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Martin remembers, with crystal clarity, the first time that he saw Jonathan Sims. Martin’s tea shop opens at seven in the morning to accommodate the morning commuter crowd, but they’re really busiest in the afternoon, which is when most people deign to take a break from whatever work they’ve got for the day.
Jonathan Sims is not most people. At promptly seven, the jingle of the little bell that Tim had hung over the door once as a joke but that had lingered out of sheer practicality had cut through the gentle humming of the kettle, the small one that Martin preferred in the morning as it took no time at all to heat and the small volume of customers generally didn’t warrant the larger, stainless steel water heaters that sat along the back wall. Martin had had a box of loose-leaf English breakfast in his hand as he turned; he remembers the way the bitter smell of the leaves had mingled with the cool blast of winter air that swept through the door, carrying with it the scent of something acrid and ashy.
Cigarette smoke, his mind helpfully supplied. Then, Martin’s eyes found the man who had entered the shop, his mouth forming the automatic greeting the bell always elicited from him, a well-trained habit that made him feel not dissimilar to Pavlov’s dog.
“Welcome to Blackwood Blends! What can I get started for you?”
The man—and the likely source of the burnt smell still lingering in the air—startled slightly at the sound of Martin’s voice, like he hadn’t been expecting to be addressed directly. He was wrapped in a comically large scarf, knit from chunky yarn and laced with warm yellow and midnight black, and he looked like the kind of person who might blow away in the wind if he wasn’t careful. His hair, long and brown, was streaked through with grey and seemed to be fighting a losing battle with the hat that was currently struggling to keep it contained. There were at least two jumpers of startlingly different colors peeking out from underneath a heavy black pea coat that was missing a button near the bottom.
He was also quite possibly the most beautiful person Martin had ever seen.
He was there and gone before Martin quite knew what was happening, cradling a steaming travel mug of Ceylon close to his chest like it alone could drive away the January chill, and Martin found himself watching him through the café window as he crossed the street with barely more than a cursory glance in each direction, fumbled with something in his pockets for a moment, and finally vanished into the building across the street.
Beholding Books & Antiquities, the sign above the door said in curling calligraphy, barely visible from this distance.
Martin wondered, briefly, if they had poetry.
Martin knows now that they do, but that the man—whose name, he’d learned on the man’s next visit to the tea shop, is Jon—wrinkles his nose when people purchase them like they’ve caused him some great offense. He knows that Jon never gets the same tea twice in a row, and though he’s cycled through every possible blend that Martin’s shop carries, he’s not a fan of herbals and finds himself returning to earthy greens and floral blacks. (Which, unfortunately, includes oolong, which may be the only kind of tea that Martin can’t stand.) He knows that the bookshop opens at ten in the morning (but that Jon never arrives later than eight) and that unlike the surge of afternoon customers Martin’s shop gets, the bookshop receives a steady trickle of local customers and curious tourists throughout the day.
He knows that Jon smiles like it’s a secret he can’t quite decide if he wants to share and that Jon’s fingers are warm and soft when they brush against Martin’s as he hands Martin his new purchase and that he might be just a little bit in love with Jon.
He spends quite a lot of time browsing for books nowadays, to Tim and Sasha’s eternal amusement. But he can’t bring himself to mind.
Now, the nip of winter air is far behind them, and the lovely warmth of June seeps in through the cracks in the windows and in bursts as the door opens and closes. He always gets more business in winter, when the promised warmth of a cup of tea lures customers in from the cold, but it’s steady enough in the summer. And though Martin’s always been a lover of bulky jumpers and drinks that warm you from the inside out and breath that fogs in winter air, he can’t help but love the onset of summer, because it brings with it June and his favorite yearly tradition: Pride month tea blends.
Martin finishes scrawling the various specialty drinks onto the chalkboard he keeps propped up on the counter, feeling a little burst of pride at the new tea blends he’s selected for this year. He creates them all himself, making little changes from year to year and brewing cup after cup for Tim and Sasha to try until he thinks they must be sick of tasting ten different versions of fruity Earl Greys. It just feels nice, to put a piece of himself into each cup he makes, and beyond that, the shyly excited looks some customers get when they order a certain blend fills him with a warmth that tingles in his veins for hours after.
It feels nice, to take care of people this way. To let people find themselves in his tea and to share a bit of himself in kind.
So when the bell jingles and Martin glances up from the blackboard to see Jon standing just inside the doorway, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dimness of the café, the thrum of affection that always overtakes him when he sees Jon is magnified tenfold, accompanied in equal part by a bite of nervousness. Because, he realizes, for all that he and Jon have talked about their jobs and favorites and hobbies and everything in between, they’ve never talked about this.
Martin’s never been shy about it. His jacket is plastered with rainbow-striped patches, his bag adorned with enamel pins in purple-black-white-greys and in blue-pink-whites. He knows Jon’s seen them. Jon has to have seen them. He’s just… never mentioned it. And Martin gets the brief, terrifying, and completely unfounded worry that it’s because Jon is bothered by it.
He shakes the thought off as quickly as it had come. No, he knows Jon. He knows that behind the prickly exterior, Jon is kind—so, so kind, and that he cares more about other people than he lets on. With a small, anxious laugh that Martin barely keeps contained beyond a brief exhalation, Martin realizes that he also knows that Jon is possibly also the most oblivious person Martin knows. It’s infinitely more likely that Jon hasn’t noticed—or has noticed and has decided not to say anything—than that Jon is somehow a completely different person than the one Martin’s gotten to know over the past five months.
“Are you all right?”
Martin startles so badly that he drops the chalk. It rolls dangerously close to the edge of the counter before a thin-fingered hand captures it mid-motion and holds it out toward Martin, the dusty white stark against his brown skin. Martin takes the chalk with a sheepish smile and says, “Ah, sorry—got a bit, er. Distracted.” Then, in a quasi-professional voice, because he is at work: “What can I get for you, Jon?”
Jon doesn’t even glance at the menu; Martin’s almost certain that he has it memorized by now. He taps a finger on the counter, and as he thinks, his eyes wander downward, landing on the chalkboard that’s still laid flat against the counter, the bottom left corner slightly smudged. “Are these new blends?” Jon asks, eyes bright and curious. He tilts his head, trying to see the words better, and Martin quickly stands the chalkboard up on its wooden feet and returns it to its spot on the counter so that it’s easier to read.
Well, no time like the present, I suppose.
“They’re, ah, my seasonal blends!” Martin says with a smile he hopes doesn’t look as nervous as it feels. “I always do them in June.” He lets out a little, disarming laugh. “My own way of celebrating Pride month, you know?”
Jon’s eyes are scanning the chalkboard with an intensity that makes Martin shift from one foot to the other at a pace far too quick to be casual, his hands finding the edge of the counter and gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He can’t read Jon’s face; there’s something there, just below the surface, but he can’t get a handle on it. It keeps slipping away like wet bar soap when he tries too hard to get a grip on it, and eventually, he just gives up, waiting for Jon to finish with his heartbeat sitting high in his throat.
Finally, after a period of time that feels just shy of an eternity and certainly too long to have been simply considering the merits of one tea blend over another, Jon looks at Martin with an expression that feels strangely vulnerable. “I… I can’t decide,” he says quietly, like this decision carries the weight of the entire world. He points a thin finger at the middle of the board, where bisexual berry is scrawled in spiraling letters that constitute Martin’s attempt at calligraphy. It’s an herbal blend, with bits of freeze-dried blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries. “I like most of this blend,” he says, “but er. Not on its own?” His finger moves down, nearly smudging the words asexual almond as it comes to rest atop the ingredients below them—Assam tea, almond flavoring, cinnamon sticks, and little white blossoms that Martin includes purely for the visual effect. “Some people think that black tea wouldn’t go well with herbal,” Jon says, studying the board like it has the secret to life itself scrawled upon the dusty black, “but they’re really not that different at all. It’s all tea, and- and liking one kind of tea doesn’t preclude you from liking another kind, right? So asking me to- to decide between one kind of tea and another is—well, it’s just ridiculous. There’s tea that I like and tea that I don’t and I don’t have to pick just one.”
Jon’s still staring at the blackboard, his forehead creased in what could be concentration but could also be irritation. It’s still early enough that the tea shop is empty save for them; Tim and Sasha don’t come in until after noon as usually, Martin can handle the morning crowds by himself. And Martin is really quite sure that this isn’t about his tea at all. So, in the gentlest tone he can muster, Martin says, “You can order more than one kind of tea, you know.”
Jon jerks his hand back, almost like he’d forgotten Martin was there. “I—what?”
Feeling significantly less nervous than before, Martin adjusts the sign so that he can see it better and says, “These are all just suggestions, Jon. Blends that I like and ones that I’ve found that other people like too, but they’re not set in stone—people have all kinds of preferences, and when it comes down to it, it- it’s all just tea.” Then, because apparently he’s feeling bold today: “I- I can make a new blend if you’d like? One that, er.” Just say it, Martin. “One that’s for you, specifically. Whatever you’d like.”
Jon’s eyes are as wide as saucers as he stares up at Martin, and Martin can’t help but shift nervously under his gaze. Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that, that was weird, what a weird thing to say when someone’s coming out to you with bad tea metaphors, fuck fuck—
“If- if you’d like,” Jon says quietly, slamming Martin’s thought spiral headfirst into a brick wall and nearly knocking him off his feet as he registers that Jon just said yes. “I’d like that. Though I- I do enjoy the flavors of berries and almonds together.” He smiles then, a wry thing that sends Martin’s pulse into the stratosphere and his stomach aflutter with butterflies whose wings gleam an iridescent rainbow against the backs of his eyes. (Not his best bit of poetic imagery, to be true, but he’s a little too busy being utterly in love with Jonathan Sims to think about much else.)
Martin makes the tea, choosing the black over the herbal because elaborate metaphor or not, Jon really isn’t a fan of herbal teas. Blueberry is a strong enough taste to pair with the bitterness of the black tea and it couples well with almond and cinnamon, creating a flavor profile not unlike that of a blueberry muffin. And because Martin can’t help but think of Jon every time he smells it, he switches out the Assam for a Lapsang Souchong and Earl Grey blend—smoky and floral, smooth enough that it won’t overbalance the other flavors but robust enough to stand out.
When Jon accepts the mug and takes his first hesitant sip, his face lights up in a way that Martin wants to see all day, every day for the rest of his life. And when Jon smiles at him, says, achingly soft, “Thank you, Martin. I love it,” and cautiously, gently places his hand over Martin’s where it sits on the counter, Martin thinks, for the first time, that maybe he can.
Wouldn’t that be nice, he thinks. And the smile he gives Jon in return feels like a blank-paged book, waiting to be filled.