There’s a new catchy tune on the local radio that Robin leaves open at the shop, a light and upbeat thing, and clearly well liked as it replays multiple times in the day. It keeps him feeling calm as he fulfills the orders—it’s an unseasonably warm day in Melbourne, and there’s a spike in iced bubble tea and ice cream requests. His one coworker, Jenny, arrives at one in the afternoon and leaves at nine in the evening.

By that point, Robin’s tired too, but he keeps making drinks for the remaining customers passing by, as well as handling the delivery orders.

A lot of that tiredness falls away the moment Oliver comes in. Robin begins to smile, but then Oliver’s posture—eyes downcast, shoulders droopy—registers.

“...Are you alright?” Robin frowns.

Oliver blinks. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “You can tell your sister that I checked out the Carlton Blues for her. That way I won’t start at an entry-level position, right?”

“Hmm.”

Oliver looks even more tired than Robin, his curls all messed up, shirt wrinkled, and—sloppy, but in an unintentional way.

Robin leans a little over the counter. “Did your mum like the cakes?”

Oliver brightens a little. “Yeah, I think she did. She was really surprised about the mango.” He smiles sheepishly. “I think we’ve just been really unlucky with picking the sour ones.”

Robin gives him a commiserating smile. “You could try googling it.”

“My mum, google?”

They share exasperated smiles.

Oliver breaks it with a sigh. He leans against the counter on the other side, and looks to the large board of desserts Robin has on the side wall. “I don’t think my brothers like desserts, though.”

“I’m sorry.” Robin studies Oliver’s profile: the slight downturn of his lips, and makes a decision. “I think I have something you’ll like.”

Oliver turns to him. “Yeah?”

“How do you feel about oreos and chocolate?”

Oliver’s lips quirk up. “Funnily enough, the few things I did have as a child.” He pulls out his credit card expectantly.

“I haven’t even told you what it is.”

“But I trust you, Mister Dessert Connoisseur.”

Robin raises an eyebrow, fighting against a smile at the word trust. “I think you’re the one becoming the connoisseur.”

He accepts the payment—for now—and starts making the milkshake. He blends vanilla ice cream, milk, oreos, and cocoa powder. Taking one of the eat-in glasses, he fills it up a third, then sprays in whipped cream; then more of the oreo mixture so that the whipped cream looks like clouds against the brown colour of the smoothie. Another two layers of whipped cream, oreo milkshake, and the entire affair is topped with whipped cream high up above the glass, drizzles of chocolate sauce, followed by tiny cubes of chocolate brownie, chocolate pocky, and one whole oreo.

Robin puts the entire glass on a plate, along with a straw and a spoon.

“Seriously?” Oliver says, eyes wide. “You just—kept adding more and more. The receipt just said milkshake.”

Robin smiles innocently. “Go on.”

Oliver grins and leans forward, licking the cream like a cat. He pulls out the pocky and takes a bite. “Oh. Wow. How does something so tiny taste so good?”

Robin rolls his eyes when Oliver pulls off the oreo, twists it apart, licks it, and dunks it into the cream.

“Come on, don’t tell me you never did that,” Oliver says.

“Well, yes,” Robin admits. “Those commercials were too good.”

Oliver’s eyes light up. “Oh man, do you remember the milk commercial?”

Robin smirks. “Low fat, no fat, full cream?—”

“I just want milk that tastes like real milk!” Oliver laughs. He shakes his head and grins, turning the glass around. “You know if this was blue instead of brown, then it would really look like clouds.”

“I didn’t think you wanted a blue milkshake right now,” Robin admits. “A bit too adventurous for the time.”

Oliver’s grin softens into a smile. “Thanks, Robin.”

“You’re welcome.”

They talk about nothing and everything—Robin learns that Oliver can play the guitar and the piano. Robin knows the piano because, of course, asian parents. A couple of customers come in, but not many.

By the time Oliver leaves, Robin’s glad that Oliver is no longer sad.

“See you again?” Robin says.

“I might be a bit busy this week…” Then, Oliver grins. “But I owe you another brunch.”

“You don’t,” Robin rolls his eyes.

“This Sunday, same time,” Oliver says, and leaves before Robin can protest.

Robin bites back a smile. He’s certainly not complaining, after all.