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Martin always thought of Jon as the epitome of British, with his polished clothes, posh accent, and jawline that could cut glass. Tim once joked that Jon seemed as British as beans on toast (which of course Jon had overheard—that was the first time Martin had seen Jon go beet red).
So it always surprised Martin how averse Jon seemed to be to drinking tea. Well, not averse exactly, as he would sip at a cup for a few hours (Christ, cold tea). But he would make the most unpleasant expressions at it, as though it were giving him a live statement that sounded about as real as elephants on the moon.
Martin wasn't a tea connoisseur by any means, but he'd learned how to make a comforting cuppa during the years he cared for his mother, and he felt proud of his ability to figure out how his coworkers took their tea. Tim liked his steeped an extra minute, with a decent measure of milk and no sugar. Sasha (he thinks) preferred hers weaker, milk and a good spoonful of sugar.
It took Martin quite a bit of time to find out what Jon liked, though.
First time he'd offered to make a round of tea for the office, Jon had first insisted he didn't need to, it wasn't in his job description after all. Martin had stood his ground, no matter how his fingers trembled in his fists, and Jon relented with a small sigh. "Well, if you're sure."
"And how do you take your tea?" Martin had asked, trembling now in victory (no matter how small the victory).
"Oh, a bit of milk," was all Jon had said.
Martin thought it was a waste of perfectly good tea (and milk!) for Jon to drink from it gingerly for a while before leaving it to cool on the corner of his desk.
After a few weeks, he'd tried to determine if it was tea in general or Martin's tea in particular Jon objected to. Jon didn't quite seem to get what Martin was driving at, stating blandly, "It's just tea, Martin."
Martin had begun his own personal crusade then. It was meaningless, in the scheme of things, but he was determined to figure out how Jon took his tea. And if it turned out he didn't actually like tea, what he preferred to drink instead and how Martin should prepare it. It was a point of pride at that point.
Martin quickly learned that Jon would drink coffee but hated the taste, even when doctored to hell and back. He did enjoy a hot chocolate, but it seemed to make him sleepy in the middle of the day, and then grumpy at Martin.
So Martin went back to his tea experiments, and he had an inkling Tim and Sasha were taking bets about the process on the sly.
Martin started by preparing Jon's tea the way Tim took it—6 minute steep, dollop of milk, no sugar. Jon finished more of that tea than he had before, but less than Martin would've liked.
So instead, he made it the way he liked his own—5 minute steep, milk until a nice tawny color, spoon of sugar. Jon drank most of it, but solid quarter of the tea remained in the bottom of the mug.
When Martin eventually got up to adding two more spoonfuls of sugar to the mug, Jon not only drained his mug but seemed surprised to find it empty. It wasn't much, and Martin wouldn't have known about it at all if he hadn't been bringing in a report. But he was, and he saw.
Jon flipped open the file Martin handed him, reached for his mug, and then let out an, "Oh!" He looked down in disappointment, set the mug aside, and sighed. "I'll have to make another later."
Martin had just nodded and took the empty mug back to the sink, where he grinned to himself as he made a fresh round.
Making tea for Jon became second nature, in the years they worked together, and it was the first thing to come back after the Lonely. He'd felt dazed when he woke up, confused and half-aware, vaguely remembering he was somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, but Jon was sleeping soundly beside him, and all Martin could think was, "He needs tea."
Martin doesn't know exactly what woke Jon, if it was Martin's absence or the smell of the tea and toast or something else entirely, but his heart feels full to bursting, a sharp pain of affection he'd forgotten about, when he takes in Jon's sleepy face framed by morning light.
"Morning," Jon says through a yawn, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of Martin's jumper—Jon, ridiculous man, had brought nothing warmer than his trousers and a threadbare jacket. The sight of Jon drowning in yellow wool is enough to send heat right to Martin's face.
"Morning," he answers, smiling so hard it hurts. Is this what happiness is supposed to feel like? "I'm making breakfast, tea's almost up."
"Mm," Jon says, then, "Thanks." He takes a seat at the table, dropping his head on his hand as he watches Martin with a soft, fond look on his face.
Knowing the tea's almost steeped, Martin stands up on his toes to grab the sugar out of the cupboard and reaches for the milk he'd left on the counter. He tosses the tea bags and in goes the milk, followed by the sugar in his own. He starts to add sugar to the second mug when Jon says, "Wait, stop, please."
Martin stops, looking at Jon with a twinge of anxiety. Is he…is he doing something wrong?
"I don't take sugar in my tea," Jon reminds him, his voice still soft.
Martin smiles, the anxiety rushing away. "You do," he tells Jon. "I've been putting sugar in for years."
"Have you really?" Jon asks, surprised now. Then he gives a self-deprecating smile. "That would explain why my tea has tasted awful for the last few months."
Martin adds the sugar to Jon's and stirs, letting the stab in his heart subside at the second sentence. "Took me a while to figure it out," he finally says, bringing the teas over to Jon at the table.
He turns to grab the toast from the counter and hears Jon's chair scrape behind him. Jon comes up next to him and grabs the butter and marmalade Martin had pulled out as well.
Martin admits, "It became a bit of a pride thing, really. I didn't like that I could make tea for Tim and Sasha but not for you."
Jon smiles at him, warm and fond and just for him. "Well, thank you," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to Martin's forehead. His face flushes at the casual intimacy of it, a fantasy he never thought he'd get to live.
They sit down to their simple breakfast, and as Jon spreads a truly obscene amount of orange marmalade on a poor piece of unsuspecting toast, Jon says, "My grandmother wouldn’t let me have sugar in my tea as a child, because I was so a restless child. So, I never thought of trying it that way."
Martin stares pointedly at the monstrosity Jon is stuffing into his mouth at the moment. "But she let you consume double the amount on your toast?" he teases.
Jon coughs, turning pink around the ears. "Ah," he says after swallowing the bread down. "No, that I learned on my own—I didn't have much money in uni, and this was filling and easy, and the sugar could keep me going until dinner, since I'd forget lunch most of the time."
Martin rolls his eyes. "Some things never change," he jokes, and takes a bite of his own toast.