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This is ridiculous.
It’s absurd.
It’s… it’s risible. That’s what it is. Completely and utterly laughable.
Jon looks up at the sign above the coffee shop’s entrance that reads, Live, Laugh, Drink Coffee, and sighs. It’s somehow an even more depressing name here in real life than it had seemed when they’d read it in Martin’s email – and even then it had almost caused them to back out of their deal in horror. To consciously and deliberately walk into a coffee shop with a name like that…
But then they’d thought about Martin’s blog and how bizarrely, inexplicably, their spirits rise every time they get a notification for a new post, how their heart soars when Martin replies to a comment of theirs, which is every time, and they hadn’t been able to bring themself to disappoint him like that. Even though Martin probably gives out the names of coffee shops he likes to dozens of readers and wouldn’t notice or care if Jon never went. Although he did ask Jon to let him know what they thought, so maybe he would.
It doesn’t matter. Jon’s standing right outside, now. It’s ludicrous that they’re here on the recommendation of a man they’ve never met and only know through reading his blog for the last year and a bit, that they’ve travelled entirely out of their way, although not as far out of it as they’d feared they might have to, just to prove that man wrong about the most loathesome type of cake to ever exist. But they’re here now. It would be even more ridiculous to turn around and refuse to go in at this point.
Even so, it takes someone striding along the pavement looking at their phone and almost crashing into them to actually force themself to walk in under that detestable sign, making the little bell above the door jingle merrily. Jon glowers at it. They hate little bells above doors.
Still, once they get inside, it’s significantly more bearable. They’d been a little afraid that someone like Martin, who has the highest tolerance for twee saccharinisms Jon has ever encountered, would patronise only the quaintest, cutesiest, most chintz-infested establishments he could find, but the atmosphere is really very soothing, with nary a piece of gingham in sight. Even the music playing quietly in the background is quite bearable, instead of making Jon want to peel large swathes of their skin off just to have something to stuff in their ears.
At the counter, Jon orders a pot of Darjeeling and, since they’re what they’re here for, not one, but two savoury muffins. They hope Martin damn well appreciates their sacrifice. They don’t even order a sweet one just in case they savoury ones are as horrible as they sound. Welsh rarebit, really? Red Leicester, parmesan, and marmite? Really?
Anyway, they can always go back up and order a sweet muffin later if they need to. There’s a toffee apple flavoured one that’s making their mouth water just thinking about it.
The tea comes in a proper china teapot instead of one of those hideous metal ones some places use that always burn your fingers, which Jon will admit they do appreciate. It doesn’t matter what sort of receptacle coffee comes in, the point is the caffeine, not to actually enjoy drinking it, but tea is different. They pick up their tray and turn to find a table, and quickly spot a little round one by the window. They’ll sit there. They can compose an email to Martin as they eat, containing their detailed review of each of the two muffins, and gaze out of the window in the intervals. Perfect.
At the counter, someone who’s apparently just finished ordering turns around sharply, elbow sticking out as they tuck their wallet back into their pocket, and before Jon can even think about stepping back, the teapot has gone flying. It hits the polished wooden floor with a loud thud, and although it miraculously doesn’t smash, the lid clatters to the floor next to the pot and Jon’s Darjeeling begins to spread across the floor.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” the perpetrator of this tragedy cries.
Jon turns the full force of their rising fury upon the witless blunderer. “You damn well should be!” they growl. “Can’t you look where you’re going?”
“I’m so sorry,” the attacker says again, wringing their hands. “Look, I’ll clean it up and buy you another. Let me grab some napkins, or… oh!”
The barista is already hurrying around the counter, cleaning cloth in hand. “Not to worry,” she says briskly.
“Can I help?” the elbow-wielder asks, crouching down and ineffectually flailing their hands in the vague vicinity of the lake of tea, most of which the barista has already deftly mopped up with her cloth. She has the teapot in her free hand, re-lidded, so there’s nothing for the smasher of china to do but wave their hands a few more times and then get to their feet, red in the face and looking, Jon has to admit, very suitably ashamed of themself.
“Sorry,” they say again, looking wretched. “I… I’ll buy you another one, obviously.”
“There’s really no need,” Jon says stiffly. This has already been an absolutely mortifying spectacle; they don’t see the need to keep talking about it and dragging the whole thing out.
“No, no, please let me, I don’t want to ruin your…”
“I said,” Jon repeats, turning away slightly, hoping that the cold shoulder will put this porcelain-slayer off. “There’s no need.”
“Give me a moment and I’ll make you another,” the barista says, getting up. “No charge.”
“Honestly, I’d much rather pay for another one,” Jon’s attacker insists, wringing their hands again. They’re actually quite nice looking.
Wait, no. They aren’t.
“Well, I don’t want you to,” Jon says, scowling. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“Right,” the appealingly flushed demolisher of beverages says, going, somehow, even pinker. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll… I’ll just…” They turn to the barista, who is already halfway through making Jon’s second pot of Darjeeling, and gets their wallet out again.
“It’s not nece…” she begins.
“No, honestly, I’d rather. I mean, you had to clean up my mess, and the teapot might be broken. Seriously, I’ll just…”
The barista meets Jon’s eyes and they exchange a resigned look. The stranger pays. The barista finishes Jon’s pot of tea, which they are now regretting having decided to consume within the coffee shop, since the desecrator of pretty floral teapots appears to be doing the same thing and Jon would prefer to be in their vicinity for as little time as possible. In fact, the long-suffering barista finishes making their tea at the same time she does Jon’s, and they almost collide again as they move to collect them.
“Sorry!” the person cries, yet again, and steps back to let Jon collect their tray first. They do so, and do not reply. There’s no point in encouraging this oaf, even if they are an oaf with nice round cheeks and bright blue eyes and a voice with a light northern accent that even Jon has to admit is really very pleasant.
“Oh,” they add, although they’re still standing back in an exaggerated way that might be funny if Jon wasn’t so annoyed. They point at Jon’s tray. “Is that the Welsh rarebit muffin? Aren’t they amazing?”
Oddly, it makes Jon feel immediately less peevish. It’s not that they’re any more interested in eating the muffins than they were five minutes ago, but… well. They’re eating them for Martin. Martin, who assured Jon he’d be waiting eagerly for their verdict. Martin, who replies to every comment Jon makes on his blog, who is patient and kind when Jon inevitably screws up, who sends them little smiley faces at the ends of his comments, who seems, somehow, to be under the bizarre impression that Jon is actually a nice person.
They feel a small, unwilling smile creep onto their face.
“I haven’t actually tried it yet,” they admit.
“Well, you’re going to love it.” The stranger beams at them. Jon notices that they, too, have a plate with a muffin on it, as well as a waxed paper bag that clearly contains one or two more of them. “What’s the other one you’ve got there?”
“Red Leicester, parmesan, and marmite,” Jon says, unable to stop their mouth from twisting a little. Who puts marmite in a muffin?
“Oh, that sounds amazing,” the person says. “I wish I’d got one of those.”
“I’d say you’re welcome to it, but I promised a…” Jon hesitates. It seems presumptuous to call Martin a friend. They barely know each other, really, even if it feels like they do after all the time Jon’s spent reading his blog. “Someone,” he temporises. “I promised someone I’d try them.”
“Yeah?” The stranger has picked up their own tray, but isn’t moving away to find a seat. Neither, inexplicably, is Jon. “That’s how I found this place, too. A friend recommended it, I thought I might as well give it a try, and now I keep coming here even though it’s out of the way of everywhere else I ever go.” They laugh, and Jon feels their smile grow a little.
“I don’t even like savoury muffins,” they confide. “But there’s this blog I read, and I somehow let myself be persuaded into trying them. The person who writes it emailed me the name of the coffee shop and everything.”
They flick their eyes up to the stranger’s face and feel the smile freeze on their own. The stranger is staring at Jon with their mouth slightly open and their blue eyes very wide.
“What?” Jon falters. “Did… did I say something?” Usually they at least have some idea of what they’ve said to piss someone off. This time, they’re all at sea. The time for pissed-offness would have been when they were making snide remarks about people not looking where they were going, not now. Not when they’d seemed to be having a more or less pleasant conversation.
“Um,” the stranger says. They shut their mouth, scrunch their face up for a moment in a way that’s far more appealing than it has any right to be, and then continue. “Okay, this is going to sound very weird if the answer is no, but… do you, by any chance, go by the handle JonnyD’Ville online?”
“Do… what?”
“Oh, god, I shouldn’t have said anything,” the stranger says, their face crumpling and pinking again. It looks nice on them. “I’m so sorry, you probably think I’m a total weirdo now. It’s just, practically the same thing happened with someone who reads the blog I write and for a minute I thought you might be… but obviously not. Like I’d be that lucky.” They laugh and goes even redder. “God, what is wrong with me today? Please forget I said that!”
Jon, finally, remembers how to work their mouth.
“Are you Martin?” they say, rather faintly.
Martin, clearly about to launch into another stream of self-deprecating babble, screeches to an almost audible halt.
“Wait,” he says. “You… you are…?”
“Well, it’s just Jon,” Jon says. “But yes. I… yes. It’s me.”
“Oh my god, you’re him!” Martin says. “Or… is it him, or something else?”
Jon flushes a little. The they/them pronouns are quite new, only ventured into a few months ago, with Gerry’s encouragement, and Martin is the first person they’ve met in real life who’s actually asked instead of Jon having to awkwardly request it. Half the time they don’t even get up the courage to try.
“They/them,” they say. “Please.”
“Yeah, of course.” Martin beams at them. “He/him for me, although I guess you already know that from my blog.” He laughs again, obviously self-conscious.
“Yes.” Jon hesitates. They’d like to ask Martin if he wants to share a table with them, but they’re still basically strangers. It’d probably be weird. Jon always seems to be doing things that other people think are weird. Their boss once caught them lying on the floor beside their desk and almost called an ambulance. Jon’s never done that again, not even in the privacy of their own flat.
They’re still biting their lips in an agony of indecision when Martin says, “So do you want to sit together? I’d love to get your review of the muffins in person.”
Relieved not to have to find the words themself, and also that Martin wants to sit together too, Jon nods across the coffee shop. “That table by the window looks nice.”
“After you, then,” Martin says. “I don’t want to accidentally knock your drink out of your hand again.”
And Jon laughs. Just a short, sharp little bark, but it still feels like a tiny miracle. Somehow, despite the disaster that was the first few minutes of their meeting, they’re glad Martin’s here. They’re even glad he knocked their teapot off their tray. If he hadn’t, the two of them probably would have sat in opposite corners of the coffee shop to drink their tea and eat their muffins and eventually left, never knowing how close they’d come to meeting properly.
“So!” Martin says brightly, once they’re comfortably seated at either side of the table and staring a little awkwardly at each other, “You found the place okay?”
Jon nods. “It wasn’t hard to find.” And then, because apparently they’re incapable of not making themself obnoxious at every opportunity, they add, “I still think it’s a terrible name, though.”
Martin, fortunately, seems to find this funny, and laughs. “Yeah, it’s not the best,” he agrees. “But imagine trying to think of something vaguely original when there’s already like five million coffee shops in London.”
“At least make it alliterate,” Jon grumbles. “If you’re going to base it on that hackneyed phrase at all. Call it Live, Laugh, Latte. Or Live, Laugh, Lunch.”
“Okay, those are both better,” Martin says. He grins at Jon, and Jon finds themself having to look away quickly, lest their face betray how their breath catches in their throat at the sight of it. They’ve always liked Martin, of course. It’s sort of impossible not to. They hadn’t, somehow, bargained for him also being beautiful.
“Or,” they say quickly, to distract themself from this dangerous train of thought. “Use a phrase that’s just a little less clichéd. Life Is Brew-tiful.”
“Nice one,” Martin says. He’s still grinning. Its doing funny things to Jon’s stomach. “Or go classic and use a quote. Much A-Brew About Nothing.”
Now Jon’s smiling, too. They can’t help it. “Exactly! To Bean Or Not To Bean.” They pause, thinking. “I Came, I Saw, I Caffeinated.”
“Okay, that’s what I’d call my coffee shop,” Martin says.
“Lady Chatterley’s Cuppa,” Jon says, and Martin laughs outright. Jon has never seen a lovelier sight than his face lit up all bright and happy. They want to never stop looking. They want his face to always look like that. They want…
Oh, fuck, they’ve got a crush on him, haven’t they? A whole ten minutes since they met the man for the first time, and they’re already head over heels for him. How absolutely pathetic. Gerry’s going to be unbearably smug about this.
And yet they can’t seem to help themself. They laugh at Martin’s jokes. They watch his face, eagerly drinking in every tiny expression that flits across it. They’re barely reluctant at all to admit that the Welsh rarebit muffin is quite pleasant if you’re in the right mood for it and that even the red Leicester, parmesan and marmite one is more or less edible. They shuffle their chair around the table to sit next to Martin while they show him their Favourite Cats I Have Met photo folder. Martin gives it all the admiration it deserves, which makes Jon feel all warm and tingly in their chest. They can’t seem to stop smiling. And when, eventually, Martin says he’s going to have to go, they’re startled to discover that it’s been almost three hours.
Outside the coffee shop, they both hesitate on the pavement, looking at each other.
“This has been really nice,” Martin says, and Jon nods fervently.
“Yes,” they say. “It… yes. Very nice.”
“I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
Martin seems to waver for a moment, and then he says, “Can I have your number? I could send you a picture of the big grey cat that lives near me, the one I told you about.”
“Oh!” Heat floods into Jon’s face. They feel a little lightheaded. “I… yes, of course. That would be… good.”
So Martin taps their number into his phone, and a moment later, Jon’s own phone pings with a text.
it’s me :)
They bite their lips to keep from smiling too broadly, but they’re not sure they’re very successful. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Martin’s own face is rather pink and he’s smiling, too. The little dimple in his right cheek is showing. Jon’s already developed a minor fascination with it.
And then Martin takes a step back and Jon feels, abruptly, like they can breathe again. It’s not an improvement.
“God, I’m sorry, but I really have to go,” Martin says. “I always call my mum on Saturdays and she hates it if I’m somewhere noisy when we talk. Not that she’ll take it, probably, but you know, just in case.”
Jon can’t imagine anyone refusing to take a call from Martin. The very idea is ridiculous. Laughable. They hate talking on the phone, but they’d answer five calls a day from Martin if he wanted them to. Still, they know as well as anyone that family can be complicated, and they don’t want to make Martin uncomfortable, so they just nod.
“All right,” they say. “Ah. Have a nice evening.”
Martin smiles again, sunny and bright. “You too,” he says. “I’ll text you.”
Jon nods again, and before they can think of anything interesting or witty or, failing that, at all, to say in reply, Martin has lifted his hand in a little wave, and turned to stride quickly down the street.
Jon stands there outside the coffee shop, watching him go.
They feel very happy indeed.