shadows and sunshine (solangelo)

don't wanna be lonely, just wanna be yours by theroyalsavage

Again, this aint my story, but its really good, i will not take credit for this beautiful work but yea....here yall go:

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Summary:

Will Solace, café manager extraordinaire, just wants to coast through their monthly open mic night in peace. He definitely is not banking on meeting a handsome stranger with the voice of the gods and the death glare of a high-ranking member of the KGB. And yet, that's exactly what he gets.

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The sun is beginning to set outside, staining the light inside the café an improbable shade of pinkish gold. Will's feet are beginning to ache from standing on them all day. There's flour on his fingers. The smell of coffee in his nose. A stain on his apron from spilled vanilla.

Nothing particularly particular at all.

The bell above the door chimes quietly when the boy walks in. Will glances up and smiles, but the boy isn't looking at him. His head is down, gray-green beanie pulled down over his forehead, hands pressed into the pockets of his leather jacket.

Will hangs out behind the counter for a second, waiting for the guy to ask a question or place an order. When he doesn't move - just stands there, head down, hands in pockets - Will grabs the bucket of cleaning supplies and gets to work on the nearby tables.

The streetlights are going on outside. One by one, in succession.

It's almost closing time.

Will finishes wiping down the tables before moving back behind the counter. The boy is shifting from foot to foot, glaring at one of the notices tacked to the café bulletin board like it's personally offended him.

His nose is a little scrunched up at the bridge. Will leans on the counter and props his head up on his hand.

"Can I help you find something?" he offers. The customer freezes immediately and his eyes snap up to meet Will's. There's a look on his face, something close to alarm, like he'd expected to be ignored completely.

"No," the customer says. "I don't need help."

He's cute, Will thinks. A couple dark curls escaping from his beanie. Wide, expressive eyes. Smooth, brown skin. His shirt is white, with black letters in the middle spelling out 'NO.'

Will follows the line of his gaze to the sign that's up on the wall, advertising for an open mic night the café is holding. "Ah. I see. Are you signing up to sing?" he asks, and the boy reels back.

The look he shoots Will is half panicked and half lethal. "I," he begins, and then he stops.

Will drums his fingers on the counter. "Hm," he says. "I guess you want to, then. What's holding you back?" He holds out a pen, as an offering, and when the boy just stares at his hand like it might be venomous, he drops the pen on the counter. "I'd go for it. It's a low-pressure environment, here, and you're not getting paid anyway. No one will mind if you suck."

The boy's cheeks have flushed darker. Will thinks there might be a dusting of freckles on his nose.

"What?" Will lifts his head off his hand, batting his eyes, giving the customer his most innocent smile. "Are you nervous about singing in public, or something?"

"Something like that," the boy says, flatly. (He has an interesting accent, Will thinks. Not like he's struggling with pronunciation. More like the words don't fit quite right on his tongue.) And then, his pretty mouth twisting into a scowl, he snatches the pen off the countertop and scrawls his name onto the sign-up sheet.