Chapter Text
“Jon, I think you’re being a bit ridiculous about all of this.” Sasha huffs, folding her arms over her dark apron from behind the counter. “I mean I know you’re a skeptical guy on most fronts but even this is a bit much for you, don’t you think?”
Frankly, he disagrees.
“He’s been coming in here, for days, since the very first time they opened up, what could he be coming for?” He insists.
“The good coffee?”
“Oh please. Everyday?”
“We do have regulars y’know, he could become a new one.”
He shakes that idea off. “No, it’s strange. He works at a coffee shop himself, a much ‘better’ shop.”
Sasha smirks at his tone. He knows he sounds a little perturbed about the whole situation. When the old italian place sold their building on their busy strip, he wasn’t really sure what was going to replace it. The last thing he expected was another coffee shop and what was worst part of it, it was right across from them! If he looked out his front windows, he would be able to stare right into theirs, that’s how bad it was.
“I think you just hate the change.”
“Of course I do, that’s normal,” He says but she gives him this stare like she doesn’t believe that one bit. It’s not that his diagnosis isn’t widely known. Most of his staff are good friends or old colleagues of his from his university days, when he would hunch over antiquated papers and dry his eyes out reading through old research statements. “Whatever—fine, my relationship with change is different, but regardless, it’s still strange.”
“Have you ever even talked to the guy? He’s nice y’know. Tips good, is always super thankful to us, and minds his own business most of the time. Never caused a problem.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want us to catch on!”
“Look, if he was really trying to be all sneaky and whatever, why would he keep his work apron on when he’s on lunch over here?” Sasha sighs, “That’s not exactly clever.”
“Who ever said rich blokes were smart to begin with, Sasha? The majority are just greedy rats who got lucky.”
“True,” She bemuses, but shakes her head. “Look, I really don’t think it’s as big of a deal as you’re making it. He’s nice, respectful, honestly a grade-a example of customer.”
There’s something that isn’t right though. His skin bristles with an itchy feeling that he can’t shake. Maybe it’s the change that unsettles him, sends chills running down his spine, or maybe his gut is telling him something and he can’t let it go to waste.
“No, I’m going to go say something—find out once and for all. I can’t let any of us be disrespected like this, have the wool thrown over our eyes just because he’s—he’s nice, Sasha.”
She groans, burying her face in her hand. “You have to be joking, Jon.”
“No, it’s—I’ve spent enough time around rich donors and idiotic fools to let my pride be stepped on like this. Like the Lukas. If they want to take me down, they’ll have to do it the right way, not being like this.”
“Of course, you’re not joking,” Sasha looks like she wants to snap him in half but that’s alright, she looks like that with most of his ideas and even then, she still followed him. “What did I honestly expect.”
“Right, well then,” He walks away from the counter, only to hear a choked sound come from Sasha, like she didn’t believe him.
He makes his way towards his table. The employee is a blonde man with curls, always usually dressed in a sweater or hoodie, like he’s cold all the time, with a blue work apron tied tight around him. When Jon reaches him, he’s in the middle of biting down on one of their flaky raspberry pastries.
“Oh, um—hello?” The guy says nervously, looking up at him.
“Really, what is your objective here? To make a mockery of me, to run my business into the ground?” Jon glares down at the blonde man who simply gapes. He’s dealt with plenty of donors from his old school who never had a single person say a thing against them, practically had the ground they walked on worshiped, like they were something, but really all they were were rich pompous red flags in Jon’s vincity.
“Um, I’m sorry? Do I know you?” He frantically looks around, clutching his half-drank mocha in his hands, almost anxiously. “I really don’t understand?”
“I’m not an idiot, despite what you folks think,” Jon says stubbornly. He refuses to believe this deer in the headlights act has ever worked for anyone. He leans forward, placing a stern hand on the table, glaring at the man who simply tries to bury himself further in his seat. “You’re from the Lukas shop across the street.”
“Oh—yes, yes I am, um? Did you have a complaint…” He mutters out, looking down at his coffee. Oh, please.
“A complaint?” He huffs. “Sure, let’s call it that.”
“Oh—well you see I’m not a manager? And um, I’m off the clock I’m sure Peter or—”
“I don’t care who sent you here, I just need you all to stop this, now.” Jon grits his teeth. “It’s bad enough that I have to worry about the competition with a coffee shop right across mine, let alone another ridiculous business venture that Lukas has gone and done, but you come over here and make a mockery of me and my team.”
“I—I wasn’t sent here, honest!” He places his mocha back on the table, raising his hands up, as if to show no harm. Jon wasn’t an idiot, come on now.
“Oh really,” Jon huffs. “Then do tell why you’re here practically everyday if not to scout out the place, to try and push us off?”
“The food—the pastries are really good! And the coffee is—”
“Do you take me for stupid?”
“What—no, never! I’m being serious! Genuine here, I swear it!”
Jon refuses to believe it. It makes no sense. He works at the Lukas cafe, if he wanted pastries and good coffee, he could have surely gotten it at his own job, let alone coming here everyday. He’s obviously lying and it stings, it bristles something underneath his skin and Jon has decided he’s had enough of their little game. They’re not going to sit here and spy on him when surely they’ve got all the money and resources in the world to put him out of business easily, he can’t waste his time about one employee coming in to scout them out.
“I am not naive, in this business, we’ve been alive and well for five years for a reason,” He glares down at him, feeling a headache coming on. “Now, if you would kindly leave, and don’t come back this time.”
The man goes to open his mouth to say something before he just slinks back in his seat. His face looks hurt, guilty even. Great, if Jon has to live with ever increasing worry he could lose everything him and his friends have worked for, then he should have a silver of that haunting him.
Figuring he’s annoyed Sasha enough with this, he huffs and walks away from the table.
“I’m going to go do inventory, call me if you need help,” He remarks to her as he passes by the counter and heads towards the kitchen.
“Yessir,” She waves off, leaning on the counter as she stares onward, clearly bored.
It takes a lot of time for Tim to say something about than he expects honestly. He has an early shift with him, meaning they have to start readying the shop for opening, something Tim loathes but refuses to let Jon rearrange the schedule so he won’t have to. Something about he’ll do but he’s going to complain about it all the way through, just like when he gets closing shifts.
On these types of days, it’s probably Jon’s favorites, besides the fact at waking up at an ungodly hour to prepare for the items for the shop. They work back to back, aprons tied around their waist, and focus on it. Sometimes in complete silence. Sometimes Tim blasts music from his phone. Sometimes they even chat about anything that pops in Tim’s mind. Jon focuses on preparing, baking, and lavishing their pastries in the proper way—they’re a little bit source of pride for him. They’re his own recipe, some he found in grandmother’s old recipe book after she passed, so he can’t help but take joy in the process. Mixing, molding, baking, decorating—all of it fills him with a relaxation he can rarely find.
Tim usually focuses on the other preparation, taking care of the savory breakfast items, like hot and cold sandwiches, wraps, and even salads, for lunch later. They always manage to get into a comfortable rhythm, it’s nice like this, he’s used to it and it makes him feel oddly whole.
“Y’know you didn’t have to go off on Martin like that,” Tim, after at least an hour of mixing on Jon’s end and chopping ingredients on Tim’s, says. He almost forgets what he’s even talking about.
“Martin?” He quips, staring at the dough as it spins in their industry-grade mixer. “Wait—do you mean the Lukas employee?”
“He keeps his nametag on when he comes over for lunch, how could you not know his name?” Tim snorts.
“Wasn’t exactly paying attention to that.”
“Right—right,” Tim shakes his head. “But honestly, he’s a good guy.”
“So I’ve apparently been told.”
“It’s true—look, Jon, I know you’re stressed out of your head about this change now. I know how you are and how much you hate when something is new or changes. You get all weird and up tight about it.”
“It isn’t just about that—we’re competitors.”
“Jon, you act like we’re one bad day from closing the doors when I know we’re not because you have an intense anxiety problem when it comes to business and money and always making sure everything is well afloat.” Tim just sighs, he can’t tell if he’s tired from the lack of sleep or Jon’s nature to overthink everything. “We haven’t even had any drops in numbers, y’know? You’re not the only one who checks that stuff. We’re fine—you don’t need to stress over it.”
“I can’t help but stress over it. This isn’t a game, it’s a business, it’s my job to make sure the lights stay on.”
“Which they are and will continue to be!” Tim insists, he hears the soft slam of the knife against the cutting board as he goes on. “Our customers haven’t abandoned us and it’s been over a month since the Lukas opened up whatever their cafe is called across from us and there hasn’t been a real change in business, so what’s the real issue.”
Jon knows.
“I just hate this feeling, like everything is crumbling underneath me.” He stops the mixer so the dough doesn’t toughen up from the gluten. “I just—I don’t deal well with it. No matter how many times you and Sasha and Georgie try and scold this feeling out of me—I can’t control it.”
Tim’s chopping stops.
“You know this is why you’ll never get a date.”
It cuts through the tense air like a knife, allowing Jon to breathe again and his hunched shoulders fall as he lets out a laugh.
“I’m not exactly interested in that in the first place.” He rolls the dough out and can’t help the smile on his face. Thank god Tim is facing the other way. He’d never let it down.
“True—” Tims hums, he hears the clatter of metal. He guesses he’s moving onto the slicing of the bread and is having trouble finding the bread knife again. “I know it’s hard. Well, I don’t know actually, can’t really always grasp what you mean, but I don’t think it’s a matter of stopping or controlling it.”
He does appreciate that about Tim. Georgie tries to sympathize with his situation a lot, even did a lot of research on it when they were dating because his diagnosis happened around that time, but for how badly she did try to understand, she can’t. Tim doesn’t try to do that, he’s frank with the fact that he can’t possibly know what it’s like for Jon but is still trying to help, to offer suggestions, even if he can’t grasp it.
“Well, what do you think it’s a matter of then?”
“Okay, I know this sounds cliche and straight out of those weird videos we had to watch at the beginning of every school year, but—how you respond to it?”
“Oh great, yes, go on about a lesson about responsibility and emotional regulation. I’m sure that’ll do wonders on me.”
“Aw, c’mon man, you know in some way I’m right. You feel like shit cause something changed. That thing pissed you off and because you couldn’t cope it because frankly I don’t think you know what an actual coping mechanism looks like, so you went off on someone that—I don’t know—represented that, like, the change in your mind.”
“Wow, Tim, didn’t know you had a psychology degree. Honesty, why did you lower yourself to the realms of sandwich maker if you could have been my unwanted therapist this entire time?”
“I’m afraid the board didn’t like my plans for recommending arson to patients as a healthy outlet. So—here I am!”
He snorts, it definitely sounds like something Tim would have done, given the chance. He’s always been far more outgoing than Jon could understand. He wasn’t envious in that way, more like—it was intriguing, interesting, how Tim could walk up to anyone and have a good chat with them, how he wanted to.
“I know you’re right,” He relents. “I just—I don’t know. It felt like I was being laughed at, like they were looking down on my pride.”
“Ah, yes, you and your petty pride.”
“This petty pride gave you a job.”
“Yessir, it did, I’m still gonna make fun of it though,” Tim cackles.
When the bell rings, he doesn’t raise his head really. It’s the morning shift, Sasha and Tim are more than well equipped to help any customers while he throws out the old displays, replacing them with new ones he just baked as apart of his prep work.
He hears the annoying squeaks of rubber roles from the rain pouring down outside before he sees him. He lifts himself, placing the old tray on the counter for a second and before he knew it, he was being stared at by bright eager eyes with a brown paper bag tightly gripped in his hands.
He came back, after everything? Is this guy out of his mind?
“We—we got off on the wrong foot,” He starts, his shoulders hunching up as he solidifies himself. His eyes harden and Jon does feel a shift, different than how he was that day. Caught off guard, slinking back into his chair, yet he stands up with his chest out and a determination he knows for stubbornness.
“Right.” Jon spills out, as his mind catches up.
“I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” He surges forward, his gaze sparkling with a fire underneath the warm light of the shop. “I would never snoop or try to hurt you guys in anyway. Honestly, it’s seriously crap that there are two coffee shops on this strip, and I didn’t realize how I could come off.”
He places the brown bag on the counter, next to Jon’s tray, right in front of him.
“These are for you—if—if you’ll accept them. Just to say I’m sorry, I genuinely just like your cafe? I don’t know, it’s homey and warm—your pastries are always fresh when I come here and I feel, safe, when I’m here? If that makes sense.” He gestures towards the bag, looking down. “I don’t like taking my breaks at my job, plus our food isn’t nearly as good as yours.”
When Jon’s eyes wide go wide because what the hell does he mean, he double downs. “No, really, I mean it! Yours—you definitely make them fresh everyday right?”
“I…do.” He admits slowly, not sure where he’s going with this.
“We don’t—some of it is even store bought and it’s just not the same,” He frowns deeply. “And you guys are right next to me—it just seemed good? A nice relaxing place I could go to get good food while I get away from my job.”
Well, he kind of feels like crap now.
“My name—my name is Martin by the way,” He rasps. “Could—could I know yours?”
“You just complained about the food from your job and you seem to understand my perturbed nature towards your shop over there yet you’ve brought me some from it? As what—an apology?”
“Well, yes and no!” Martin jumps. “I brought them as an apology, yes, but I made them at home, I didn’t grab them from work. I wasn’t really sure what you liked—I made bread pudding? If that’s alright?”
He looks inside and he’s right—there’s no signature blue wrapping around the food on the inside. It’s placed in a tupperware box inside the bag, certainly looks homemade, and he can feel the warmth from it.
“Jon.”
Martin cocks his head to the side, confused.
He sighs, “My name is Jon. I’m the owner, if you couldn’t have guessed.”
“Right—Jon! Jon.” He repeats his name, smiling to himself.
“You—just like the place?”
Martin eagerly nods, “Yes—I really mean it. Compared to where I work, it’s like night and day. Over there, it’s just—cold, lonely? Not a place you want to stay at. Kind of like a corporate store.”
Jon feels, a bit, like a damned fool. His face burns with warmth.
“If—if I really make you uncomfortable, I understand, I won’t come back but I just—” He intertwines his hands together, fiddling with his fingers. “I didn’t want to be misunderstood, y’know?”
The guilt could eat him alive whole because Martin looks like a kicked puppy like this—head lowered, eyes casted to the side, frown pulled down on his face. He feels like a real ass.
“It’s fine,” Jon feels the shame crawl over his skin as he talks. “It’s fine—you’re fine. I should really be the one apologizing. Got too much in my own head, made assumptions, and just kicked you out. Some great owner I am.”
“Really—it’s really okay?” Martin smiles wider.
“Yes—I shouldn’t have acted that way,” He lowers his head.
“It’s okay, really,” He smiles sincerely. He can practically feel Tim and Sasha staring at them. “It makes sense? I guess it would be scary if some corporate competitor of mine moved in across the street and started hanging around.”
“I—scary is not the word I would use.”
“No?” Martin grins. “What word then?”
He huffs, realizing he’ll move no ground with this point. “So you’ve made your point. Do you—want to make an order?”
“Oh—really? I thought you didn’t take orders, you’re always running around aren’t you?”
That stops Jon’s brain for a second. “Okay, I’m not that selfish of a boss, I can take orders, it’s fine, and I’m surprised you even noticed me at all.”
Martin laughs at that, “Well, I always saw you on my breaks always doing something? It’s like you never sit down or slow down—guess that’s expected of an owner, huh?”
“Well, yes, let me just put this away and I’ll be right over,” He certainly won’t give him an idea of how accurate that really is of him. He’s not a workaholic as some might suppose, he’s just always busy and it’s either he gives all of his effort or none.
“Oh—right, yes!” Martin says and goes over to the ordering station. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Tim tries to talk to him before he waves him off, mouthing words he can’t hear.
He can practically see the glee in Tim’s eyes, even with his back turned as he slips the new display tray in.
“Could I get—hmm,” Martin scans the menu board. “Oh, wow, you’ve guys got lots of teas—could I get an oolong tea with two biscuits, please?”
“Well, yes, Martin, we are a cafe, I suppose it’s natural,” Jon writes it down on the cup, “We try and keep it all in house—cheaper and better than that, Tim likes to say we have an in-house botany collection but he’s being dramatic.”
“Wait, so you grow and dry the tea yourself?”
“Yeah, I usually handle it,” Jon says, grabbing one of their kettles. “Did you want anything more in your tea?”
“Oh, um, lots of sugar in it? If you have sugar packets I can just do it myself!”
“It’s fine, Martin,” He shakes his head, after pouring the hot water in where the dried leaves have already been placed at the bottom. “Do you want regular or dark oolong?”
“Oh—regular’s fine!”
He lets it steep for a few minutes, before pouring the liquid into a new cup, adding plentiful of sugar into the cup and stirring. When he’s done and the aroma has assaulted his senses, he places it on the counter and grabs a packet of their biscuits to lay beside it.
“There you go—have a nice day?”
“Yup,” Martin’s smile go even wider. “See you around, Jon.”
The Admiral curls in his lap, one of the few warm and inviting things about this place. He focuses his attention all on him, scratching him on his forehead just the way he likes it.
“Jon, you are an idiot,” Georgie laughs, two warm cups in her hands, faint steam pouring out from the lid line. She places one in front of him, on a wooden coaster, and sits back down on the couch across from him. “You seriously never change, do you?”
“Look—I didn’t—it was stupid all right, even I can admit that.”
“Now you can, but before you would’ve fought me tooth and nail on it I bet,” Georgie grins, like she’s won, and sadly, they both know his pride is one of his biggest downfalls. It’s what got him into this business to begin with. “I can’t believe you ripped into the guy and he came back, with apology pastries! Sounds like a sweetheart.”
“Ugh, I know, I just—”
“What? Still think he’s a Lukas spy?”
“No, of course not—” Jon shakes his head. “I feel guilty?”
“I see you’re still eloquent as ever in expressing your emotions,” She snickers behind her drink before taking a sip, urging him to go on.
“Yes, yes, I know, I’m bad at this.”
“But you’re getting better—you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t, y’know?”
“You’re not exactly my therapist, Georgie, that’s not why I’m here.” He insists.
“I am your friend though,” She smiles, leaning forward, placing her drink on her own coaster. “You’re talking to me, opening up to me, I mean, that’s good isn’t it?”
The way she says it makes him feel like a such a child. She doesn’t mean it and Jon knows she means no harm. It’s not like that.
Jon has always just been like that, inadequate, not caught up with rules and understanding everyone else has a perfect grasp on. He could force himself into a task like it was no one’s business but his own, nearly destroy himself by writing his entire thesis in one week, but when it came to people, his own feelings? It all felt too raw, too new, for him.
“I guess I wish I was a lot like you or Tim or Sasha,” He huffs, reaching over to grab his drink. The soft scent of lavender invades his senses. “You guys get it so easily. You don’t care about if things change. You guys—understand yourself and why you do things.”
“Jon…”
“No—I don’t want pity, Georgie, that’s not why…” Jon sighed. “I need a second opinion, one other than my own. It’s already lead me astray once.”
“Hm, okay, shoot,” She relaxes into the cushions of her couch.
“How do you—apologize to someone?”
Georgie blinks, a strange expression forming on her face.
“Well, with the words I’m sorry?”
“Yes, yes, I know that much but like—actually come across as meaning it?” Jon explains further. “I just—I feel a bit shit about the whole thing. He basically said my shop was like a safe space to him and I messed that up for him.”
“Oh, like that,” She hums. “Well, a gesture would work? Of good faith?”
“Like what? I don’t know the guy enough.”
“What do you know about him then?”
Jon really doesn’t understand where she’s going with this. “Well, he works at the Lukas shop, whatever it’s called, across the street. I see him writing sometimes at the shop, before, y’know. He likes really sugary tea?”
“Do you take his orders often?”
“Not really? Usually Tim or Sasha are there and take care of those things. I’m usually worrying about back of the house stuff—displays, prep, inventory. Stuff like that.”
“I’m sure you look hilarious doing it too,” Georgie cackles. “Still running around crazy as if the world would end any second?”
“Oh, come off it,” He rolls his eyes and brings his hand down to rub over Admiral’s back. He stretches his lap, purring against his leg.
“Next time he comes in, take his order—make it on the house!”
“It can’t be that simple, Georgie.”
“It really can?” She shakes her head. “I mean, look, could it not work? For sure but he seems like a kind guy, far kinder than you deserve after ripping into him like that, and you did already say sorry, he accepted it right? Going the extra mile to apologize again might be a good show of faith, that you mean what you say, and Jon, I know this sounds insane, but you might even have to use your words to explain yourself.”
“Okay—okay, I get it.”
“Is change—” She goes to ask but stops herself. She rubs her thumb across her ceramic mug. He knows what she’s going to ask.
“I don’t know how to describe it? It just feels wrong, like maggots in my skin. It’s like I can’t breathe.” Jon looks down at the ground. “I know I need to get better at handling it, at least my reaction to it. It’s no one’s fault I’m like this, I know, it’s just, one of those things?”
“What does it feel like?” Georgie inquests. “If you don’t mind talking about it, that is.”
“Like I can’t be me anymore? There was a foundation of how I saw the world and myself and everyone around it. It stayed that way for a long time and then something changes and there’s no floor underneath me. I don’t know who I am, in a sense, how I should be, even though the italian restaurant going to a corporate owned coffee shop shouldn’t shake me up that much. It’s stupid, really stupid I know.”
“Jon…” She says softly. “I don’t think you’re stupid you know. I don’t get it, I’m really trying hard to understand, but I believe you, you know?”
“Thanks?” Jon says, surprised.
“You don’t need to thank me for being a good friend, Jon,” She snickers, bringing her cup up to her lips. “I know I wasn’t the best always about this thing.”
He wanted to disagree with her, he really did. He doesn’t think Georgie is a bad person, probably a better friend than he deserves given all his grievances but there’s also been times where he felt like he was a problem she wanted to contain, a person she wanted to make right, but his diagnosis wasn’t one of those things like that.
It was one of the things he really hated about admitting to being autistic. That difference in their eyes, that change in the way they act, because all the things they might have just seen as “you” was now a trait of a diagnosis that Jon didn’t want to matter. It was just one of those things, like Tim hating artificial milk like his life depended on it.
At least, Jon wanted to be that way. He wanted to not change anything. He was fine with being seen with it, he just hated it when people saw the diagnosis first before Jon.
He had no secrets about it, no want to hide it, but people made it so tempting sometimes. It didn’t help that Tim has a habit of stashing flags, pins, and posters all around the shop, even sticking some on his apron when he wasn’t paying attention.
“You were trying to help,” Jon relents. “I probably wasn’t fair to you about that either. I regret a lot of things I did and said.”
She smiles at that, “Of course I know that, Jon, we wouldn’t be close like this again if I didn’t. I’m glad that this isn’t an awkward conversation—that we can be like this. I’m just, happy? To see you like this, worrying about how to apologize to a sweet stranger. It’s a bit hysterical.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” He laughs with her this time. He takes a sip of the tea and relaxes into the cushion, buying some time before Melanie undoubtedly gets home and charges him for it.
Jon grits through his teeth when he wakes up at the horrible hour of four in the morning. His alarm to get ready to leave to begin prep alone today hasn't even gone off yet. There's a pinched feeling at his joints. He tries to twist and turn, to try and pop open his stiff posture, but it doesn't work like it normally does. It persists, bringing that uncomfortable feeling to him, which forces him to sit up and prepare himself for one of the bad days.
Even in the dark, he can make out the shape of his cane, leaning up against his wooden nightstand. The soft glow of the candle he left lit overnight flickers on it. In full honesty, he knows he needs it, on days like this, or days like the summer where his knees threaten buckle under him all the time, but he still feels this sense of shame he can't explain. He didn't buy the cane for himself. Melanie, of all people, had gone out of her way to have it locally created and made unique, because she got "annoyed" at seeing him limp or struggle in the sun sometimes.
He wonders if her recent glares at him are her usual distasted ones for seeing his face or if they were because she's yet to see him with his cane whenever he visits. It's still something he's trying to grasp. It's one thing to know you're disabled, to know you need aids some days, it's another to put it out in the open like this, to practically mark yourself to everyone. It's not like he tries to hide these things, it's just...he hates being seen as weak or pitiful like that.
Melanie had once told him his pride would be the death of him, scolding him for missing another drinking outing because he was working stupid hours at his shop again, and he was starting to wonder if she was right.
He felt the chill of the winter air creep in his flat and he hoisted himself up. The pinch came back whenever he moved his leg. It was annoying and frustrating. It just happened sometimes and he could nothing about it. Sometimes, when he was able to pop it, it would go away, but not always. This lingering uncomfortable pinch that would haunt him until it went away or subsided. That was probably the worst part of it.
He turned his lamp on and grabbed his cane, leaning on it experimentally. It felt good, like the day he got it. It matched with his height and the handle felt good in his hand. He walked further in his flat and began to prepare for a new day, with his cane no less. It would the first time he brought it in the shop.
Before he can catch his breath, prep has gone through with some mild inconveniences. Your cane falling over while you're mixing and preparing ingredients is a bit annoying, especially when your hips and legs are giving you hell because of the drop in weather. He bitterly makes his way over to the front of the shop, flipping the sign to show they're open, and resigning himself to behind the counter. Sasha wouldn't come in for another few hours and the mornings were peaceful anyways.
He's surprised, though, a few minutes later when the bell above the door rings, and his head pops up from where he's wiping the counter down out of boredom. Wrapped in a soft turtleneck and a dark trenchcoat, Martin walks into the cafe.
He really came back, huh. Well, at least he didn't scare off a good paying customer.
Even so, relieved as he was by that news, he felt the guilt clawing at him. He felt like he wanted to puke up his guts.
"Oh, Jon! It's you," Martin smiled, his face red from the cold outside. "I rarely see you behind the counter. What gives?"
"It's just me, for right now. Sasha comes in for a shift in a few." He calmly explains. "Um, what about you? The Lukas shop, it isn't an all nighter cafe so what are you doing here this early?"
"Oh, well, seven o'clock shift," Martin walked closer, scanning his eyes over the menu board. "Figured I'd try and get some stuff done."
"Oh, like work?"
"Well not for my job, a more...personal project."
"Personal?"
"Yeah, it's nothing, silly really," Martin softly chuckles but he seems more nervous than anything. Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it?
Being social with people other than his friends was a bit...difficult. He didn't know anything about Martin and he's often found himself in the past assuming the wrong things or misreading things and it all just blew up in his face. He was unsure how to do this, regardless of Georgie's attempted advice on how to socialize with strangers.
"Oh, sure, do you want to order then?" He asks instead, focusing on the job at hand. That was easy right?
"Oh, um, yes!" Martin's shoulders jolted. "Could I get an Earl Grey?"
"With an enormous amount of sugar, again?"
"It's not enormous! How do you take your tea then?"
"Like how it's made?"
Martin eyes shot wide. "You don't add anything in it. Milk? Sugar? Any sweeteners? Just the pure planty taste?"
"Planty taste...that's a new and strange way to describe the natural taste of tea."
"Oh, Jon, you've got to try it! Come on, a dash of milk and a spoonful of sugar, at least!" Martin insists. "Tell you what, I'll even buy you a cup so make yourself one!"
"I own my shop, Martin, you don't need to do that. Trust me when I say I have plenty of access to tea, should I desire it."
"Well I desire you to try my way, c'mon, what could go wrong?" Martin smiled brightly and Jon took that a good sign.
Georgie said to stop being stiff. Tim said to let go more. He just needed to try, right? The world won't end, he's sure of it.
"...sure, why not?" He gives up, watching his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Though, I'll warn you I'm not the biggest fans of sweets."
"Jon, you run a cafe? Full of delicious sweet pastries. How can you not?"
"I like making them and all, the process is really soothing?" Jon goes on. "I sort of used to do it to help me relax and I gave the excess to friends, they said I should open up something."
Martin snorted, "And here you are."
"Well, yes, anything else?" He quipped, feeling oddly seen. "Tim requested beignets, so I made a batch."
"Oh, I love things with powdered sugar, give me one of those."
"I think you just love things with sugar."
"There's nothing wrong with that!"
He laughs at that, can't help the way the chuckle falls from his mouth, and he swears he sees Martin's eyes go wide.
"Sure, sure, let me just..." He lets his words wander off, grabbing two cups as requested. He watches as Martin grins over his kettle station as he adds some milk and sugar into both cups before capping them. He slides one over to him and then places a beignet, doused in powered sugar already, into the shop's paper bags, and hands it to him.
"There you go, see you around, I suppose."
"Huh, wait, but I didn't pay." Martin frowns, leaving his drink and pastry on the table in favor of searching for his wallet.
"No, it's not necessary," Jon says, catching his attention. His head snaps up, his eyes squinting.
"Okay, look, I'm not really good at...this."
"Right..." His eyes squint.
"Take this, as my apology, for that." Jon bows his head in shame. "At least let me put this on the house."
"Jon, you already apologized, you really don't—"
"Martin, I was an arse, let me apologize for being one," He says and then after a moment follows it with, "Please."
Martin softens, relaxing where he stands. He cups his hands around his tea, bringing it up to his chest. The steam pours out of the small hole in the lid.
"Thanks, Jon,"
He just nods, unsure what to say now. He looks down at his own cup.
When Martin eventually goes back to his usual table, pulling that same notebook out to scribble something onto, he picks his tea up. The steam isn’t pouring out and his fingers aren’t burning to be touching the paper cup, so he tips it back, taking a drink, and goddamn, it’s good.
“You need to expand your music tastes, Jon, c’mon, I got a mix you’ll love,” Tim starts, annoyingly pushy as ever, with that look in his eyes that says he’ll get what he wants in the end. He is nothing, if not persistent as a devil.
“I absolutely do not, I’m fine as I am,” He shakes his head, wiping down the cabinets. It’s always good to do a weekly deep clean, keep the place brand new and polished. He’s heard horror stories about places going to ruin because workers didn’t take the time to clean thoroughly enough.
“Okay, fine, but what if we play my mixtape instead, huh?” He twists around, the ribbons of his apron flying around him, and he shoots his arms wide. The grin on his face is practically unbearable, like looking into the sun and burning your eyes.
“No, no, absolutely not. Who knows what you’ve got on it!”
“Which is why you should listen to it, my taste in music is fantastic!”
“I know for a fact, there will be at least one inappropriate song.”
“Cursing in music makes it feel alive, Jon, ever heard of it?”
He shakes his head, using the curved edge of the counter to help himself up. He ignores the ache in his back as he does. He’ll feel it tomorrow.
Looking over his work, he finds himself pleased by the shine of the wooden counters and cabinets. Even his metal machines are showing his reflection back, far brighter than he knows it ever could be.
Right, now the rest of the cafe. He got in the office done a little bit before they opened and now that their drink workspace was clean, he only had to worry about the dine-in area and the front. It helped that it was smaller than a typical restaurant or shop.
He got himself a new rag and spray bottle, walking to the front windows of the shop. “I’ll be right out here if you need me,”
Tim frowns, folding his arms. “This conversation is not over Jonathan Sims!”
“What are you, my grandmother?” His nose scrunches, shaking his head.
“I could be, I’d make a fine one!”
“Oh shut up,” He laughs, hearing the ding! of the bell as he steps outside.
The cool air of the new winter hits his cheek. It was always cold and foggy here, no surprise he managed to make a coffee shop a success, at least for now. He could feel the chill in his bones, even as he stood outside for a few minutes, spraying down the window, and wiping it with the rag. He waited, watching the condensation lighten and a clear shine stared back at him.
There’s a screech on the ground, crumbling limbs, and the smell of gas is strongly present in his nose all of the sudden. It almost makes him choke.
There’s a scramble of noise, disjointed and mumbled, from the distance. He’s never been a noisy person but something inside his gut just tells him to turn around.
Despite how it steered him wrong before, he listens.
It’s Martin—Martin and another fellow, older with white hair and wrinkled eyes. He knows him, dressed in a slick suit, and nothing like what an owner of a shop like theirs should be wearing. That’s Peter Lukas. He wears a strange smile, going on about something.
Martin, on the other hand, doesn’t looked pleased. He’s holding his arms, wrapping them around himself. His face is scrunched, eyes looking angrily down at the path underneath him. Peter says something, steps a little closer with a strange look in his eyes, and Martin’s foot juts out, slamming down. His face turns up, eyes burning, and yells something back.
He looks—upset. Far more upset than Jon ever saw him. Angry, hurt, uncomfortable.
He wants to do something, he wants to step over there, but he can’t. He’s glued to his spot, this isn’t his place. Martin is an adult who can handle things on his own, he doesn’t need Jon’s help—he probably wouldn’t even want it given Jon’s track record with confrontation.
He doesn’t know what to do, if there’s anything to do, so he does what he thinks is best—he turns his head back around, not focusing on the mess of noise to his ears, and sprays down the other window. He brings his rag up to wipe it down and forces himself, bitterly, to walk inside once it’s done.
“Well, you certainly took a long time, why is my only grandson avoidin—holy shit, you look like you got hit by a bus.” Tim gapes with horror. “You were outside for like ten minutes, dude.”
“No—no, nothing.” He shakes his head.
Tim is a real worrier sometimes, part of that is his fault though.
“Really—because you look like you just stepped out of your therapist’s office.”
“We both know I don’t have a therapist, Tim.”
“You should though, look at ya!”
“Oh stuff it,” He shakes his head again and tries to smile. It doesn’t come natural at all. For as much as he’s in the customer service industry, he can’t command himself to smile when he has no reason to, but he sees it on Tim’s face. His hands are antsy, his eyes tight—he’s worried to death something bad happen. “I really mean it’s nothing.”
“Last time you said that you woke up in an ER,” Tim points out.
“In complete fairness, it’s not my fault I have chronic stomach issues and the feeling of appendicitis was very similar to it!”
“Whatever you say old man,” Tim rolls his eyes. “If I find out it’s something, boy, I am going to make you fear more than my music choices!”
“Yes, yes, I know, do as you wish,” He waves him off with his hand. “You’ll do it regardless.”
“You know I will—” There’s a sharp ding! “Oh, hey, Martin! How you’ve been?”
His head snaps up.
“Oh? Hi Tim, nice to see you.” Jon’s not the best at reading people but even he can hear his voice is deflated, so different from the Martin he’s used to seeing. Even his small smile is depressing. His eyes filter around and latches onto him. “Oh, Jon! Didn’t expect to see you.”
“Martin—” He tries to think of what to say, what to do. He doesn’t want to out his situation to Tim, that’s not fair. Should he even say anything at all? Would it be rude? “Good…good to see you.”
“I see you’ve made up with Martin,” Tim claps him on his back.
“Please make yourself useful Tim and go check the filters.”
“Ugh, you always make me do the hardest stuff.”
“Yes, cleaning a metal filter in a sink, how heartbreaking.”
Tim goes off, going to one of their machines and checking.
“Sorry about that,” He lets out an exasperated sigh. This was so embarrassing, Tim and him both knew he had already thoroughly clean every part of all these machines. He didn’t have to look over to see his grinning smirk to know how much he was enjoying this.
“Oh—no, it’s fine?” Martin softly shrugged.
“Right, um,” He swallowed the rock in his throat. God, he was bad at this. “Are you okay?”
Martin looks at him like he’s grown a second hand, eyes open a little wider and his mouth gapes but nothing comes out.
“What—” He says, unsure at first. “What do you mean?”
And here it goes. Right. Just be honest and clear. That was Georgie’s advice in situations like these right?
“I was cleaning the windows outside and I saw you and Lukas together, you looked pretty upset. I didn’t hear anything, I was just—” He looks down. “I just worried about you is all.”
Martin makes this surprised choking noise he can’t quite replicate.
“You were—?” He whispers before cutting himself off. It’s like the gears in his brain are struggling to move, struggling to understand.
“I know—I know it’s not my place, it’s none of my business, I’m sorry,” He feels like all he does is apologize to Martin.
“No, no, that’s not—” Martin says, head snapping forward. “Um, it’s not, god, how do I explain this?”
“I’ve got all shift, there’s no rush right now.” He tries and offer, as the espresso drops down into the paper cup.
“I’m family? Of the Lukas? But not like you think!” He quickly says. “We’re really distant relatives? Mom’s side. I don’t know anything about them or Peter or really anything. None of us are close or even like each other but Peter is—trying?”
He can practically hear the disgust in Martin’s voice.
“It’s weird and uncomfortable and I just don’t want any part of it, y’know? There’s nothing weirder than a stranger you’ve never heard of, until recently, going hey we’re family let’s be super close now, y’know? Freaks me out a bit.”
He pours in the heated cream.
“I’m just trying to keep it all separate. Work my shift, go home, and keep my private life, well, private.” Martin sighs, like he’s tired, like he’s been having to deal with this for weeks. “He does not seem to get the memo. Sorry you had to see that.”
“You shouldn’t apologize for someone else making you uncomfortable,” He cups the lid and places it on the counter in front of Martin. “Or how you reacted to it. That’s no fault of your own.”
Martin snorts. “How do you manage to keep your work-life balance anyways? I feel like you’re always here, even if I don’t see you.”
An arm slings around him, heavy on his shoulders and he glares up at his friend.
“That would be because he doesn’t,” Tim practically sings. “He wouldn’t know a work-life balance if it hit in the face, Martin. I’ve seen this man work five doubles in a row once when it wasn’t necessary and not to mention I don’t even think the word break computes in his stupid mind.”
“This stupid mind helped you through college!”
“Jon…” A surprised, almost wounded voice calls out and goddamnit, Tim.
“He’s exaggerating I can assure you.”
“Me and Sasha have a betting pool on if he’ll take a break or not each day, entire crew is in on it,” Tim flashes a shit-eating smirk. “Want to join?”
“You’re gambling on me?”
“Nice try in deflecting Jon,” Tim smirks. “But you’ll have to work a little harder than that if you want to wiggle yourself out of this conversation.”
He shoves Tim’s arm off of him. “Oh, would you shut it. You’re unnecessarily worrying Martin about a nonissue.”
“A nonissue huh?” Tim looks back at Martin. “Go ahead, ask him if he’s ate anything. By the way, he’s been here since four for the record.”
“Good lord man—”
“Jon,” Martin cuts him off. That defeated expression is almost gone, his eyes furious for something else and Jon really does not like where this is going. This was stupid. “Have you…surely you…”
“Well, you heard ‘em, what did you have today, boss?”
There’s a beat of silence as his face burns.
“Jon!”
“I wasn’t hungry!”
“No—no, that’s unacceptable! It’s noon!” Martin surges forward, fear caked on his face. “You must be starving by now, no, absolutely not, you’re taking a break.”
“That’s unnecessary Martin, I’ll just grab a pastry or something.”
“Liar,” Tim grins and he is so not helping the situation.
“You’ll never survive like this,” Martin gestures to Jon. “C’mon, take lunch, hell, I’ll even go with you if you want.”
“I don’t—I don’t get what you mean. It’s not a big deal, honestly.”
“What I mean, is that we could go to lunch together! I know a great thai place down the block, not far at all,” Martin’s eyes light up, like he’s gotten the green light already.
He goes to open his mouth to protest, to tell him no, but he’s cut off. Martin frowns, glaring at him.
“If you get to worry about me, I get to worry about you, got it? That’s the deal, now c’mon, join me for lunch, you’ll like it! Promise!”
He can feel Tim’s teasing stare and Martin’s sheer determination. There’s no escape.
“Okay, fine.” He gives up, untying his apron and throwing at Tim. “Let’s go then.”
Martin’s grin is so wide and bright, it hurts to look at it. When he walks around the counter, cane in hand thanks to coming winter days, he doesn’t bat an eye and begins leaving with him.
He can practically still hear Tim’s snickering when they enter a small shop on the end of the street.
The steam flows out from the rim of his porcelain cup. He can smell the calming aroma, even as it sits abandoned on the counter. Opening up each cabinet, he carefully counts each item and marking them down on his clipboard. Boring but essential work, what kind of cafe would he own if it ran out of tea or worse? Inventory can even be calming at times, when he’s left alone to it.
Of course, that doesn’t always work for him.
“I have to say,” Tim starts and Jon just wishes he wouldn’t. He doesn’t need to get distracted right now. “For a guy you practically hated, you’re real sweet over him, aren’t you?”
His clipboard nearly fumbles in his jerked hold, as the gears attempt to turn in his head and make some sort of sense out of the ridiculous words Tim have spout out. He practically chokes on the very notion, a wounded cry coming out of him.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He’s flabbergasted, practically amazed by Tim’s newfound stretch. Even that one would be hard for him!
“Oh, come off it!” Tim laughs and it fills the store. His grin stretches from cheek to cheek as he has this look that spells trouble for Jon. He’s in for it now. “You—Martin—you guys are something else.”
He sputters. “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean.”
He needs to focus on inventory and counting the milks in the fridges, making sure he has plant and cow-based ones, including fat-free and—
“I think you fancy him.”
He bangs his head on the fridge’s roof.
“Have you lost your damn mind?”
Tim just cackles at him, like this is so damn funny for him. Jon can’t find the humor in it at all!
“You went out to lunch with him, to an actual restaurant, like a date!” He insists, bending down to meet him at his eye level as he squats down to look inside the cooler. He stares just amazed at Tim’s words, he’s heard some stupid stuff come out of his mouth in the years he’s known him, but this just takes the cake. “You had a good time! You were in a great mood afterwards. You went home on time! We can never get you to do that!”
“You made me go to lunch with him and it—it was not a date!”
“Did you want it to be?”
“No!” His face burns.
“Are you sure about that?” Tim’s eyes crinkle at the corner and Jon wants to vomit. This is the worst thing that could’ve happened to him. “Because you guys do suit each other.”
“I’m—I don’t even know what to say to that!”
“It’s easy to fluster you,” Tim laughs, his shoulders shaking. “Look at you!”
He curls his hands into fists, his nails digging in at the skin of his palms.
“There—there is nothing to look at.”
“Uh huh, just like how you definitely didn’t have fun at the outing, right?”
His tongue feels too big for his mouth.
“I—just because I enjoyed it doesn’t mean—”
“Oh, so you did have fun. You enjoyed yourself.” Tim moves in closer, as if to corner him. “This is an actual change you like for once, isn’t it.”
“What the hell—are—are you going on about? Are you mad.”
Tim just stares at him, waiting.
“Okay—look, it was fun alright. It was nice? To get away, to talk about something other than work. We talked about books and stuff, he talked about some poet I’ve never heard of. It was—good?” Jon mourns having to admit this to Tim, of all people, who will never let this go. “I had fun. It was—it was a nice change and I don’t know—”
He looks down at the clipboard. Only half the things he needs to count are actually done. He doesn’t have time for this, he needs to work, not gossip of all things.
“I don’t know how to feel about it, okay? It’s weird.” He grumbles.
“You are so annoying, Jon,” Tim groans into his hands. “Why is it that you feel fun and happy and you have to go all skeptical about it? You’re so frustrating, man.”
“Excuse—excuse you?”
“It’s a good change, right? Right?”
“Yes—I think?”
“So live it, instead of thinking it.”
“What does that even mean?” He gapes.
“I’m going to pop a blood vessel,” Tim rolls his eyes.
“I don’t know how to be? That’s how change is for me, I’ve told you this surely a dozen times now, can we stop having this same conversation?”
“Not until you stop being stupid about it.”
“Can’t exactly control it!” He hisses.
“Yeah, yeah, sure ya can’t.”
“Look, I—I like that Martin is around? I think. I just—I don’t know how to be now. I’m not sure how to act—how to be me. What’s expectable and what’s not.”
Tim squints his eyes at him, slamming his hands down on his shoulders.
“That’s called a crush, Jon.”
“Oh, good lord, it’s useless trying to talk about this with you. Will you get back to work so I can finish inventory already?”
Tim just groans but begrudgingly lifts himself up from the floor and goes to stand behind the register, frowning like a petulant toddler who didn’t get his way.
He sighs, a headache coming on, and begins to count their stock of syrups.
When Martin walks in later, for a cafe latte, and says they should go out again like that another time, Tim looks at him. A glint in his dark eyes, a knowing smirk, and Jon thinks he might just have to kill the bastard if he keeps this up.
He can’t believe this.
Martin’s hand is wrapped steady around his wrist, burning against his freezing skin—Martin was very excited about this new cafe he had found and how excited he was to go with Jon, of all people. He could have just gone on his own but he’s been very insistent that they go out to lunch together a lot ever since Tim opened his stupid mouth.
“Martin—you—this is a cat cafe.”
He turned around, snapping his head towards Jon with an unbearable smile, spread from cheek to cheek with stars in his eyes.
“Right? Isn’t it cool? We never get stuff like this over here!” He said excited, tugging on Jon’s wrist and practically dragging him into the cafe. The door bell rings above them, he thinks he hears a greeting from one of the employees, but he’s just focused on everything about the place. Cats towers lined up until the ceiling, little toys scattered around the carpeted floor (that was a brave choice for a place filled with cats) and with tables lining the walls.
“I’m assuming you like cats then?” Jon snorted.
“Oh, how could you tell?” Martin grins, looking around. His eyes trace over everything, taking in all in. He was like a kid at an amusement park, it was a little funny to watch. “I always wanted a cat but my mum’s actually allergic to them.”
Well. “Sorry to hear.”
Martin shook it off. “It’s fine, plus my landlord doesn’t allow pets so this is the next best thing and it’s amazing. I always wished there would be cat cafes over here, like they have in other places, but finally, we have one.”
“When did this place open?”
“About a week ago!”
“Jesus, Martin, you’ve been practically—what, stalking the maps to see if one popped up?”
At that, he began to shift on his feet, like he was embarrassed at being found out. “I just—there’s no harm in checking right?”
“Obsessively so?”
“It was not obsessively. Can’t a guy hope around here?”
He rolled his eyes, “Whatever you say, Martin.”
They eventually stop crowding the entrance and sit down at one of the quaint little tables. The place has a nice atmosphere. A speckled cat walks up to them, jumping on the table. It looks maybe a tabby cat.
Martin looks at the cat excitedly, bringing his hand up, but pauses, just staring at it.
“Have you never interacted with a cat, at all?” Jon asks. “Even the stray ones?”
“Well, not really? I drive so I don’t really see strays.”
Jon frowned. “Fine, I’ll teach you then.”
Martin’s eyes crinkled. “What? Teach me what?”
“How to introduce yourself to a cat so they feel comfortable with you. It’s easy really.” He insists, if Martin is going to have a good time and want to interact with the cats, especially on his own time, it would be bad of him not to help him out at the very least. “Offer your hand, let them sniff it until they touch your hand.”
He brings the tips of his fingertips up to the cat as a demonstration. He can’t help his own smile as he watches it sniff him, the cold wet sensation of their nose against his hand, and then he reaches a little higher, petting from their head to along their back. He chuckles as they stretch out, trying to get the most of the pet.
“Just like that, go ahead,” Jon offers. “Just relax, you don’t need to stiff.”
“Right.” Martin says and he does not get at all from how he continues to stare at that cat.
“Come here,” He sighs, grabbing onto his hand. For a man who likes grabbing his wrist and dragging him from place to place, he seems oddly jumpy when their hands touch.
“Gentle, like this,” He brings Martin’s hand to the cat, just in front of his face. He sees Martin’s fingers twitch in his hold. The cat sniff him, before its nose touches his hand. He lets go then. “Go ahead, pet them now.”
He watches as Martin’s eyes became soft but wide with amazement, bringing his hand down along it’s back.
“Are they always this soft?”
He laughs at that, picking up the menu, wondering what they should get. “With the short haired ones, yeah, they take care of their own fur really, but if you got long-haired ones, their fur can get tangled and you got to take of it. Though, it’s always good to brush both of their fur, it’s a good way to bond with a cat.”
“You know a lot about cats—do you like them?” Martin smiles, leaning closer.
“I—well,” He takes a deep breath. “I used to date someone and while we were dating, we adopted a stray cat together. I say we but really Georgie did all the work. She’s great at taking care of people, really, I’m a bit envious of her in that way honestly.”
This cafe has a lot of cat puns for it’s menu board he’s noticing.
“What do you mean?” Martin frowns, like he heard something rude.
“What, why I’m envious?” He squints. Isn’t it obvious? He places the menu back down. “Martin, I quite literally ripped your head off because I thought, I don’t know? You were a spy sent to prey on the downfall of my business? To mock me about it?”
“Jon—Jon I would never—”
“Okay, look, I know that now and even then, it was stupid to begin with.” Jon feels the warmth of his face, remembering what an idiotic decision he made. How could one man be not only so blind but so stupid in hindsight? “I was just—I’m not good with change. I’m not good with reading people. I don’t even know what I would call, us? Are we acquaintances? Friends? I have no clue because I’m unfamiliar with this kind of thing and when I say I’m envious, I mean I’m envious of how Georgie is able to do all of that. She’s—she’s always been great friend, foremost, over anything.”
There’s a beat of silence and maybe this was an inappropriate about of vulnerability to show Martin, who he still barely knows, right?
Martin reaches over, grabbing his hand, and leans down.
“Jon,” He laughs, light. “We are friends.”
“Oh—well that, right, okay. Friends.” He stares down. “We are friends. Right. Got it.”
Martin laughs at him, in front of him, and it makes the embarrassment of not realizing that much worse. He wishes one of the cats would eat him for lunch.
“I don’t know Georgie or whoever,” Martin says darkly before peeping up. “But I think I’d like to know you—that I am learning knowing you ‘cause that’s what friends do, how they work, and I know you’re stupidly hardworking to the point I think you might be the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. I don’t think you would have people like Sasha or Tim, if you weren’t a good person, if you didn’t work so hard. Most owners wouldn’t work late or forget their own breaks, they would push it off on someone else. Make someone else’s life harder because, y’know, “that’s your job”.”
“Martin, I appreciate the effort, but praising me for being the bare minimum of what should be required for all bosses is a bit nihilistic.”
Martin pouts. “Jon, this is what I mean—I’ve never met someone so headstrong that they critique me on how I compliment them!”
“It’s—it’s not intentional! It’s just—I don’t think that’s something I should be praised for? That’s what every boss should do.” He stumbles, trying to explain himself.
Martin laughs, “But I can still think that’s great, that you have people beside you who have to make you take breaks, that they care for you as well. I think—you’re doing great, Jon?”
He stares at him because this is possibly the most confusing conversation he’s ever had, probably chalked up to the time Tim tried to tell him he was bisexual but was going about it in the most randomest ways, by explaining through pastries as an metaphor.
“Martin, okay, I’m not trying to be rude. Really. My face and tone is just like that,” He prefaces. He’s in customer service, he knows how people perceive him, they tell him everyday. “You hardly know me. I don’t—I don’t think, I’m a bad person? Not in the slightest, but I don’t deserve unnecessary praise. I appreciate it, really, it’s kind of you, but I just can’t understand what you mean.”
Instead of getting offended, shucking his chair back and walking away, like others have, Martin just smiles softly at him, like he said something sweet.
“Jon, you’re right, we both hardly know each other,” Martin leans forward again. “But I want to know you.”
Because that’s what friends do, his earlier statement rings in his mind despite all the burning gears in his head that is very confused right now.
“Right. Um. Thank you? I think.”
“You’re seriously so awkward with compliments, Jon, it’s hilarious.”
“Okay look—not my fault! I just get, absorbed, into things, I either don’t do anything at all or I do it with all my effort. I don’t know a middleground and well, that leaves other, skills, to say, to be underlacking.”
“That’s the most complicated way I’ve ever heard someone say they suck with social stuff.”
“I said it normally before, I explained this!”
Martin laughs, shoulders shaking and loud in his ears. “I know, I know, it’s just funny watching you scramble and try to explain whatever the heck is going up in the noggin of yours.”
“Well—um. I try?”
Martin laughs, louder this time, and he can feel the employee’s eyes on them. God, he’s burning up and wants to die from pure embarrassment. He’s so stupid.
When he gets the notification on his phone, he’s at Georgie’s and Melanie’s, their weekly dinner together, much to Melanie’s fake complaints. He even hears her as she groans, back from her finale shoot at the Hilltop Road, he thinks it was, for her season on her supernatural investigation show. It’s no wonder why Melanie and Georgie are good for each other like that when they believe in ridiculous notions such as that.
Admiral is curled along his stomach, purring into his shirts folds as he gets comfortable, getting rubbing his face against him. His fingers scratch at that spot behind his ears methodically, as he clicks open the screen and oh—it’s a message from Martin of all people. Good to know Sasha hasn’t burned the place now yet.
“Oh!” Well, he wasn’t expecting that.
Martin sent him a photo, of all things and when he opens up his contact, he sees large on his phone. He’s at the cat cafe again, he can tell from the unique booths they have, they’re really nice. There’s a white cat with black spots, covering over his eyes and it’s back, even giving it little black socks, along the fur sitting on the table. Martin’s hand is scratching underneath it’s skin and he can definitely tell, even with no sound and far away, the cat is purring. The next photo along it is Martin in frame, smiling like a fool, at his successful mission of petting a cat on his own.
“Ew,” He hears Melanie’s bag drop on the coffee table next to him. Admiral shakes awake from the sudden sound. “What is with that ugly smile. It’s almost inhumane.”
“Oh, nothing, really,” He shakes his head and reaches over to pat Admiral’s head to calm him again. His weight lays back down on him, his purring continuing as he regains his stop on his stomach. “Just Martin being Martin.”
“Martin?” Melanie questions, trying to rack her brain together. “Wait—you mean that guy you thought was a spy?”
“Of course she told you, why wouldn’t she?” He sighs.
“You mean you keep in contact with him? You’re friends with him.”
“Yes, shockingly.”
“And Tim or Sasha or Georgie didn’t have to get involved to make that happen?”
“Hey, I can make friends on my own! I just choose not to.” He huffs, “It’s unnecessary.”
“Uh huh, but this…‘friendship’ with Martin is necessary?”
“Well, he’s kind? Nice to be around, it’s very calming person I suppose.” Jon admits, rubbing down Admiral’s back. “Though he’s a bit annoying dragging me out to take lunch breaks.”
“Wait—he makes you take breaks.” Melanie gapes, looking like she’s just seen a ghost. “Not even Georgie can drag you out of your office half the time for that.”
“That’s—” He huffs. “That’s unrelated, okay? Besides we already have weekly dinners together.”
“How often are you guys going on lunches?”
He thinks, not sure really sure why she’s interested so much. “Whenever Martin works I suppose? Pretty often.”
“Oh no,” Melanie says, with actual horror in her voice.
“What?” He snaps his head to look up at her where he stands, just looking.
“This is very important Jon,” She says with a seriousness he hardly hears from her. “Why were you smiling because of Martin?”
“Oh!” He can’t stop himself from smiling softly as he turns his phone around. He swipes through the pictures for him. “He never met a cat before and when we went to cat cafe together, I taught him how to introduce himself to cats. He did on his own for the first time today and sent photos. I was just thinking what a fool he was.”
His words are soft but Melanie acts like he just shot her.
“No, no, no, not again.”
“What—why are you acting weird?”
“You’re the one acting weird.” She hisses out. “You’re smitten with him. I can’t do this. I’m not qualified for Jon this talk. I can’t believe this.”
“I am not—why does everyone keep saying that? It’s not like that!” He hurries to say, trying to shake off the thought. Don’t be ridiculous now!
“Oh, god, others know? This is bad, this is a code black.” Melanie says, shaking her head, and she turns towards the kitchen. “Georgie, get in here, we’ve got a situation!”
“Oh, good lord, Melanie, it’s not—”
“You called?” Georgie ducks into the living area, an apron still wrapped around her waist where she was cooking. It’s look like it’s pasta tonight because she’s got white and red splotches over it. She looks over at her girlfriend, seeing the expression on her face. “Melanie, what’s wrong, is everything okay?”
“Nothing is okay in the world anymore.” Melanie mourns. “Jon has a fucking crush.”
“I do not! Stop saying such idiotic notions!”
“A crush?” Georgie says, keen. Her eyes light up and god, Jon wants to die. This is stupid. “But who? Can’t be Sasha or Tim, we would’ve known.”
“It’s worse than you think,” Melanie buries her face in her hands. She acts like he’s dying.
“A cru—oh my god, it’s Martin!”
“I’m going to kill you both if you don’t stop talking.”
“It is!” Georgie jumps up. “Oh my god, Jon, I’m so happy for you, this is great, this is wonderful—”
“It is not, don’t you see the gravity of this situation? We’re going to have deal with pining Jon for months because god lord knows he doesn’t know how to admit his feelings, let alone act on them, with dignity!”
“There are no feelings, you two are jumping to conclusions!” He upsets Admiral by getting up, who slinks away on the couch, but he cannot let this absurdity continue.
“He eats out with him almost every day. He takes lunch breaks. He has Jon’s phone numbers and sent photos of him at a cat cafe. He’s friends with Jon, on his own, no bribery.” Melanie spells out, like she’s defending a case with her life on the line.
“That’s what friends do.”
“Not when it comes to you,” Melanie glares. “You won’t even eat lunch with us. Or Tim, who’s practically your best friend, but you do it for Martin? A guy you are just now getting to know. You can’t outrun this.”
“I’m not—I’m not running from everything. There’s nothing strange about it.”
“Well, I mean,” Georgie smiles, laughing. “You hate change, you hate new people, and you’re fine to refuse us every time we come around, but you’re friends with Martin and go on your lunch breaks with him?”
“You all are making a big deal out of nothing.”
She turns to him with the stupidest, knowing grin on her face. “I told you change could be good, didn’t I? Look at you, with a crush even!”
“Is the Martin guy nice?” Melanie says out of nowhere.
“What—of course he is. He’s one of the kindest people I know, I mean he forgave me for my stupid actions, and he’s always stupidly kind to Tim or Sasha when he comes in. Even when we’re out, the guy won’t send back a plate even when they prepared it wrong because he doesn’t want to be rude. I don’t think he has a single bad bone in his body.”
Melanie smiles. That’s not good.
“Well, good to know, hopefully Georgie won’t force me to beat him up if he hurts your fragile little heart then.”
“Excuse you.” He squacks out.
“Your face is hilarious, Jon.” Georgie bursts out laughing, folding over herself.
He can’t do this. He cannot do this. This is so stupid!
“Do you even hear yourself, man? You like him. I know you’re bad with emotions, Jon, but surely you can tell it’s different.”
There is a heat building within him, he’s about to explode.
“Even—” He stutters out. “Even if I did, which I don’t! It’s not like there’s anything to be done about it. I was ass to him in the first place and he most certainly sees me as a friend, so there’s no need to change anything.”
“Oh my fucking god, I’m going to strangle you.” Melanie growls out.
Georgie lays a hand on her shoulder. “Baby steps, you know how he is.”
Jon just burns.
What the fuck did he just say?
When he gets home, after much delay, a romcom after dinner because Georgie has decided she wishes to torture him going forward, he slams his back against the wall, sliding downward. His entire being is tired, exhausted, in a way that’s new for him.
In the quiet of his apartment, away from a pair of girlfriends who seem determine to tease him until he explodes and continuing meows, he only hears his heartbeat in his ears.
Fuck. Shit.
Shit shit shit.
He covers his face with his hands, feeling the scorching heat.
He’s screwed.