Chapter Text
Jeb stared down at his sketchbook. A face—or part of one, at least. He’d sketched the corner of an eye, a cheekbone, and a stray curl… but nothing else came. He tried to complete the face, but none of the features he drew seemed quite right.
He sighed, erased the parts he didn’t like and doodled a bit before pushing his sketchbook to the side, leaving it open on the ground. He’d called Alyssa last night for an update on how things were going. Pretty good, apparently, but her mom was overbearing and Taelor was ‘still a bitch’. (Jeb still thought that Alyssa was too harsh on her, but he didn’t want a fight, so he’d shut up about it.)
After so many years of missing out on Alyssa’s life, Alison seemed determined to catch up by being ten times as protective as she needed to be. At least Alyssa’s dad had finally warmed up to him.
To Jeb, prom night felt like a hazy, half-remembered dream. He’d broken up with Taelor, and his and Alyssa’s mutual feelings had suddenly come to light. Very suddenly. He almost felt a little motion sick at the suddenness of it all. Now he was in London—bright, large, beautiful London—and soon Alyssa would be here with him, too.
But in truth, Jeb had felt scattered since prom night. Yes, his life was just peachy. He had Alyssa, a pretty stable job at an up-and-coming café near the flat (that was what they called apartments in London) he’d rented, and concrete plans to have Alyssa with him, but something still wasn’t right.
It was his art. Before prom, he’d had major artist’s block. The only thing that’d seemed to make it better was Alyssa—drawing her. Things had changed when he’d finally finished his fairy drawing of her. She’d adored it.
But since prom night, his art felt like a torrent. He couldn’t escape it. It was like an itch he couldn’t stop scratching. And Alyssa wasn’t his muse anymore. He’d hated to admit it—sure, he could sit and draw her, but his inspiration was gone.
Instead, pieces of a vague face drifted in and out of his sketches. Never the whole picture—Jeb could never get it quite right. It was frustrating. Jeb just wished he could draw the guy and get it over with.
He ran a hand through his hair, staring off into space. He was sitting in the admittedly dreary apartment that he’d tried his best to make feel homey. He’d even strung up some fairy lights to make it seem inviting. Maybe he’d even hang up a few movie posters or something for Alyssa. Jeb hadn’t shown her this place yet, but he was sure she’d love it, after he put a little more work into it.
Jeb checked his phone—a good-morning text from Alyssa awaited—and the time, blaring at him. He needed to go to work. He texted Alyssa a quick reply and picked up his skateboard.
He skated over to Pandora’s—the coffeeshop/café he worked at now. He’d have loved to be an artist full-time, but for now, he needed to pay the bills. He clocked in and greeted his coworker, Zoe.
“What’s crackalackin?” Zoe asked, in a messed up American accent.
Since he’d arrived, Zoe had greeted him every day with different phrases that she thought were American slang. She was usually terribly wrong.
Jeb just laughed. “Not much. What’s up with you?” he replied, with an equally terrible British accent.
“Not much. I opened today, so I’m dead tired.”
Zoe was short, and usually had her her dark hair bound into a ponytail behind her head, but today she’d gone for two space buns. Jeb let his gaze sweep over the cafe—it was very aesthetically pleasing.
Not that he knew much about that kind of stuff—but it looked like the kind of thing Alyssa would like. The cobblestone streets outside made the perfect backdrop for the wide glass windows that made up the front of the shop. The wallpaper was green, with light purple flowers (lilacs?) every now and then. And the tables and chairs and booths were charmingly pastel.
Jeb moved into his place behind the register and started to work. Zoe would make the drinks and he’d take the orders. In a few hours, he could clock out, and go back to his mildly depressing apartment and draw his majorly frustrating art.
To distract himself, he started people-watching. Jeb often thought that if one liked to look at people and wonder about their lives and what kind of people they were, he had the perfect job. With the limited interactions he had with customers, he could usually (pretty accurately) get a read on them.
Take the girl in front of him, for example. Small—short blonde hair, ordering a hot tea (Earl Gray). She reminded him a little of Alyssa—before she dyed her hair, at least. But she dressed like a middle aged mother (cream cardigan, mom jeans, barely any accessories). He decided she was just that, and also decidedly basic.
“That’ll be 5.50,” Jeb said politely.
Easy. Or this other guy. Floppy brown hair, Green Day t-shirt, clear American accent (probably from up North), ordered a London Fog. Definitely a tourist.
“6.43,” Jeb smiled.
The only thing about this customer service thing was that he had to smile a lot. At the end of the day, Jeb’s face always hurt from smiling. It already hurt, and he was only halfway through his shift. Maybe he should quit and find a job at a grocery store, stocking shelves or something, where he wouldn’t have to deal with people so much.
There was a quiet part where no one really needed anything, and he took the opportunity to help Zoe make a few drinks. The bell at the door rang and he took his place behind the register again.
Jeb let his eyes drag over the new arrival. Time seemed to slow. The guy wasn’t anything remarkable— fluffy blue hair that was already fading, skin pale as ivory, and obnoxious eye makeup.
And when Jeb says obnoxious, he meant it. It was incredibly intricate, literal eyeliner swirls in the corner of his eyes. His incredibly familiar eyes. They bore into him now, and for what seemed like forever, the guy just stood in the doorway, smirking.
This guy threw Jeb off. There was something hauntingly familiar about him—in the curve of his jaw, the bob of his adams apple, his stare.
Jeb stood there, slack-jawed, for far too long. Before he knew it, the guy had walked up to him, still staring. Did this guy EVER blink?
“Welcome to Pandora’s, what can I get for you?” Jeb finally managed, remembering himself.
The guy seemed to revel in how shaken up Jeb was. Jeb furrowed his brow. Who did this guy think he was? He took a breath—he was probably just overreacting. Yeah, he was just overthinking. This was a perfectly normal guy on a perfectly normal day.
And then the guy let out a soft huff of laughter. “She really knows how to pick ‘em.” he muttered, under his breath.
Jeb was instantly aggravated again. What kind of nonsense was this guy talking now?
“Forgive me,” the guy continued, laying the charm on thick. “One iced latte with caramel drizzle on the sides.”
Jeb noted his accent—it was some kind of British accent (shocker. It wasn't like they were in London). Cockney, he recalls. The guy was wearing a MCR tee and ripped skinny jeans.
“Will that be all?” Jeb asked, polite as he could manage. Something about this guy set him on edge. An instant dislike sprang up from the endless well of hate in Jeb’s heart.
The guy was oddly perceptive. He smirked, that infuriating smirk, and leaned closer. He was lucky that a counter separated Jeb and him, because Jeb didn’t know how long he could put up with this without a physical barrier.
“Yes. Is that an American accent I hear?” he asked.
From this close, Jeb could see that the guy’s eye makeup was even more intricate than he noticed. Small dots made up swirling patterns that accentuated the main design. Entranced, Jeb almost forgot to answer.
“Yep,” he replied, finally. One look at the guy’s smirking mouth was enough to snap him out of it—Jeb was all professionalism again.
“Not one for small talk, I see—” the guy started, but Jeb cut him off.
“That’ll be 5.80. Can I get a name for the order?” his voice was a little rushed, but could you blame him? He wanted to stop interacting with this guy.
“M.”
Jeb waited for him to continue, but he’d finished his sentence.
“M? Like, E-M or something?” Jeb asked. He couldn’t keep the judgement and disbelief out of his voice.
“Nah. Just M. Like the letter,” M replied, almost laughing outright at Jeb’s reaction.
Jeb thought that was incredibly stupid, but he shrugged it off. He grabbed a cup and scribbled out a half-hearted M. “Your order will be at the counter when it’s ready.”
Alphabet boy—as Jeb had nicknamed him—smiled and reached his hand across the counter. “Will I find a number on it?”
Jeb took a literal step back, his expression twisted into horror and disbelief. It must have been extreme, because M retracted his hand, threw his head back, and laughed. “I’m only joking,” he said, with a sly smile that suggested he hadn’t been.
Jeb decided to ignore it and gave him a nod. He couldn’t help watching M for the whole time that he was in the shop—watched him pick up his drink, watch him drink it in the booth near a window, sipping and flipping through some book that looked old.
He turned sharply away and pretended to make a drink whenever M looked up and saw him watching—which was embarrassingly often. After a while, M packed up and left, and that was the last of it—or so Jeb hoped.
The day went on as normal. Jeb continued his game of guessing customers’ lives. But he was distracted—his heart wasn’t in it. When it was finally time for him to clock out, he did—with a sigh of relief.
Jeb returned home to his apartment, noting the various cardboard boxes he was yet to unpack. He’d get it all done before Alyssa got here, he kept promising himself. He took a seat on the mattress (it was on the floor) where he’d been before he left.
He was tired. Jeb wanted to shower, and sleep it off. It was a strange day—that was all. It had been long, and that guy had put him on edge, but it’d all be fine tomorrow. He let his eyes drift over to his sketchbook, still lying open on the ground.
What he saw made him freeze. He scrambled over, frantically picking up the book and inspecting the page he’d been on before he left for work.
After he’d captured the fringes of the face, he’d hated trying to complete it (nothing looked right), so he’d doodled on the page instead. Swirls. Around the eye. Intricate little dots. It looked exactly like M’s eye makeup.
Jeb wouldn’t even allow himself to complete the train of thought. He threw his sketchbook across the room and headed to the bathroom, showering with the water on the way-too-hot setting, trying to calm down.
It worked—somewhat. By the time he’d gotten out of the shower, he’d almost forgotten about the treacherous sketch—almost. He left it in the corner he’d thrown it into and threw himself under the covers, ignoring it resolutely, and heading to sleep.
It was too bad that he dreamed of M.