Artistically lit. The bloke has shoulder-length, dark, wavy hair and a widow’s peak. Cheekbones that could cut you, they’re so sharp. He’s handsome, if you’re into those brooding, smouldering types.

Odd place for a framed photo.

And that’s when I notice the rest. It’s not just a framed photograph. Below the photo this tosser has had the bloody cheek to write “CUSTOMER OF THE WEEK (EVERY WEEK)” in bold font.

What a fucking wanker.

I scan the bulletin board for my flyer. It’s not there anymore.

I’m furious. What the actual fuck? Who does this guy think he is?

He really thinks he’s customer of the week?

I’ve never seen him here. I’d remember if I had. I’d remember that smug, insufferable smirk, those calculating eyes.

I go up to the counter. “Penny.”

“Your coffee will be up in a minute, Simon.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about my coffee.”

“Good, then shove off. You’re blocking the counter.”

“There’s no one else waiting. Penny, listen, who is that?”

She closes her eyes briefly. “Who are you talking about?”

I point dramatically to the framed photo on the wall. “Him!”

Penny squints at the photo. “That’s Baz.”

“Who the fuck is Baz?”

“Simon, hush.”

“Who is he, Penny?”

“Baz Pitch. He’s one of the regulars.”

I stand up straighter. “Oh, is he?” My tone is icy.

“What are you on about, Simon? I’ve got work to do.”

“I put up a flyer this morning and now it’s gone and this arrogant bastard has plastered his snide face on the wall and taken my title!”

Penny frowns. “What are you on about?” she repeats.

“I’m obviously the customer of the week!”

She presses her fingers against her temples and sighs. “Let me take a look.”

Penny comes around the counter and marches up to the photo of this Baz. She looks it over and snorts a laugh.

That won’t do at all. There’s nothing funny about this. I pull her over to the bulletin board and point to the empty spot where my flyer was. “This is complete and utter shit, Penny.” I whip out my mobile and show her the photo I had proudly taken of my flyer that morning.

She actually laughs this time.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh, come on, Simon. Baz probably saw your flyer and he’s taking the piss. It is kind of funny, you have to admit.”

“I’ll admit no such thing.” I narrow my eyes at her. “He’s made an enemy, I can tell you that.”

“Settle down, Si. Go sit at your table. I’ll bring your coffee to you when it’s ready, okay?”

“I’ll not be that easily settled, Penny. The wanker stole my title.”

I fuss and fume but I don’t have time for it, not with this bloody paper I have to finish editing. I can’t focus here, not with that sodding photo staring at me from across the cafe. I pack up my laptop in disgust and head home. I don’t need wi-fi to finish my damn paper.

I’m running late the next morning so I don’t make it to Watford until the afternoon, but it’s given me time to plan my next step. This Baz may think he’s one-upped me but two can play at that game.

I go to the uni bookstore at lunchtime and find a large frame with a mat. I make an enlargement of my original ‘customer of the week’ flyer and frame the damn thing, now poster size.

I march into Watford and head directly for the back of the cafe. I pull the fraud’s photo off the wall and hang my own much larger and more ornately framed certificate. It looks good.

I don’t know why I don’t throw his in the trash.

I put it in my backpack instead.

I head to the counter to order my coffee. Agatha is staring at the frame I just hung on the wall. “What do you think you’re doing, Simon?”

“Proving my fucking loyalty, Agatha. What does it look like I’m doing?”

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t respond. I don’t think Agatha is invested enough in this job, I really don’t.

I get my coffee and sit in my booth, taking a good look around the cafe when I do. There aren’t too many patrons here right now, but I’m looking for one particular person. I want to see his face when he realises what I’ve done.

Doesn’t seem to be here though, the tosser.

That’s fine. I know I’ve won.

I’ve only got afternoon classes on Wednesdays so I don’t make it to Watford until midday. I order my food and coffee and settle in.

I’m taking the first bite of my sandwich when I see it.

Fucking hell.

Across the cafe from me, projected on the blank back wall, is Baz’s face. It’s massive, taking up almost the whole surface, and right next to his smirking self–in huge font–is his fucking “customer of the week (every week)” title.

I’m livid. I’m out of my seat, my half-eaten sandwich dropping heavily onto my plate. I typically don’t walk away from food but I’m steaming. Literally.

My face is all hot and I can feel a trickle of sweat bead down my back. That fucking arsehole.

I’m at the counter an instant later. Agatha takes in the sight of me and her shoulders slump. “Yes, Simon?”

“What … how … who the hell … how can you allow that?”

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and then exhales it in a rush before she speaks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That!” I point at the giant Baz sneering at me from the back wall. “Him. How the hell are you letting him do that?”

She shrugs. I hate it when people do that. “He just wheeled it in and set it up. Customers were freaking out a bit at first. They thought it was some reality television thing. But once they saw it was just a photo on the wall they ignored it.” She gives me a flinty look. “Which is what I suggest you do.”

“I will do no such thing. This is an attack. This is not some bloke taking the piss. This involved planning. Plotting.” I lean across the counter. “Is Ebb here? I want to speak to her. She’s the manager. She needs to put a stop to this.”

Agatha rolls her eyes at me. I’m pretty damn tired of people doing that too.

“You’re the one who started it, Simon.”

“I did not. I just put up a little sign, just a bit of humor, a small way to highlight my loyalty to Watford, since none of you bother to take note of it. He’s the one who escalated it.” I point at the projector image again.

“Are you ordering anything? Because there’s a queue behind you and it’s almost time for the lunchtime rush.”

I storm back to my table.

The bastard’s ruined my meal. The sandwich is tasteless to me now.

I’m incensed. I honestly don’t know what I would do if this Baz character walked into the cafe right now. I’d be well tempted to punch him right in his too-high nose.

I half-heartedly finish my meal. I don’t even have the appetite for a scone today.

There’s one thing I do before I leave. I find the projector, tucked into a corner of the cafe, near one of the bins. And I turn the bloody thing off.

I’m wracking my brain for a good response. I think about it on the walk home. I stew about it over dinner. I’m still trying to come up with something when I go to empty my backpack. I need to charge my laptop.

Oh.

I pull out Baz’s framed photo from the cafe. I forgot I had stashed it in my pack after I took it down the other day. I should throw it in the trash. I’m so furious about today’s events that I briefly consider smashing his smirking face with my fist. I don’t. I’d only cut my knuckles on the glass.

I’ll throw it away.

I’m halfway to the kitchen when I get a better idea. Baz has basically declared war with his projector stunt.

This calls for more drastic measures on my part. I need inspiration, an over the top comeback of my own.

I put the photo on top of my bookshelf, so my nemesis is staring down at me from across the room. That should get me good and worked up.

It’s late by the time I get to bed and I’ve come up blank so far.

I get a terrible night’s sleep. I’m grumpy and tired and I’ve got half a mind to go to the Costa on my way to class out of sheer spite.

But I’m not that petty.

I’ll just go without coffee. I’m not going back into Watford to see his stupid face again this morning.

I go back in and see his stupid face because I can’t function without my morning coffee and I’m too nice to go to a competitor. This, this here, is exactly why I should be the customer of the fucking year, not just the week.

And that’s when I get the idea, as I’m standing in line waiting for my coffee, trying to avoid looking at Baz’s looming visage.

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