Archive of Our Own ^beta

The ice cream shop was always busy in the summertime. The sweltering heat forced all sorts of customers into the cramped, air-conditioned shelter of À La Mode , from cranky toddlers clinging to their exasperated parents to unkind, entitled Karens who drag their poor, embarrassed children behind them. That was to say, the employees ended up dealing with a lot of unforgiving crises and nonsense on a daily basis in exchange for minimum wage. 

Evan had half a mind to walk right up to his manager’s office and demand a raise after another customer angrily stormed out of the shop with a threat of calling the police on his “yellow ass.” Probably the fourth threat he got this week. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had to work through continuous social interaction despite his anxiety, now he had to swallow down his anger and work through racism because his manager didn’t give a flying fuck what abuse the customers hurled at their employees if it meant that they were still getting paid. 

(Evan wanted to quit his job more than anything. But he and his mom barely made rent this month, even with him working and his mom putting in overtime at the hospital.)

He sensed Jared coming to stand beside him in silent solidarity, stormily watching the woman yell muffled curses through the window before finally leaving. Jared exhaled sharply and grumbled, “You don’t get paid nearly enough for this shit.”

Evan bitterly laughed. “That’s what I was thinking.” Then he plastered on a bright smile to greet the next customer in line. “Welcome to À La Mode , what can I get you today?”

The teenage girl hesitantly stepped forward, no doubt confused by the sudden shift of mood. (Jared snorted humorlessly and turned back to cooking waffle cones.) She stood in silence for a few moments before pointing at the glass display. “Could I have the strawberry sorbet, please?”

“Of course.” Evan mechanically reached for the scooper. “Cone or cup?”

“Cup. Thanks.”

Evan nodded, opened the display, and stabbed his utensil into the unsuspecting sorbet. He and the girl startled back at his unexpected violence. His anger clearly hadn’t settled. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Heat rose to his ears. He quickly finished the order. “Here you go.”

When he looked up, he met the girl’s soft and concerned brown eyes. She wasn’t reaching out to take her ice cream. Instead, she quietly asked, “Are you okay?”

That made Evan pause. No customer had ever asked him that. After an altercation between him and a Karen, the customers in line would order their ice creams with their heads down and their voices low in attempts to get out of the store as quickly as they could, as if they were trying to escape the lingering wake of the Karen. They never said more than a few words to him, let alone ask him if he was okay. 

Evan had to open and close his mouth a few times before he could form words. “Y-yeah. I’m good, thanks for asking. It actually happens often, so I’m kinda used to it by now.”

The girl looked mortified. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fucking bulllshit.”

“Yeah,” he repeated uselessly.

The girl fell silent again and picked up her ice cream. A little bit unsettled by the abrupt end of the conversation, Evan rang her up. “Four dollars and fifty cents.”

She dug around her pockets and procured a twenty dollar bill. Evan opened the register to count her change when she said, “Could you split this into three fives? Keep the change on the fourth.”

He liked this girl. She was straight to the point. 

Evan nodded. Once he finished the transaction for the ice cream, he held out the three fives.

She glanced at his hand and smiled. “I like your nails.”

Evan blinked and then he remembered that he painted his nails with the trans flag earlier in the day. More heat rose to his cheeks and he sheepishly smiled back. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, but very gently, she pushed his hand towards himself. “Keep it,” she whispered. “A personal tip.”

He blanched. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Special gift.”

Evan stared at the fifteen dollars in his hand--nearly a whole hour’s worth of pay--and then back at the girl. What did he do to deserve this? Butterflies rose in his stomach. “This…” he was wonderstruck by her kindness. He finally got a good look at the girl, taking in her frazzled, light brown hair, freckled face, and slightly scrawny but tall figure. He wouldn’t forget her. “Thank you. This means a lot.”

“No problem.” 

They held each other’s gaze for a while. She seemed to get a little flustered as well, a rosy blush appearing on her cheek. She was… beautiful. Attractive. 

Evan awkwardly coughed at the sudden thought. He never thought that about a girl. He knew he was a gay, trans man. But this girl… She was something else. She gave him something akin to hope and comfort and safety in the dreariness of À La Mode. Those were feelings that he hadn’t had in a long time, with financial insecurity, gender dysphoria, and racism keeping him pessimistic about the future. She… She was like a breath of fresh air in a heavy smog. 

He very badly wanted to be her friend. 

When she eventually turned to leave, Evan mustered the little courage that he had and squeaked, “Could I get your number?”

The girl stopped in her tracks. Her shoulders were raised, as if she were dreading the question being asked. Evan mentally back-peddled and bit his lip. That was too forward of him. They barely knew each other. What did he expect? He was fucking trans and Asian and the world wasn’t ever kind to him before so why would he be able to even get her number--

“Do you have a napkin?”

Evan fumbled with his drawers before he was able to procure a napkin and a pen. Jared, who had been obviously eavesdropping on his conversation the entire time, chuckled and whispered, “Smooth.”

“Shut up,” Evan hissed in return. The girl smirked briefly before her lips turned downward with anticipation. She took the napkin and the pen and hastily scribbled numbers and letters down. She looked nervous, looking around in case someone was going to peek over her shoulder. Evan was too. He never exchanged numbers with anyone, really. Once she was done, Evan had to squint to read her writing. At the bottom of the napkin, in even smaller font, there were the words:

Connor Murphy

he/him

Oh. Oh .

Connor seemed to anxiously gauge his reaction. He looked more than nervous. He looked ashamed. His hands were clenching and unclenching, like he wanted to take back the napkin and run right out of the store. 

Evan felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. This amazingly sweet person--this amazingly sweet, gorgeous man--just came out to him. Trusted him with his true identity. He was never trusteed with anything. He never had anyone’s unconditional trust. “Connor,” he rasped past the sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

That did it. Connor immediately melted, a shaky smile blooming fully on his face. He laughed weakly. “Of course. Call me later?”

“I’d love to.”

I think I’m falling in love.