Work Text:
There's something different about British cafes compared to the ones back in the States. Maybe it was the hustle and bustle it still drew, despite the rain, making it impossible to tell tourists apart from town folk with their thick coats and hats. Or how the baristas barely looked when taking your order, already with marker and cup in hand to write your name down as if you were just another sales statistic. Well, you probably were. The most jarring experience Elliott had experienced so far, however, was how a stranger could just casually slide into the empty chair at your table as if it were an open invitation without question.
For fifteen whole minutes, he'd glared at his computer screen, his fingers mindlessly typing out the same phrase, “Please depart from my table,” like a mantra on the open page before deleting it. Alas, digital witchcraft didn't work. The mystery man was still there—black jumper on, a light blue collar peeking up over the neckline, with dark rimmed square glasses sitting upon his nose and loosely curled, short hair dusting his forehead—sipping his drink, something sweet, from the large mug. His eyes never wandered from the mug, lost in the chocolaty concoction that mirrored the colour of his hair. He played the nonchalant, cool-headed stranger pretty well for someone who just strutted up to a table without a greeting. The mystery man exuded confidence, the type that would surprise you. Unfortunately, Elliott hated surprises, so he broke their deadlock.
“Excuse me, sorry to be a bother, but… what’s that drink you have? The smell has been driving me crazy! But in a good way, and I could use something sweet to help me think.”
Succinct. On point! Nonchalant.
The man looked up for the first time, and Elliott knew he was fucked—he hated surprises. What greeted him was the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes he’d ever seen. They were soft and clear like a honeyed caramel. Beautiful.
“Uh, sorry? Hello?” And his voice… whatever transcript Elliott had been working on vanished under the deluge and silent panic of fingers falling on the keys from hearing the voice of an angel. It was hard to describe otherwise, the British accent carried an air of soft comfort that caressed his ears.
“Oh- Um… your drink. Wh-what was it? Seems good.” Elliott wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “I mean—” Elliott sighed and brought his hands to cover his face—taking a moment to recompose himself— before looking back at this person who’d had the unfortunate chance of meeting him.
“Your drink, I was asking what you ordered, it- uh- smelled nice. And I’ve been having computer issues—” A lie. “So some sugar, I thought, would help.” He gestured to the man’s drink and his laptop, before giving a crooked smile, inwardly though, cringing and cursing himself for fumbling a fucking introduction.
The man returned a polite smile, a hint of amusement in his eyes, “It’s a hot chocolate. They make a pretty good one this time of the year. Michael, by the way.” He holds a hand across the table and over the laptop screen.
“Oh, nice! Nice to meet you! Oh- uh, the name’s Elliott, sorry.” Elliott shook his hand.
A warm and strong grip, no callouses, thin fingers. Tech? They do feel nice to—
“Oh shit, sorry!” He let go, dryly laughing and dying a little as his hand retreated to its side across the table, which had suddenly become a gulf as wide as the Mariana Trench, daunting, endless, and full of uncertainty. He hated surprises...
Michael just chuckled along, hiding a smile behind a fist. “So are you going to order? Or…”
Elliott’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah, uh…” He looked over at the cashier, where an intimidatingly long line of people now snaked toward the door. Why did I have to say anything? I could’ve just left and now-?! His attention snapped back to Michael—he frowned comically. “I have a feeling I’ll be better off here than going up there. Wouldn’t want someone to steal my seat, ya know?” He feigned laughter.
Fuck! You IDIOT! Too stupid to function at a time like this?! Please, pretty man, don’t leave.
There was a hint of confusion on Michael’s face before the creased eyebrows relaxed and he laughed. “Oh! Oh, sorry for not asking about sitting down. Um, I’m usually better at this. I didn’t expect to stay longer than I realized. I got lost in the calming atmosphere.”
“Calming… atmosphere?” Elliott looked around with his brows furrowed. The energetic hum of people talking and laughing as they enjoyed the warmth of the cafe had not gone down one bit; hell, it was more likely to grow even busier. He smiled back awkwardly. “Uh, okay. So… Michael, what brings you around here, I guess?”
Michael drank from his mug, the slight froth of the melted whipped cream clung to the bow of his lips before being wiped away by a sliver of tongue. He brought a hand to his chin, the stubble Elliott had missed until now completing his bookish, scholarly look. Elliott really hated surprises.
“This place was on my way home, and it started raining. Thought, why not? And I uh- sat down here, I guess. The chair was open and uh… yeah.” He shrugged, as if it was that simple. And of course, it was. An open chair was an open invitation… though Elliott was starting to mind the outcome less and less.
“You just walk home?”
“Well, not usually, but I just felt like it today. Something felt right.” Elliott was starting to think this guy was a little insane. He knew that the UK had its fair share of freak rain showers, but a quick look up at the sky could paint a clear picture of the likelihood of rain. And he just chose to walk… because it felt right?
“Okay… but— you know what, never mind. I mean, now’s a stupid time to ask if you live nearby, right, cause— oh god!” Elliot rambled again, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually talk to strangers! I talk, ya know, to everyone else…” his voice faded away, his lips pressing into a thin line of embarrassment.
He looked up only to find the bemused, sweet gaze from over the rim of the mug.
Surprises really, really suck.
“Do you need help with your computer, by the way? I have… some expertise on the subject.” Michael sets the mug down, wiping his mouth off with a tissue this time as he leans forward onto the table, arms crossed. Elliott was glad for the pivot, at first, and then realized… There was no issue to fix.
“Uh…” he paused, his eyes came back to the screen. An array of repeated letters filled the document he’d been working on, wiping out any significant evidence of his earlier musings. His eyes peeked back over the edge of the laptop screen, eyes catching onto Michael’s fingers playing with his jumper sleeves, and a tongue peeked out to wet his lips. “Sure, uh—” Do NOT make something up! “my keyboard, um, glitches sometimes… or it’s something to do with the text file I’m working on. I start writing, and sometimes it becomes possessed and starts writing on its own.”
It’s over.
A gentle smile was still on Michael’s face, revealing shallow dimples barely visible under the cafe lights. Elliott craved to touch them; his thumbs would fit perfectly— “Do you want me to come over there and look? Of course, only if you trust me to look over your laptop.”
“Uh—the cable is…” Elliott reached for the cable and fumbled it. It was barely long enough to keep the laptop away from the wall to be comfortable while working, but not to turn around or maneuver.
“It’s okay, I can just…” Michael got up, carefully moved the chair with him, and slid it back under the table before walking behind the writer and slightly bending down.
“Hmmmm.”
The low hum of thought was like a well-tuned cello in Elliott’s ear; part of him wanted to be showered under the sound forever. Alas, there were too many things happening at the moment to even relish the feeling. Long arms had stretched around him to reach for the laptop keys, encasing him between the table and a tall body. Michael’s fingers played across the keyboard like a practised musician with their instrument: confident, with intention, as if the laptop was his to begin with. Searing warmth grazed his skin where it met the edges of the jumper, the fibres clinging to arm hairs like small hooks for a boarding. And then that soft, woody scent flooded his senses like a sudden tide during a hurricane. The light above him dimmed as Michael leaned forward to take a closer look at the screen, the last chance to break free from the situation disappearing.
His breath hitched as reality hit. Elliott wasn’t ready; he was never ready for surprises. God wanted him dead.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong… I mean, not to disparage you or anything. But, everything looks… fine?” Michael’s voice resounded above him, the confusion in his tone like needles of guilt into Elliot’s heart.
“Oh… then- I must’ve been mistaken. Sorry, haha.” He tried to casually laugh it off, but as he leaned back, he bumped into Michael’s chest, and for the briefest of moments, he felt both of their hearts beat in sync.
“Oh, god, sorry.” Elliott pitched forward, burying his face in his palms. Oh, you’ve done it now…
There was only a soft chuckle before large hands patted his shoulders, each small impact like a hammer chiselling away at walls of stone. And when those hands slid off his shoulders, one grazed the back of his neck— the walls were breached. “You don’t need to apologize, Elliott, or can I call you El?”
By the time he peeked out from behind his fingers, Michael had already sat back down in his seat, stirring what little remained of his hot cocoa. He seemed fine, as if that whole interaction wasn’t as intimate as he’d thought, but a normal thing to do.
Falling first and for what… not even a cup of hot chocolate. Maybe Michael was just this nice and I—starving for kindness.
“El? You like to shorten already short names or something?” Elliott chuckled lightly as he pushed the laptop close, hoping to seal his embarrassment with it. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable heat that had started to settle over him, the itchiness where Michael’s jumper brushed against his skin, and how his voice spoke to deeper parts of himself—pulling him into conversation.
When a surprise appears, when is the best time to accept it instead of regret?
“No. Just—” Michael shrugged as he brought the mug to his mouth to finish the rest of the drink. Elliott’s eyes were focused, admiring how he held the mug with such elegant precision, how his Adam’s apple bobbed as the drink that had started their encounter was consumed. He hated it.
He could order another—Clack!
The mug was placed back on the table, empty. Elliott’s heart dropped.
“I wouldn’t want to wear your name out. El sounds nice too, don’t you think?” Michael cleaned his lips with a tissue and leaned back. The stance of a man who’s getting ready to leave or one deliberating if this was worth staying around for.
“And what if I don’t like it?” He cocked his head to the side and placed a hand on his cheek, a smile playing on his lips. “Would you still call me Elliott?”
“Oh- uh- well… I-I guess I would.” Michael chuckled with surprise. Elliott’s gaze softened. He’s cute when he stutters.
“Ahhh, a socialite and polite gentleman. Is this how they raise all the boys in Britain? America could learn a thing or two.” The words flowed out of Elliott’s mouth like a spring; complimenting, observing, and complaining all at once. Luckily, his opponent seemed to understand what he’d implied.
A faint blush dusted Michael’s cheeks as he let out a soft chuckle that blended smoothly with the atmosphere. The things Elliott would do to capture those sounds in a jar and keep them on repeat forever.
“I’m serious!” The American pitched himself forward, his eyes pointedly staring at the cuffs of Michael’s jumper, the collar peeking over his neckline, and his glasses. “If we could replicate even 50% of this attitude you carry around, we probably won’t have such a terrible reputation.”
Michael laughed again, this time into his fist. Is it too early to admit he loved making him laugh?
“And here I thought you hated me for coming here and sitting down.” He smiled, eyes crinkling at their corners—Michael was a man who smiled a lot. “I saw the brief panic you had when I first sat down.”
Elliott raised his eyebrow before pointing an accusatory finger at the British man. “So you did know what you were doing!” His voice slightly peaked.
“It wasn’t on purpose, and I said it before. I didn’t expect to stay so long. It felt… nice.”
“Is that what you say to all the lonely people you happen to sit by on rainy days?” Elliott sarcastically asked, rolling his eyes.
The other man shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it was only you.”
The answer surprised Elliott. He tried to hide the smile on his face by bringing a hand over the bridge of his nose, pushing his own glasses up slightly. “You shouldn’t just say those things to a stranger you just met mister British man. They might get the wrong idea.” I might get the wrong idea. His own heart was on the verge of doing circus tricks.
They talk a bit more, mostly through banter and playful jabs at their happenstance meeting. The conversation shifted from personal feelings to Elliott’s visit, his thoughts on the country, the weather, and many other interesting topics. Their eyes never really leave each other, leading to moments when one points out a small detail of the other’s appearance or noticeable habits. It was almost reminiscent of two detectives, each with their own specific expertise, pointing out clues to the other. A silent game of Guess Who? But the characters were right in front of them.
Eventually, Elliott had noticed the line had gone down and excused himself to get the drink he was originally going to get fifteen minutes prior. What better way to soothe his nerves than something cold?
He hadn’t even had the chance to sit down before a complaint reached his ears.
“A frappucinno during a rainy day?” Michael gave Elliott a look of concern and almost reached forward, but held himself back. His mouth opened, but closed. “Are you sure you aren’t a sociopath or something?”
The American rolled his eyes. “The taste is wonderful, and it gets me going; shouldn’t that be the more important thing? Plus…” he shrugged. “Every writer has their quirk. Mine is liking cold things on cold days. I would’ve loved to get an affogatto or even just a smoothie, but I thought that would freak you out… and it seems I was right. Wouldn’t want good company to run away while I work through writer’s block.”
“Writer’s block?” Elliot finds a knowing smirk appears on the Brit’s face. Dear God, spare me today. Those dimples are criminal. “I thought you were having tech issues a quarter of an hour ago?”
Fuck, caught.
Elliott freezes. His eyes remain on the cup perched on his lip, savouring the sweetness of the caramel that had integrated into the cold coffee slushie. He could lie and try to push it off as a mind fart, but he’d feel bad doing so… Michael didn’t seem to mind anyway; the guy oozed more of that confidence than he had originally come and sat down with. He pushed the cup upwards, letting the drink flow over his tongue. The cold briefly shocked him.
“Writer’s block. Technical issues. Same thing, right?”
Michael shrugged, the corners of his mouth still slightly upturned as if that was their default.
“So, what do you write?”
“A little bit of this and that, I usually don’t try to lock myself in with any specific theme.” Liar. Open up those fifty-word documents that scream romance and yearning!
“Are you sure?” There was something in his voice this time, like he’d found a secret. Elliott looked at Michael with confusion. A creeping smirk slowly crept onto the edge of Michael's mouth brought on a foreboding feeling.
“Lucas and Sem.”
The two names that jumped out of his mouth sent a wave of prickly heat called embarrassment slithering along Elliott's back until it reached his face. The contrast between the two feelings made the experience of being found out even more unbearable. He closed his eyes in an attempt at silent prayer; alas, the blasphemer never gets a response for mercy calls.
“How?”
The singular word became a drawn-out question in defeat. His face was hidden behind his hands in an attempt to hide the warmth rushing to his cheeks. Humiliation, embarrassment, regret; all of it, of the highest degree, stuck to him like giant flags and blaring signs.
Michael laughed loudly before holding it all in again under the gaze of other patrons in the cafe.
“Listen, I didn't mean to, but in my defence, it was all there! And I just skimmed a small section… nothing too crazy.” Yet his eyes said otherwise; they were still upturned crescents. Smile lines were prevalent at the corners of his eyes; he definitely saw something crazy.
God. Elliott groaned again and put his head in his arms down on the table. “You're lying…”
He could hear Michael laughing across him, quietly, definitely into his fist or something polite.
“El~ El~ El~ okay, so maybe I did see something more… explicit—” Elliott interrupted him with a groan and slouched forward over his laptop, hoping the ground could swallow him whole. “But I mean, it was great writing! From what I saw, you have an amazing talent for detail. I mean, I could never write about how sweet someone else tasted—”
“SHUT UP!” Elliott practically leaped out of his chair, but quickly sat back down and buried his head in his arms. He could feel the tips of his ears growing hot under the praise and embarrassment. Yet, his mind was still stuck on the looping sounds of Michael shortening his name—it was short and held a touch of familiarity that should've been found only in long friendships, not in newly minted strangers-to-friends. It sounded too good under his accent. Right, even, but for all the wrong reasons.
He looked up from his arms, eyes barely visible from over his arm. “Do you do this often? Embarrass strangers in coffee shops after sitting down in an empty seat across from them.”
“Only when they have reactions like yours.” Michael shifted his gaze towards Elliott again and gave him a light smile. Elliott couldn’t help but smile into his arms. Maybe today wasn’t so bad.
For two hours, the two verbally poked and prodded each other. Each never really gave more information than what was at hand or already given out. The people around them changed as customers came and went. They jumped from topic to topic as one does when meeting someone new… they never really had anything similar, yet the conversation flowed easily. The morning eventually slipped into the afternoon, and the lunch rush broke them out of their little bubble.
The rain had stopped. People still came in with their coats and hats, but the faint scent of petrichor was long absent, unlike how it was when they both came in. The scent of coffee still lingered, but more sumptuous smells that came from the preparation of heavier meals permeated the cafe. And in Elliott’s heart of hearts, the feeling of impending loss grew. It was almost time.
He’d long noticed the way Michael snuck glances at his watch or the clock on the wall. He, too, had another thing to do… packing. Elliott was gonna be leaving the country and going back to the States the following morning.
“You know you don’t have to stay here. Despite my helpless aura, I know my way around town.” Elliott held up his phone, a silent hope that the gesture was enough of a clue. “After a week of coming by here, it would be silly if I still got lost.”
Michael raised his eyebrows while his fingers played with the sleeves of his jumper. “Really? I don’t mind walking you back to wherever you’re staying. I mean, it would almost be rude not to after interrupting your writing session. It’s the least I could do.” He shrugged, but his eyes never went back to Elliott’s.
“I’m starting to feel like you’ve used a whole set of pick-up lines on me today.” Elliot chuckled as he started to pack his laptop away, albeit incredibly slowly, moving his phone to the middle of the small table where it practically rested in easy reach for the other man.
“First, you slid into the empty chair across from me. Then practically begged me to talk to you by looking sooo nonchalant.” Michael rolled his eyes, but the twinge of a smile was already forming on his cheeks. “And then, you snuck behind me where you peeked at my work and attempted to seduce me with your smooth talk after.”
As Elliott pushed the laptop into the bag and strapped it safely, he looked back up at the Brit with a smirk. “Am I wrong, Mister Tech Consultant?”
Michael sat up with a deep inhale before taking Elliott’s discarded phone from the neutral space between them. “And you, Mister Writer, are saying you are innocent of trying to flirt with me right back?”
He cocked his head to the side and waved the phone around with a victorious smile. “You’re so subtle at trying to ask for my number.”
Elliott raised his hands in surrender. “Caught me! Only because a stranger insisted he stayed way past his morning break to chat me up, a poor, anxiously ridden soul.” He attempted his best puppy-eyed sad face, only to be met with the sound of a phone camera taking a photo.
“Hey!”
“Ah ah ah!”Michael pulled his phone back, his tongue between his lips. “You want my number so bad, I always have a photo saved for my contacts. So, it’s only fair there’s a trade.”
“You don’t even have my number yet!”
“Well, get to it El!”
“You want me gone and out of your life this badly, huh?” Elliot faked a groan, but relayed his number clearly thrice. Just in case. He hated surprises… especially the kind where expectations were involved.
Michael tidied up their table like a gentleman as Elliott watched from his side. The feeling in his chest was only growing heavier. He wanted to reach out and do something reckless, but he knew it would only hurt more if he did. They’d both laid out each other’s “accidents” but never mentioned anything beyond that.
It was all fun at the end of the day… right?
“You look like I’ve just kicked your dog.” Michael’s voice took him back out to reality.
Elliott shrugged and shook his head, his eyes finding the worried pools of coffee brown staring back at him. Is it a sin to want to caress a face he’d only known for half a day?
“I’m fine… just ruminating. What’ll happen if my computer actually goes kaput in the future? I don’t have the number of a tall, handsome, talented techy on me. Ya know, in the US, laptop repairs and consultations are expensive. Alas… woe is my wallet.” The more Elliott talked, the more he didn’t want this moment to end.
“I’ll send you my rates later when I get home.”
“I seem to have misheard the lack of a word… no discount?”
“Nah. Only strangers get a discount. Friends pay full price.” He could hear the smile on that British mug, but that wasn’t what Elliott focused on.
“So, we’re friends?”
“We’ve just spent the better half of a morning and afternoon together over coffee and flirting like were on a first date. If not friends, really close acquaintances.”
Something in Elliot’s chest fell, but at the same time, there was a relief. A surprise within a surprise.