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A snug little café sat on the corner of a short street, not two blocks from Jean’s new apartment. He went there every morning, but never got the same thing twice in a row; sometimes it was a tea, other times it was an iced coffee, and sometimes it was something simple like lemonade or orange juice. He didn’t need to spend so much money there – he just liked the atmosphere. He had grown accustomed to the regulars and familiar faces he saw in the brick building, like the old man always reading his newspaper or the high school kid cramming muffins in their mouth on their way to school.
Occasionally he saw a boy sitting by the window, black locks of hair falling delicately onto his forehead (although sometimes he wore his hair pushed back which left the soft freckled skin exposed to the sunlight), his lips always slightly turned up (perpetually smiling), a small coffee, and a book in hand. He never interacted with the people around him, never once glancing up from the worn and tattered pages of his books.
Despite never drawing attention to himself, Jean’s eyes always seemed to dart his way. He couldn’t help but watch as the stranger flipped between pages, his lithe fingers dancing over the words printed in front of him. Or when he reached out to grab his coffee, sometimes taking him a few seconds to find the beverage. He wanted to know what world he was in – whose battle he was fighting; whose love story was he living out? He got so lost in these fictional worlds, Jean wanted to explore too.
He never recognized the books in his hands either, which didn’t surprise Jean. He had never considered himself an avid reader; but he did read some of the classics (and a few irregulars) from time to time. But the way the strangers brown eyes darted through the book with no break captivated him. Needless to say – everything about him intrigued Jean.
But he never knew how to approach him. He didn’t want to rip him from his book guided reverie, so he always stayed just a few tables away, carefully watching him sip his coffee from his fortress of paper.
Not to mention the fact that he was absolutely and utterly beautiful – the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how you could ever end up in the same room together. In the early morning sunlight, he looked like an angel, or like a painting someone had left sitting in a chair. And almost every day Jean watched him close his book, set some money on the table, and quickly walk out of the café. A few times Jean thought he looked his way, but he was too embarrassed to make sure.
This continued for a few weeks, and it became somewhat of a routine, until one morning Jean brought his own book in to read. It was one of his favorites; he had read it at least twice and was anxiously waiting to see if it would ever become a movie. He walked through the glass door and his heart skipped a beat when he saw his mystery boy was sitting one table closer to him than usual.
He ordered a green tea and nervously sat in his regular spot, and soon the drink was placed in front of him. Jean quietly thanked the waitress, his eyes moving to the boy out of habit. He nearly jumped out of his seat when he noticed his brown eyes watching him, a curious look on his face. When they made eye contact he quickly looked back to his book, a blush coating his features.
He opened his own book to a random page, desperate to hide the smile that had forced its way to his face. While only pretending to read the words, he heard the boy cough nervously. This was definitely progress in the right direction, Jean thought. He assumed it’d take them at least a few more weeks to be able to speak to each other – which he was fine with.
He didn’t expect to hear the legs of his chair scrape across the ground, however. Jean’s heart raced as his feet hit the ground, and he watched his black shoes draw nearer from his peripheral vision. Soon he was standing right in front of him, his fingers dancing on the pockets on his jeans. Jean’s hands were frozen around the book, anxiously waiting to hear his voice.
“What book are you reading?”
It was just like Jean expected – somewhere in the middle of deep and high, probably a baritone, words falling magically off his tongue. He thought his vocal cords had been handpicked by angels, but he guessed he was a little biased.
“Once Upon a Marigold, one of my favorites.” His voice caught in the back of his throat, sending a hot flash of embarrassment through his body. He coughed lightly and forced himself to set the book down, finally looking into his eyes.
His eyes were just as beautiful; a rich brown that he could definitely see himself getting lost in, gold flecked around the irises. They seemed to go on for miles and miles, their depth telling the most beautiful of stories. He looked like he already had wrinkles surrounding his eyes, but then again, Jean imagined him to smile a lot. He could imagine how they wrinkle up when he smiles.
Just then a look of wonderment passed over his face as his eyes scanned the cover, tilting his head to get a better view. “I’ve never read it. Can I sit?” He asked, gesturing to the chair near him.
Jean nodded his head only to have some stray blond hairs fall into his eyes (he’d been meaning to get a haircut). He pushed them out of the way, and he thought he saw the stranger’s cheeks heat up, but he pulled the chair out and sat down nervously before Jean could get a better look.
“So… What’s your name?” Jean asked once he had gotten comfortable in the wooden chair.
“Marco.” The stranger – Marco – smiled. “Yours?”
He had to suppress a giddy giggle at his smile (his eyes really did crinkle up). “I’m Jean.”
“Jean.” Marco repeated, and god did his name sound heavenly coming from his mouth.
The two were silent, their unbridled awkwardness permeating the air around them, neither one sure what they should say. Jean stared down at the pages in his book, the words staring back at him, but ultimately making no sense.
Was he really sitting here? Across from the.. the angel he had been admiring for who knows how long? He couldn’t believe it himself, and almost – almost – pinched himself to see if he were having a dream.
A vivid, excellent dream.
Jean bit on his lip, unsure of his words. He started with a “Hey,” but Marco spoke at the same time he did.
“Um-“
The two laughed then, and Jean’s heart burst at the sight of Marco’s blush. “You go ahead,” he said, biting back a smile.
“No, it’s fine! You go.”
Jean cleared his throat, the euphoria from a second before quickly dissipating, leaving him with his nerves again. “Um, well, I was wondering… and you can totally say no to this, that’s fine, I don’t know why I’m asking, really,” the words tumbled out of his mouth, but he couldn’t get to the point. He beat around the bush, his heart racing in his chest as he thought of the answer to his question.
“Jean,” Marco cut him off, rendering him silent. “You’re rambling.”
“Ah, right,” he chuckled, the back of his neck a blazing heat. “It’s just… I’ve been seeing you in here for a while now, and I always… admired you, I guess… from afar.” Jean took a chance to gauge Marco’s reaction, but there was no disgust or horror, so he continued on. “So, um, I guess I was wondering if you wanted to like… go on a date? Not here, of course – unless you like it here! Then we could date here, I like it here too,”
Jean stopped short as a laugh escaped Marco, the same laugh as before, and damn did it make Jean giddy.
Eventually, Marco was able to speak. “I think I’d like that.” He said, a crimson blush making his freckles only pop further from his skin. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been… admiring you, too. From afar.” He smiled at Jean, a quiet, reserved smile. Meant just for him.
Jean reeled at the thought of Marco watching him too. What had he been thinking? Did he think Jean was beautiful, or worthy of such praise, the same he gave to Marco when he was just the café stranger?
Jean shifted in his chair, his fingers itching as he grabbed his phone from his pocket, sliding the new contact screen over to Marco. “Here,” he said, gesturing to the phone. Marco smiled, (again), and did the same. Soon, Jean had Marco’s number and Marco had Jean’s number.
Marco stood from his chair, already typing something to send to his new date. “I’ll text you… and we can figure out the details?”
Jean stood too, a little excited, his heart jumping in his chest as his phone chimed. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be awesome. I’d love that.”
He watched as Marco left the café, waving to him before turning down the street. He looked down at his phone, at the little heart Marco put next to his name, and had to sit down.