Work Text:
Arthur huffed. Work had kept him behind for longer than he’d anticipated, and he was, for lack of a better word, pissed. Utterly pissed. Because now it was closer to half-past five than five o'clock, which meant he now had thirty odd minutes to spend rather than the usual fifty-minumum. Fucking bullshit ass job, God, all because of someone else’s damn mistake! He couldn’t wait to be able to take some time off for ‘holiday’. When, that was, someone actually decided to approve the request!
Holding the next huff in, Arthur turned at the street corner and—there it is—his little haven away from home, a modest coffee shop lying between a hairdresser’s and a grocer’s. Cascaras. Arthur hadn’t the foggiest what the name meant but the charm lay more so on the inside of the café’s walls than on the exterior. The place closed up at six. It was the only place in town that he knew to stay open to such a time.
As soon as he walked through the door, he felt a bit better. The air smelt of roasted coffee and light florals—the space was decorated generously with flowers and hanging pots—and the warmth of the place always seemed to seep into his bones, dive into his skin. It was cosy, bright, young ('hipster’ even), and where he went most days before work, or after work, to grab a drink.
The coffee was amazing.
So he’d heard.
Arthur only drank the tea, which was comparatively shit and never quite hot enough (some fancy-schmancy organic crap, no doubt, when PG Tips would have sufficed), but it wasn’t really the tea he came for.
“Ah, Arthur! I was wondering if and when you were going to show up!"
Arthur came for him.
"Here, do you want the usual,” Antonio, the man who simultaneously owned and ran the coffee shop, and also made the world a nicer place to live in, began to ask him as Arthur approached the counter, “or have you finally decided to get a bit more adventurous?”
Though the pause wasn’t even noticeable, it felt like a lifetime—a lifetime of staring at the other, imagining what could be, what they could be, together—before Arthur responded: “Trust me, I’m all for adventure and trying new things, Toni, but tea is the only thing that I refuse to give up.”
The brunette hummed and smiled as he got straight to finding a cup and saucer. “Shouldn’t have expected any less from you. But at least you’re consistent and easy to serve,” he remarked with a light-hearted shrug. “God forbid people come in here and start treating it like a Starbucks! Just the other day, someone asked if I could make some crazy iced choco-hazelnut pino-ccino a la crème grande, and— Ooh… I’m surprised I managed to stay on my side of the counter, let me tell you.”
The small pout that had appeared on the other’s face, a result of the clearly extremely unpleasant memory, was nothing short of adorable. As was the rambling. Arthur was surprised he was staying on his side of the counter, too; he wished he could leap over there, grab his face and just kiss him—but that would have been both rude and highly embarrassing for the both of them. It was a good job he had self-control. Praise be!
“Anyway,” the brunette continued as he found the tray of tea bags to offer out to Arthur so he could pick one (that never failed to taste of fancy overpriced dirt pried from the sole of some regent’s shoe; but he’d sooner die than drink green tea instead), “how’s your day been?”
Ah, we’ve entered the small talk phase. “It was alright, for the most part,” Arthur replied, though he was sure his facial expression betrayed him. “Didn’t really enjoy staying on for longer than I’m paid for, but you know…”
“I know,” Antonio confirmed with a nod. “The working life is far from fun and games.” He then nodded in the direction of the only occupied table in the coffee shop, a table of three students, from the look of it. “Just wait, they’re in for a shock.”
A fleeting moment of laughter passed between them, for no more than three seconds. Arthur recalled university and his utterly pointless degree that had, in the end, done nothing for him. He’d thought he’d maybe work in Archiving or Research in a museum, spending his days walking literal passages through time. But instead, well… a dead-end job, it was! Nowhere to really go but into retirement, which was a good forty years away. Wonderful.
In reality, it wasn’t really something to laugh about.
Luckily, it seemed that Antonio agreed (though for different reasons, quite clearly, given the man somehow owned his own business) and gave an energised: "I have something for you, by the way!” like he’d suddenly remembered the fact. “If you want, go to your table, and I’ll bring it all over—tea and surprise!”
Arthur conceded on the condition that Antonio was going to have a drink and sit down with him—an offer Antonio did not refuse, as he quickly explained how extra-tired he was after a day with only one employee able to help ('Some bug seems to be going around. That, or I have 'mug’ written on my forehead, and they’re all on holiday!’). With that settled, Arthur went over to his table (ah, how strange and fuzzy that felt, to have his very own designated table…) and waited patiently for some company. And a surprise.
Part of him wondered if it was something to eat, because he was Cascaras’ frequent guinea pig. Another part wondered if it was some news. A sliver wondered if it was something physical, tangible—a gift. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Antonio had once produced a book for him to read that he thought Arthur would like (he had). But he couldn’t think of any reason for—
Ah, he relaxed slightly when he spied some sort of cake or pastry on the tray Antonio was carrying over to the table. That makes a lot more sense. And suits me better. Gifts were nice, but… just having someone to talk to was far nicer.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Antonio said as he sat down opposite Arthur, who noted, over the other’s shoulder, the 'closed’ sign now sitting on the counter. “I’m sure you’re yet to have dinner, and something sweet might ruin your meal, but as soon as I made it I knew you had to be the one to try it!”
“I’m flattered,” Arthur smiled at him. “Does my opinion really… matter to you that much?”
“Of course! You’re probably the most honest person I know,” the brunette responded, smiling back.
Me? Honest? Hardly, Arthur thought rather cynically as the other emptied off the tray and set it down on a different table. If I were honest I’d have told him by now how I… well…
“On that note,” Antonio went on as he produced a slice of what looked like a pleasant tart, “this is a recipe a friend sent to me.”
“Not Francis, by any chance?” Arthur asked. Francis was a mutual friend of theirs, and the whole reason that Arthur had even found that Cascaras existed.
Antonio hummed, but shook his head. “Not this time,” he said, “though that dacquoise recipe was quite good last month. But, no, no—this one’s from Lorenzo. Italian. Torta della nonna, or what is a sort of custard and lemon tart. But… don’t tell Lorenzo I called it that. He’ll never share a recipe with me again!”
“And so what if he doesn’t? I think your own personal and family recipes are, uh—” Incredible, perfect, addictive, I’d really love it if you moved in and baked every day for me or not even baked, but if you just stayed, and spoke to me, or had dinner with me, or maybe— “—wonderful. Really, I think you should use them more often.”
Nailed it.
“Oh…?” Antonio quirked a brow, seemingly intrigued, as he lifted his own drink to his lips.
Arthur continued: “Why not? A French or Italian recipe might be good in its own right, and I may very well enjoy today’s selection,” he remarked, “but I still don’t think anything will beat the mantecadas you make, to start with. You know they’re my favourite.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve made a note of your birthday so I can give you a great big stack of them,” the other laughed softly. “That’ll feed you for a month!”
“I’m going to hold you to that now that you’ve said it,” Arthur very nearly laughed, though he at least grinned in its place. “I certainly won’t complain.”
“Good. If you did, I’m afraid I’d have to ban you from my café,” Antonio assured him rather jovially.
“You can try,” Arthur replied between sips of lukewarm tea, “but you’ll have a hard time keeping me away. I’ve gotten quite attached to this place.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.” Not as sweet as you. “I’m glad to know you like my cake that much.”
Arthur nearly choked on his drink. He wanted to think that Antonio had said it on purpose—a cheeky (ooh!) comment to match his flirting—but the Spaniard was so clearly oblivious to what he’d said, going on about his business—having a drink, sparing the students a glance and no doubt praying they’d soon leave—that there was no way he knew the… the connotations!
Thing was, Arthur wouldn’t have minded liking his cake at all, if he could get the courage to actually take steps towards having a taste. Not in a creepy way, though. Not in a one-night-stand-and-then-flee-the-crime-scene way. Antonio was as moreish as his pastries, but for his easy charm, his personality, the way that merely listening to him talk made Arthur feel a million times better… and who wouldn’t want more of that? Arthur was surprised when he came in every other day, nearly, and found that the man was still single.
He wasn’t sure if that was a green light or a red flag.
But even so, he… Antonio was fascinating. He was a hard worker who seemed like he simultaneously did nothing—put no real effort in, despite the things he had achieved. He spoke frequently of family and friends that Arthur was yet to meet. He enjoyed gardening, sunny-but-not-too-hot days, evening strolls, and even had a strange affinity for cats—things they had in common, as they’d quickly learned. Arthur would have learned more over dinner, or a drink, of course… but still, that was not all:
He was also (clearly) a passionate baker, he occasionally sang along to the music playing in the shop when things were quieter and no one seemed to be around except for Arthur, and sometimes, he’d… he’d get so lost in thought in the middle of conversation, that he’d stare out of the windows, or at one of the Turkish Blue walls, and he’d have this look on his face. Arthur couldn’t describe it. But it made him feel as though he were in a museum, observing one of the many portraits. Renaissance, perhaps. Though Antonio also deserved a halo, so… perhaps a bit more Baroque…
“Hey, Arthur?”
The blonde emerged from his whimsical thoughts, and looked back to Antonio, his gaze having drifted off. Arthur hoped he hadn’t been ignoring him for too long. “Yes? Sorry, were you saying something?”
“Oh! No,” Antonio said, brushing off the comment, “I wasn’t. I, uh, haha— No, I was just wondering if you were okay. You went quiet, so I… Well…”
Arthur leaned back in his seat. “Sorry about that,” he responded. “I was just… thinking.”
“Thinking? My brother tells me that that’s dangerous, you know.”
“I bet he would,” the Brit scoffed in jest. Good old Henrique. “But it’s true, I was—and it was actually something a bit, um… a bit risky I was thinking of, if I’m being honest with you.”
Risky, and even riskier to say! Why the fuck would I— Why would I—?! Brain?! You’re meant to be on my side! Control yourself and what you make me say!
“Now I’m curious! Am I allowed to know?” Antonio asked, because of course he would, of course he would! Fuck! “Or is it, like… private?”
Arthur breathed in, and then slowly exhaled. “Yes and no,” he replied, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He breathed in and out again. He tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. “See, the thing is, Antonio, I—”
“Oh, hang on—” Antonio flashed an apologetic smile, before turning to the trio of students, who were vacating their seats, and waving them off, thanking them for coming, and even throwing in a warm, ‘good luck with the exams!’ because, well, that was just very Antonio of him. Fucking… charming asshole. And then he turned to Arthur and said: “That’s my chance to close the door. You want to stay after hours for a bit, or…?”
“Well, that’s sort of what I… was thinking about,” Arthur said. Antonio stopped halfway out of his chair, and sat back down again. This is my chance, he told himself all the while, just spit it out! God, if Francis could see me now, I can’t tell if he’d be applauding me or throttling me… “I was sort of wondering if you’d, uh, fancy some… dinner…?”
“…dinner?”
“Yeah, I— Ah— Nothing fancy, mind you, I’m not exactly the world’s greatest chef—not that I’m horrible either—but we could, I don’t know… grab something on the go, if you liked?”
“Oh.”
Oh? Arthur’s heart suddenly began racing an Olympic sprint. Oh, what? I shouldn’t have said anything, dammit, I knew it—!
“If you haven’t got dinner planned, you should have said something!” Antonio pressed on, unaware of Arthur’s ongoing cardiac arrest. “No, no—there’s no way I’m going to let you waste money on a takeaway that’s only half-decent and barely filling! If you need dinner, you can come over to mine. I can’t promise anything Michelin-worthy, but I can do comfort!”
“God, no, I didn’t mean it for that.” I’m making it worse! “I’m not going to intrude like that, if you’ve got plans then carry on. We can do something another day, with a bit more notice—”
“Noooo, you’ve said it now, and I insist,” Antonio responded, however. Another nail in the coffin. “We can finish up here—have your tea, and we’ll save the tart for dessert—and you can come to mine. Seriously. I don’t mind, my evenings are all quiet and empty, anyway. Company will make a nice change!”
Arthur felt… stuck, almost. Between what his heart wanted, and what his head demanded. The former wanted him to accept unconditionally so he could venture down this hazy path and see where it led; the latter wanted to walk away because this was suddenly too new, too deep, too terrifying, and he didn’t want to—
No, no, he did, want to, he just—
But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, he wanted to—
Antonio was just so damn ughh, so ffff, so mmhn—
"Oye, Arthur. Stop thinking for a second, and be honest with me, please.”
Arthur was feeling worried, scared, and queasy. “Honest?” he said, not quite able to look him in the eye, favouring his unfavourable tea, instead. “What do you want me to be honest about?”
About why I come here? Whether or not I come here for just the drinks? Whether or not I— I like you? Find you attractive? Find you so, so frustratingly, amazingly, wonderfully perfect?
He was a hopeless case, wasn't he? Ahh...
“About whether or not you actually want to. I don’t… want to force you, you know,” Antonio explained to him. “If you don’t want to come over, then don’t. I don’t mind. It’s just a friendly offer, in case you… wanted the company, too. If I was a bit… pushy, then I’m sorry.” Arthur didn’t like the way his smile had dropped, a ghost on his face. “I get told quite often that I can be a bit ‘intense’, or ‘invasive’… Synonyms for 'loud’ and 'rude’ I’m pretty sure.”
“I don’t think you are,” the blonde told him, however. He may have even frowned, offended by such insinuations. “Whoever says so is a fool.”
“Oh, I know they are. Like I told you,” Antonio said, “your opinion is the most important one I can have. Which is why, mister, I asked for your honesty! Just yes or no, say whatever comes to mind first,” he went on. “Do you want to come over for dinner this eveni—”
“Yes.”
The way the smile steadily reappeared on the other’s face was as gorgeous as watching the sun rise up over tree-laden hills. He really was quite something. He just… didn’t know it yet. Arthur longed to show him.
“Well then, Arthur, in that case,” Antonio began, voice dipping in volume despite the emptiness of the coffee shop—only God as our witness, “give me five minutes to lock up, and we can make a move.”
Make a move. Yes, yes… Now that sounded like a nice idea. Arthur was doing it, he was making his move, giving it a shot, walking down that hazy path…
…directly into the friendzone, apparently! Because as it turned out, whilst tidying up a few things out back, Antonio had also called Francis and another friend, Gilbert, to join them for dinner! In the end, they’d spent some three hours together and in that time, Arthur had barely gotten a word in edgeways, or a moment alone to talk to Antonio as he’d hoped! Success!…
Nevermind, old chap, he told himself as he wandered back home under the watchful gaze of the moon, you’ll just have to try again tomorrow, and maybe get better at flirting. He'd get there eventually...