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For a man who entertained ideas of the occult, Arthur was rather set in his ways. Anything and everything was possible; like the gnomes at the end of the garden, or the water sprite lurking in the toilet, undoubtedly the cause of the dodgy flush, yet when it came to tea or the newspaper, there were rules never meant to be broken.
Certain tabloids were better left unpublished, and the trees spared from being cut for their paper. As for his treasured, precious cuppa, only a particular brand would do. Going abroad was like a mountain expedition, wherein supplies would have to be packed, and even then he’d have to ration.
Tea was life, tea was stress, tea was everything. Tea almost got Arthur thrown off the Isle of Wight cliffs, when he nagged for too many breaks, and sent Alastair into a fit of rage, but tea, to Arthur’s surprise, also found him the love of his life. The coffee-mad, lovely Antonio, whom everyone admired in quiet wonder, and asked: how on earth did those two get together?
Antonio, to put it kindly, was incredibly different from his partner. Where Arthur permitted an ‘organised mess’, Antonio hailed the wild hoarder aesthetic, finding a reason for everything to be kept. Arthur wanted landscape paintings on their walls, so Antonio bought a contemporary disaster, which claimed to be an architectural study. Arthur woke up impossibly early, ready to face a new day, whilst Antonio championed snoozing the alarm, and charging round the house in a last minute frenzy.
Even their meeting, to be perfectly honest, shouldn’t have resulted in a long-term relationship. They’d bumped into one another on the streets -Arthur clasping a fresh cup of tea- and Antonio, stuck to his phone. Neither man looked where they were going, the beverage paid the price, and the row they shared drew a sizeable crowd. Antonio and Arthur, drawn together by a lack of attention, absolutely despised one another. They fired streams of colourful words, until somehow -even they can’t recall- they decided to revisit the cafe Arthur came from, and mull things over a calmer drink.
“Is everything alright?”
Arthur turned from the window. There they were, several years later, tucked inside that very same cafe. “Yes love, just thinking is all.”
Antonio tipped his head, fingers wrapped around his warm cup of coffee. “About what?”
“About us, and this place.”
“Ah,” Antonio beamed, adopting his smile like a well-worn jacket. Arthur never tired of seeing that expression, or seeing Antonio’s face at all. The man was beautiful, even in anger, a storm which called Arthur to make amends that day, rather than swear and walk away.
“That was funny,” Antonio went on, recalling the meeting well. “You were so awful, and over a tea.”
“Love-”
“I know, I know,” Antonio propped his chin in a hand, toothy grinned all the while. “Tea is your blood, your bones. You might just shrivel up and die without it.”
“Says the man who screams if he doesn’t have coffee.”
“My brother’s worse.”
“He is,” Arthur snorted. “But let’s concentrate on you.”
Antonio took the comment in his stride, and in his usual, fidgety manner, straightened in his chair. He drummed fingernails against the side of his mug, glimpsed the window and Arthur’s cheeks. Sometimes, just like today, the sunlight emphasised Arthur’s freckles. The constellations adorning his skin, crossing the bridge of his nose, which Antonio would count in a pleasant daze. Besides them he would follow the stubble, an intentional line left along his jaw. Too long and the hairs would scratch, but just right Antonio loved it. The weathered look had always suited Arthur, as if he’d been plucked from a period crime drama, the weary detective who needed an ale.
“Now you’re thinking,” Arthur observed, resting both elbows upon the table. “Anything good?”
“I'm thinking of you.”
Arthur blinked and grasped his tea. “O-Oh right. That’s good I suppose.”
“Is it wrong to say we’re well-matched?”
“Not at all,” Arthur replied, his voice echoed in the depths of his cup. “Others might think differently, but-”
Antonio reached for his hand, needing the rough palm against his own. He needed the scuffed, worn fingers, always so tender when they held Antonio, and the unspeakable heat Arthur passed through his skin, a perfect reflection of his nature deep down.
You’re so different, feared Antonio’s family. Arthur's charming, but painfully reserved.
He’s British, João had countered, forever the ally of his brother. They’re capable of loving when they want to.
Indeed, Antonio hummed, Arthur was capable of that and more. He wasn’t a man for empty words, and showed his affections through constant, kind gestures.
If Antonio had had a bad day, Arthur would draw him a bath without question. He’d source the foods Antonio loved, that particular blanket he favoured on the sofa, and never held back on the cuddles. Spoiling Antonio had become his hobby, and not once did it feel insincere.
A leathery thumb brushed over his hand, Arthur’s way of saying I’m here. His gaze set upon Antonio’s, waiting, as opposed to pushing, and soon enough Antonio sighed, squeezing their fingers tight.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s my line.”
“That’s-”
“No,” Arthur chuckled. “Don’t argue. I’m always grateful we met that day.”
“You weren’t so pleased at the time.”
“Nor were you,” said Arthur. “But we can agree a lot of good has come from it. You’ve shown me a lot, to say the least.”
Antonio cocked a brow, unable to gauge the mood. If Arthur was speaking of the bedroom, then yes, he’d seen all there was. Every curve, every muscle, every freckle, even the little dimple upon Antonio’s left arse cheek, which Arthur kissed in sheer delight.
“I mean the world,” Arthur explained. “Not literally countries- although that’s a thing, I’m saying-” he shoved his free hand in his hair, “aargh, you get it. I hope so anyway. Since we’ve been together I’ve changed. And I mean it in a good way. I'm not a complete stick-in-the-mud any more.”
He’d never been one from the start, merely vastly misunderstood, and Antonio would stand by that fact. Arthur could and would adapt, a reason why Antonio adored him so much. Never before had someone loved him completely, taken the good along with the bad, but Arthur did as if it were a privilege.
“You can be fussy, but I like that about you.”
“That so?” Arthur laughed. “Guess there are times when I can’t be swayed.”
“Tea time, you mean?”
Arthur barked a too-loud laugh, paying no attention to the customers around them. He released their hands, peered into his mug, and as if the droplets could spell out his future, his face turned deathly stern.
“About that,” he mumbled shortly after, turning the cup to watch liquid swirl. “I’ve decided.”
Antonio grasped the meaning before he could speak, rising from his chair. “If you want a refill, it’s my turn to pay.”
“I do, but-”
“What?”
Arthur swallowed, seeming to shrink in his chair. Like a child scolded by his teacher, he slipped downwards, shoulders bunched, and guilt curved the line of his brow.
“You’ve always been adapting to my ways. Living here, speaking my language, it’s-”
“A choice,” Antonio deadpanned. “Don’t speak as if I’m trapped.”
“I’m not,” Arthur replied. “What I’m sayin’ is that... I should do the same. Try something different.”
“Two sugars instead of one?”
Arthur shook his head, sat up properly and took a breath. “I want a coffee.”
Antonio grabbed his chair for balance. His eyes blew wide, he stuttered a laugh, whilst Arthur stared back wholly serious, both hands clasped upon the table.
“I want to try,” Arthur explained. “My brothers say it’s not so bad... but I trust you over them any day so- yeah,” he nodded firmly, “two coffees. However you like it.”
“I love you too,” Antonio beamed, smacking a wet kiss upon flushed cheeks, before walking to the cafe counter. He highly doubted that Arthur would enjoy his coffee, the darkest night of any brew, laced with the tiniest sprinkle of sugar, but thankfully these things could be tweaked. Arthur’s taste buds could be eased in slowly, via a milky, sweet alternative.
“Love you more,” Arthur shouted from the table, a hand against his cheek, and no cares for whoever heard it. He’d say it again and again, louder still if the need arose. Arthur found a person who fit his odd ways, took him entirely for who he was, and he’d do anything to repay the kindness. One sip of coffee at a time.