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There is a man named Martin that Jon talks to almost every single day. Jon knows absolutely nothing about him.
That’s hyperbole, he supposes. Jon knows that Martin is tall and works at the same coffeeshop that he does. He knows that Martin has a little pink, white, and blue pin attached to his bag. He knows that Martin laughs loud and long, and that the sound carries. He knows that Martin has a propensity to wear cropped t-shirts under his work apron in the summer and butter-soft jumpers in the winter. They both have the very fortunate tendency to ride up when he raises his arms over his head to stretch after a shift, revealing the soft, tan skin of his belly.
Jon also knows that he’s probably already halfway in love with Martin. But here’s the problem:
He doesn’t actually know any of this because he talks to Martin almost every single day. Well, it might be because of that, but only indirectly. These were all just passing observations that had nothing to do with what they actually talked about. Because while the two of them were technically coworkers, they’d never had a single shift together.
So, when Jon says that he talks to Martin almost every single day, what he means is that he takes the key to the register from him when his shift starts and says, “have a good one,” and Martin laughs and looks at the queue building up in front of him and says, “yeah, good luck, try not to kill anyone,” and then he leaves and that is it. That’s all they talk about.
And yet, somehow, Jon is still hopelessly enamored. Go figure.
“Somehow.” Like he doesn’t know. Like Martin doesn’t smile wide enough to show teeth every time he talks to him, like he doesn’t have the sweetest dimples when he does, like the stretch marks lining his stomach don’t fill Jon with longing any time he catches the slightest glimpse.
But it’s whatever. Because they’ve never had a shift together and it’s just a fun little work crush and Jon really doesn’t have to bother himself worrying about it. It’s harmless and likely to be fleeting and he should really stop daydreaming about that smile for the first hour of his shift every night because it probably isn’t going to go anywhere.
Jon did spend most of his adolescence secretly reading every soppy, cliché romance he could get his hands on though, so. Easier said than done on that front.
Either way, it’s just something fun to indulge himself in every now and again while he tries to hold himself back from arguing with customers and attempts to block out the mind-numbing sound of the same bland coffeeshop soundtrack that’s been playing through the store since the day he started three years ago.
Until he graduates university.
See, the only reason Jon’s never had a shift with Martin is because Martin exclusively works mornings. And Jon, who typically had class in the mornings, exclusively worked evenings and nights.
Jon hates the night shift. Aside from the mad rush that always happens right as he clocks in, it is dreadfully slow. Only a few people ever come in past seven, and Jon has to work until close at eleven thirty. That accounts for four and a half hours of wiping down the counters once every fifteen minutes just for something to do, all while listening to the same five instrumental tracks play over the speakers and trying to will the two people who came in three hours ago and finished their coffee within fifteen minutes to finally just leave so he can at least sit down in the break room and stop pretending that he was doing anything important.
Make no mistake, Jon hates the mad rush that always happens around five-thirty when he arrives to start his shift, but he prefers it over standing around doing nothing for four hours with no one but The Other Sasha for company who, unlike Regular Sasha who works alongside Jon for the first two hours of his shift, is horrible company and prefers to spend her time acting like Jon doesn’t exist until the last twenty minutes before closing when at least four people decide they need to have coffee right that second and she leaves him to do it all by himself.
That’s mostly why she’s earned the title of The Other Sasha in his head, despite technically being the one that he should consider Regular Sasha, given how much more time he spends with her. Regular Sasha may only spend two hours with him, and most of that may be spent juggling six different coffee orders at a time, but she’s also never left him by himself to dirty the cappuccino machine again right before close and stay gone until Jon has already cleaned everything a second time and set about locking up for the night.
So, when Jon graduates uni and suddenly finds himself with blissfully free mornings, he jumps at the chance to switch shifts. It’s a little disappointing that he’s spent four years racking up a monumental amount of debt only to have to continue working at the same tacky coffeeshop until he can rack up even more debt to go back to school to secure his masters so that he can actually use his degree, but at least he doesn’t have to work nights anymore. Luckily, there’s someone crazy enough to want to swap with him.
He doesn’t realize that swapping shifts means he’ll actually be working with Martin until he shows up for his first morning opening the shop.
Martin’s already inside getting things together when Jon arrives. So are Regular Sasha, and Tim, who shoots finger guns at Jon from across the bar whenever he sees him, and Gerry, who Jon has decided he would risk life and limb for after he’d locked the door on a few customers trying to come in two minutes before close the one time he’d covered for The Other Sasha. But Jon doesn’t really notice the others. The others aren’t Martin.
The others aren’t Martin, in the summertime, wearing a cropped t-shirt under his work apron, laughing loud and bright at something Tim is saying to him as he preps the coffee pots to start brewing.
Yeah, so Jon might be fucked. This might very well turn out to be much more than just something fun to indulge himself with during the lulls in his workday. Because when Martin turns around at the sound of the bell on the door jingling and brightens with a smile and asks, “what are you doing here so early?” Jon feels himself physically melt into a puddle on the floor.
Before Jon can make a fool of himself stuttering through his answer, Tim catches notice of him standing in the lobby. “Hey!” he shouts, shooting his regular finger guns across the bar (albeit with less enthusiasm than usual due to the earlier hour). “What brings you in this morning, did you forget something last night?”
“He switched shifts with Michael,” Gerry supplies, unknowingly giving Jon the extra few seconds he needs to get his brain back online.
Sasha snorts. “More like he wanted to get away from closing with the other Sasha. I’ve had to work a few of those with her, before Jon was hired, she’s horrible.”
Martin is still looking at him, like he’s waiting for him to either confirm or deny Sasha’s claims. Jon, realizing that he’s still standing frozen in the middle of the café lobby, startles into motion as he answers. “Technically,” he says, trying to sound appropriately cordial, “I switched shifts with Michael because I graduated last week, and I preferred morning shifts anyway.”
At that, Martin tilts his head like he doesn’t quite believe him. “And?”
Jon rolls his eyes, relenting. “And, I hate that I usually have to close with the other Sasha. She always leaves me behind when customers try to come in ten minutes before close.” He feels a bit lost, when Martin smiles knowingly at the answer. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, or his legs, or any of him really.
There’s not too much time for him to figure that out, though, when Tim gives a dramatic sigh before switching the sign on the door to say “open,” and the customers start flooding in in waves.
If Jon had thought the rush he dealt with at the beginning of his late shifts was bad, he was not nearly prepared enough for what a coffeeshop looked like at seven in the morning. It was nonstop orders until lunch, and while it wasn’t quite enough for him to consider begging for his late shifts back, it was a very close call.
“It’ll calm down a bit until the late afternoon,” Martin assures him when they both retreat to the back room for their break. “And after what you’ve seen this morning, you won’t hardly notice how much it’s picking up.”
It’s hard to adjust to, the early, frantic mornings, and the still-frantic-but-less-so afternoons, but he gets the hang of it. And he does get to leave in the middle of those less frantic afternoons, often at the same time as Martin, so he can’t say it’s all that bad of an adjustment.
Jon’s learned a lot more about Martin, by the time he officially adjusts to his new schedule. He likes old movies, but not the boring silent ones, he prefers cassette tapes to CDs, and he always gets steamed milk all over his apron when he uses the cappuccino machine for the first time that day. Martin writes his own poetry, but he never shares it with anyone; he wishes he had a dog, but his apartment doesn’t allow pets; he’s allergic to pineapple, but he still orders it on pizza. Once, during an impromptu game of truth or dare when the shop was empty because of a freak storm, he’d divulged that he gives his employee discount to students even though he’s not even allowed to use it on his immediate family. Every new thing Jon learns just endears him more.
After a month passes, Jon has to admit to himself that his once silly and fleeting work crush has now morphed into a full-blown interest.
He is, embarrassingly, alone with Martin in Martin’s flat when he decides to have this revelation.
Because somehow, miraculously, Martin has decided that he likes Jon enough to have him over on the weekends. Likes him enough to keep having him over on the weekends, even. Two weeks in a row now, and Jon still doesn’t know how he’s done it, convinced this lovely man that he’s the one he wants to spend his time off with, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Jon was worried, at first, about how different it would be. They got along great at work, sure, but that didn’t necessarily translate to anything outside of the four walls of the shop. Martin had taken to him almost immediately, like those three years of exchanging good lucks at the beginnings and ends of their respective shifts were actually a rich history of friendship. And it was easy to talk to him, Jon found. Once he’d gotten past his initial schoolyard infatuation, Jon found himself developing a comfortable back and forth that felt like it was always supposed to exist between them.
He didn’t want that to be disrupted. It was easy at work, where there were rules to follow and customers to take care of, but what about outside of that? What about when they were inside each other’s homes, sharing each other’s personal space and lacking any of the structure of a regular workday?
But Martin had looked almost nervous when he’d asked, that first time, like he was afraid Jon would say no. As if Jon could say no. So he’d accepted the invitation, despite his anxieties, and all that worry had turned out to be completely unfounded.
Because, as it turns out, being with Martin outside of the structure of a regular workday was better. Seems obvious, of course, but Jon really hadn’t been prepared for how loose and sarcastic and gossipy Martin could be when he didn’t have customers and cappuccinos to worry about. It was a delight to discover. Once his nerves had settled and he’d let himself sit with the joy of getting to see Martin like that, with his guard down and his customer service smile tucked away for the weekend, Jon had been able to ask Martin if he had any plans for the next day without hesitating or second-guessing.
Jon assumed it wasn’t going to be a regular practice once the weekend ended and they went back to work. It had just been a way to spend time, he figured, bonding with a new coworker to get to know them better. He’d tried not to let himself get too worked up about it either way.
And yet, somehow, here they are. One week later, taking up the same space in Martin’s flat, as comfortable with each other as if they’ve had this routine for two years instead of two weeks.
It hadn’t even taken much planning. Just a quick, hopeful, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” from Martin as they’d left the shop at the end of the week and a bright, perhaps too quick, “yes of course,” from Jon as he’d tried not to show how much the repeated invitation pleased him.
Martin’s bringing the delivery in from the hall when it catches him.
Jon gets on alright with most of his coworkers. Martin gets on exceptionally with all his coworkers. But Jon doesn’t get up to retrieve plates and silverware without being told when he’s with anyone else, doesn’t already know which cabinets they’re in without asking, even when he’s been to the others’ places far more often. And the others certainly don’t remember Jon’s favorite takeaway order from a two-minute conversation they had once in the middle of the morning rush.
And when Jon sees a cat on his walk in the afternoon, Martin’s the one he has to send a picture to. And when he makes it down to the library, he finds himself hovering around the poetry section, wondering if he should give the medium another chance, just for Martin’s sake. And Jon doesn’t text any of his other coworkers well past when he should have gone to bed, doesn’t receive a reluctant goodnight text from them and fall asleep smiling. And he keeps all these small little details in his head, like how Martin always brings his own thermos in the morning instead of making something when he gets there, and how he whistles a different tune every time he starts the coffee brewing but they’re always the theme songs to old radio dramas from before they were born.
Jon still forgets that Tim has a brother, half the time.
So, yeah. Jon is way past a silly, fleeting work crush at this point. If he’s being honest with himself, he probably passed that point a long time ago, way faster than he wants to admit.
“Alright Jon?” Martin asks, concerned.
Jon shakes himself back to the present, willing the tension out of his body and reaching out to grab the box that he just now realizes Martin had set in front of him. He holds out the second set of silverware he’d retrieved, endearingly mismatched from his own. “Yes, sorry, just zoned out for a bit. Long week, I suppose?”
“Oh god,” Martin says, taking the distraction for what it is. “Tell me about it. If I have one more older woman yell at me because I can’t accept a promotion from a completely different store, I swear to god I’m going to quit.”
“You wouldn’t really leave me all alone with rude, old women, would you?” The teasing remark comes out before Jon can really think about it.
Before he can think about it further, Martin responds. “Mm, you’re right,” he says, matching Jon’s teasing tone without missing a beat. “Couldn’t leave you, could I?”
Alone, Jon mentally corrects. Couldn’t leave you alone. That had to have been what Martin meant. But it wasn’t what he’d said, and it hadn’t sounded like he was fumbling his words besides.
It’s something Jon is going to think about later. Much, much later, when he isn’t sitting on Martin’s sofa, close enough for their knees to touch. When he hasn’t just freshly realized that his initial infatuation had grown into something a lot more real than he’d ever intended it to.
And Jon has always been very good at compartmentalizing. So when he says much, much later, he truly means much, much later.
Cropped t-shirts turn into butter-soft jumpers and sun turns into constant rain and fog. Jon keeps going out with Martin on the weekends and Martin keeps asking him to go out with him on the weekends. He falls harder than ever, without any effort.
It’s easy to love Martin, is the thing. Jon had already been halfway there before he even properly knew the man. Now that he does? It’s almost impossible not to.
Martin has tea ready for everyone right as they’re going on break, even while he’s still working. He leaves tins of cat food out for the strays in the alley, even when management sends out email after email about encouraging them to stay away from the store. Once or twice, he lets Jon come out with him while he feeds them, holding back a smile when Jon immediately sits on the ground and encourages the strays to climb all over him.
He yells at customers who deserve it and is painfully earnest with the ones who don’t, and he calls to check up on people when they call in sick, and he grabs Jon’s hand to steer him away from nasty spills on the sidewalk, and he talks with his mouth full but always makes sure to cover it with a hand so that no one actually sees, and the more time Jon spends with him, lounging around in his apartment on the weekends or going out for drinks with everyone else at the end of the week or meeting up at Tim’s for their twice-weekly game night that he’d practically forced upon all of them, the more he realizes that he is completely and utterly screwed.
Jon only lets himself entertain the idea that Martin might actually feel the same when he is at home, alone, in the comfortable dark of his bedroom right after the sun goes down. It’s safer there, where no one can see, where he can hide his blush in his pillows while he daydreams about doing so much as holding Martin’s hand, good lord.
Although, on one memorable occasion, he does let himself entertain the idea while at work in the middle of broad daylight. Just once, just for the briefest moment, but Martin had sidled up behind him and leaned over his shoulders to grab something off a shelf and there was no one else in the way, he could have easily gone around or asked Jon to move, but he had chosen to lean into Jon’s space, to come close enough that Jon could feel him breathing, close enough that Jon could picture him leaning closer, winding his arms around Jon’s waist and holding him in place.
Martin’s free hand, the one he wasn’t reaching with, had settled on top of Jon’s shoulder, as if he was using it to steady himself, and Jon swears he’d almost shattered.
But it could mean anything. Jon’s always been a hopeless romantic and his wistful daydreams and hopeful longing hardly ever lead to anything other than heartbreak. It was hardly ever reciprocated, and it was just easier to expect it not to be.
Martin is a miracle.
In a lot of ways, really, usually in the way that he’s able to keep sneaking food for the strays in the alley without ever being caught, even though management clearly knows that someone is feeding them. Sometimes in the way that he picks up on the fact that Jon is having an off day and lets him beg off the register for an hour or two, allowing him time to catch up to himself among the coffee grounds and away from the customers. Often in the way that he saves Jon the last cherry scone of every morning, because he knows they’re his favorite.
This time, however, when they have known each other for a little under six months, Martin is a miracle because he brushes his hand against Jon’s as they leave the shop together and politely ignores the hitch in Jon’s breathing as he says, “can I ask you something?”
Jon stutters when he answers. His brain is still about three seconds behind, lingering over the barely-there touch of Martin’s fingers against the back of his hand. “S-sure. Go ahead.”
Martin seems to struggle for words as well. When Jon dares to look him in the eye, there’s a slight darkness in his cheeks. He looks almost nervous.
“Martin?”
“Sorry.” The flush grows as Martin apologizes. “More nervous than I thought, I guess. Um…I was wondering, actually, if—would you like to go to dinner with me?”
The last part is said all in a rush, so quickly that Jon wouldn’t have understood the words Martin was saying at all if he hadn’t been secretly hoping to hear them almost every day for the past six months. He answers embarrassingly quickly. “Yes.”
Martin’s face does a strange thing, then. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to be happy or nervous or something else entirely. Eventually, he seems to settle on something that looks vaguely like he’s trying not to get his hopes up. “I mean as a date,” he clarifies, flush still sitting stubbornly high on his cheekbones.
Jon’s neck goes warm. He hadn’t really taken the time to consider that Martin might have meant it as not a date. For all his worrying about whether or not Martin could really like him that way, he sure had been quick to accept it. It’s even more embarrassing, then, that his answer had been so immediate. Still, it hasn’t changed.
“Yes,” he repeats.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Martin looks like he’s glowing. “Yeah?”
Jon nods this time, afraid of sounding like a horribly scratched record. It’s just as well, he supposes, because that’s when Martin decides to take his hand for real, tangling their fingers together and leading them down the sidewalk. He’s not entirely sure he would have been able to get a single word out anyway.
The date goes well. Better than well, actually. It’s really quite fantastic. Martin agrees. They set up another, and another, and so on until it becomes clear that they don’t really have to make the distinction. Tim teases them at work. Sasha joins in, relentlessly. Gerry’s inclined to give the two of them a break, but only when no one else is around. Jon delights in the way that he now gets to learn all the ways in which Martin likes to be loved.
He likes to hold Jon’s hand while they’re walking, but he prefers to link arms. When Jon brushes a kiss against his temple when he comes into work, Martin has to focus not to dissolve into undignified giggles. He likes to hold Jon when they sleep but he loves to be the one that’s held. The first time Jon turns over in the middle of the night and curls himself around Martin’s form, arms around his waist and face buried between his shoulder blades, Martin practically starts purring.
In the mornings, when Martin is still bleary eyed and Jon has already been up for an hour, Martin hums into the warm mug that Jon has waiting for him and leans over to hide a kiss in Jon’s hair. Jon always makes a second cup on days when they have to go in to work. On days when they don’t come in together, Jon still brings him one from home. Martin always shows up with one for him in turn.
Martin also has a certain predilection to touch in general, which suits Jon quite nicely. He enjoys being the one to comb through Martin’s hair with his fingers late at night, loves having Martin drape himself over his shoulders whenever the opportunity arises. Martin isn’t shy about reaching out and asking and Jon isn’t shy about obliging.
Jon particularly likes being the one to reduce Martin to soft whines when he indulges him in a kiss that is longer and more involved than usual. Even more so when he draws himself closer, swinging his legs over Martin’s lap in order to hold him properly and Martin stutters so hard that he has to lean back to catch his breath.
“Is this alright?”
Jon looks at him, eyebrows raised exaggeratedly. “I think me climbing into your lap of my own accord is a pretty good indication that I’m okay with it.” Still, he pulls back a little, giving them both a bit of breathing room. “Are you alright?”
Martin immediately pulls him back into place with the grip he still has on Jon’s hips. “Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, I feel like that was rather obvious.” Then, clearing his throat, he grabs Jon’s hand and turns his gaze downward, twisting the black band around Jon’s middle finger as he does so. “I just, um…I noticed this? And I know what it means, so…just wanted to check in, I guess.”
Something squeezes at Jon’s heart just then. He taps at Martin’s chin, urging him to make eye contact. “It’s alright,” he says, his voice coming out much softer than he’d expected. “Thank you.”
Martin meets his eyes, smiles softly. “Of course.”
Of course, he says. Christ, Jon is so gone.
Jon raises a hand, scratching lightly through the curls at the nape of Martin’s neck. Martin leans in with a hum, moving forward until his forehead is resting against Jon’s own. They stay like that for a moment, pressed close and simply sharing the same space. Eventually, Jon clears his throat and leans back, moving his hand away from Martin’s neck to curve around his cheek instead.
He doesn’t speak right away. He means to, but he can’t. Can’t find the words, can’t figure out why it’s so hard to even get them out in the first place. It’s only Martin. What is he afraid of?
Martin furrows his brow, clearly confused, but he only gives a reassuring squeeze to Jon’s arm and waits.
“I, uh,” Jon starts. He swallows, steeling himself. “It won’t ever be more than this, though. Is that alright?”
The concern melts away from Martin’s brow, replaced with an overwhelming fondness that just about knocks Jon out of his lap. He turns into Jon’s hand, presses a kiss against his palm and leans deeper into the touch.
“Of course it is,” Martin says again. “Why would I ever want anything more than you?”
And Jon…Jon doesn’t quite know how to answer that. He shrugs in response, a touch helpless.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Jon,” Martin continues. “I love you.”
Jon surprises himself with how breathless he feels when he responds in kind. Isn’t it wonderful how all this time, while he’d been learning Martin—learning all the best ways to love him and reveling when he got it right—Martin had been doing the same for him.