Prompt - None
Au - Coffee shop
Triggers - None
•••
Jack watched his feet and listened to the click of his heels, dull and muted on the pavement. It was cold today, a bite in the air as November drew closer. Not cold enough for Jack to warrant a coat, but enough to make him keep his hands in his pockets with his sketchbook tucked under one arm.
New York was alive, as always. Alive with the buzz of life that Jack always found refreshing. The chatter and roar of a city that could be oppressive at times, could bear down on you like a stifling blanket that smothered you if you weren't careful, weren't used to it. Which Jack was. A little too used to it, maybe.
He pondered a little as he traced the familiar path to his favourite spot, barely even needing to look up to avoid a streetlamp here and a post box there. Jack was a dreamer, always had been and his thoughts had this tendency to run away with him, grip him tight and toss him into a sea of ideas and wild fantasises that swirled as brightly as if they were fireworks behind his eyes lids, imprinted like a film reel.
That film reel played on a loop, a never ending stream that kept Jack in his own world, and sometimes he had to remind himself what was real and what was a product of his mind.
Maybe that's why he was an artist. It was a way to get out that stream of dreams and fantasies, capture them to be looked back on with both fondness and sometimes regret. It was better than finding someone to listen; Jack wasn't the greatest with his words, at expressing his ideas and thoughts. That would change one day, he hoped. Someone would put up with his nonsensical ramblings and-
Jack shook his head. He was doing it again, he realised. Back in his own little world full of certain hopes that weren't so certain at all. He sighed, half content, half something else and looked up, a smile crossing his face as he made it to where he was going and shouldered open the door. The creaked protest of the wood and the bright tinkle of the bell that hung above it was a welcome familiarity.
The café was small, tucked away among closed down bookshops and a train station that made the whole place rattle. An unevenly planked floor worn smooth with age and a low beamed ceiling gave the place a warm atmosphere. Small round tables dotted it, surrounded by rickety chairs, not one of which matched. There were a few booths with cracked red leather seats at the back and Jack slipped into one of these, breathing in the warm, coffee scented air.
He laid his sketchbook on the table, glancing at the patrons that dotted the room. For a run-down looking business, it was surprisingly full and that was probably why Jack liked it so much; there was always someone new, some new story to tell and face to sketch. Jack ordered a coffee and flicked open his sketchbook.
It was near full, that particular one, graphite sketches mainly. All of them were of people he'd seen in this café, some hurried or unfinished, sloppily done half from memory when his muse had left before his was done, some almost photorealistic, catching even the light in someone's eye, the curve of an eyelash or a single hair. Jack always loved drawing people; it allowed his daydreamers mind to tell a story, to run with someone's appearance, their expression or posture and paint a picture in his mind as well as his page. It was freeing in a way, relaxing.
Jack pulled at the sleeve of his ratty denim jacket and chewed the end of his pencil as he looked for someone to draw. He'd started coming here a month ago, per Katherine's recommendation after he'd mentioned how his university work was getting to him and had fallen into a routine with the place, a routine that he was grateful for. It was nice to have some sort of familiarity in the manic swirl of essays and notes and lectures he'd been dealing with this last few months.
A few people caught his eye that day; an older man, tucked in the corner with a hunch to his shoulders that spoke of an emotion Jack couldn't even begin describe, a young couple laughing brightly, all smiles and shining eyes and held hands, a woman who looked like she had been pulled straight out of a mystery/thriller movie, shifting eyes and a stiff back that made his neck prickle. Jack scanned all of these people, smiling and nodding at the waiter who brought him his coffee in a chipped cup. He thanked him, and then the bell rang again above the door and Jack looked up.
And stared at the person who had just slipped into the café.
He was about Jack's age, in his early twenties and tall, with dark hair that fell into one of his eyes in a curling loop. The stranger pushed it back in an unconscious looking manner as he moved between tables with a curve to his shoulders that made Jack thing he didn't want to be noticed. He was wearing a coat that fell to his knees, a dark brown thing that looked like it belonged in Sherlock, and there was a yellowed book tucked tight under one of his arms.
Jack blinked, looking at the man's features, his face of all planes and angles, a defined nose and upward curving mouth. His eyes avoided focusing on one thing, flitting around the room constantly with a shine of quiet intelligence that sent a spark of curiosity through Jack. He watched the man order something and then seem to fall back, sliding into a chair, opening his book and propping it against the sugar rack. Jack pulled his sketchbook towards him and glanced back up, his hand moving across the page as he started sketching this beautiful stranger.
And that's what he was. Beautiful.
Jack smiled a tiny bit, getting lost in his drawing as the stranger seemed to get lost in his book. Jack's gaze regularly flickered upwards, scanning his muse, his relaxed expression and curling hair, capturing it on his paper in tones of grey and black. Both of them stayed until the café closed, though Jack left first, braving the November chill with a twinge of reluctance and lead smudged across his hands like usual; Jack was no where near a neat drawer.
The temperature had dropped significantly by the time he went outside and Jack glanced once over his shoulder, already wishing he could stay longer. But no, he had an essay to finish and Charlie probably was waiting for him at their flat. Penthouse, they called it. Jack smiled and started walking and his mind went off on its own path again. He was thinking about the stranger once more; his face kept floating across his vision and Jack swallowed but smiled again, softer this time, quickly smothered.
I'm not going to fall in love with another stranger, he told himself firmly, but part of him couldn't help but hope he'd see the man again, even from across the café, from a distance.
•••
When Jack next went to the little café, it was still cold, but the sun shined weakly and there were barely any clouds scudding across the sky. It was late afternoon as usual, and as usual, Jack walked with his sketchbook under his arm and his mind a million worlds away. This time as he shouldered open the door and was immediately assaulted by the warm scent of coffee and old books, he was thinking about ideas for sketches, character designs for a graphic novel he was trying to write with Charlie. 'Trying' being the key word.
It was a slow process, but it was fun and was something to do other than crawl through endless papers and textbooks. It was also rewarding whenever they decided on something, a name here and a plot point there. But man it was slow going.
There was also a part of his mind, a thought that swirled unchecked among fantasy names and far off lands, that still hoped he would see the stranger again. Unusual for Jack, but it was there. Jack had drawn him a few more times, filling the gaps he had left on the page of the original drawing and glanced at them now. Jack thought about the unlikeliness of this as he slid into his usual booth and ordered a coffee. He shook his head at himself and did his usual show of scanning the café, looking for someone else to draw when a smile split his face and his heart did a jumpstart.
Apparently some things are more likely thank they seem.
Tucked away in the back corner this time, with the same book open in one hand (Jack was impressed by this; the book looked damn heavy), was Jack's stranger. He looked liked he had before; distracting enough for Jack to miss when the waiter brought his drink and fumble awkwardly upon realising. Same intelligent eyes, same sharp features, same loosely curled hair that he kept sweeping back with one hand. Jack blinked and thanked the waiter and flipped open his sketchbook to a fresh page with a dumb smile that wasn't like him at all. He started to draw the man again, trying to capture the slight frown of concentration in his expression, mixed with a muted, quiet sort of joy. He seemed deaf to his surroundings, engrossed in his book and soon Jack got lost enough in his drawing that the buzz of voices around him became a dull hum to his own ears.
It was odd for Jack to draw the same person twice; he liked variety and wasn't fond of repetition when it came to his art, but something about the stranger made him want to over and over again. Jack took a distracted sip of his coffee and made a face as he burned his tongue on the hot liquid, rolling his pencil between his fingers. When he looked back up, he saw the man looking at him and almost fell out of his seat. The man looked away the moment Jack met his gaze, though his eyes rested on the table now, not his book. Jack swallowed, wincing a little at his tongue and starting to draw again. This time he couldn't help but get the feeling of eyes on him when he looked at his page.
That was ok. Plenty of people had seen him drawing them before, it was no big deal. It meant they were curious is all, or sometimes annoyed at him. That had happened once or twice. And then the man closed his book, thumbing down the corner of the page he was on and got to his feet. Jack watched him shake out his wrists before turning to walk over to Jack, who shut his sketchbook with a snap. He didn't like showing people his drawings of them, ever.
"Aw, that's not fair," He sounded like Jack had expected; quiet, unsure almost but with smile in both his voice and on his face. "I don't get to see it?"
Jack couldn't help but smile a little as well as the man indicated Jack's sketchbook with the hand that still held his own tattered novel. He looked at the table, not quite at Jack.
"Usually? No," Jack said, but he flipped open the sketchbook again anyway.
A smile split the mans face and he sat in the booth opposite Jack, pulling the drawing over to him a little and resting his book in his lap. "That's amazing,"
"It ain't," Jack said, but he was pleased. He was proud of the drawing, of the likelihood he'd managed to achieve with it.
"No, no it is,"
"I'm glad you think so..." Jack trailed slightly.
"David,"
"I'm glad you think so Davey," Jack said, immediately giving the other a nickname. That was another thing he did a lot, he realised. "I'm Jack,"
"It's nice to meet you Jack," Davey said, smiling a little lopsidedly. He was still looking at Jack's drawing, and that gave Jack an opportunity to look at him again, at his features that Jack didn't think were entirely fair.
"Nice to meet you too Davey," Jack shook himself. Focus. The attractive stranger is talking to you, so pay attention. You can stare later.
"You really are an amazing artist," Davey said, his tone a admiring and yet somehow nervous.
"Thank you," Jack said with a smile, rolling his pencil between his fingers again. "It's nothing."
Davey shook his head a little, running his hand lightly along the page before he pushed the drawing back over to Jack, who deftly closed it.
"What books that?" Jack asked after a pause. He looked at the tattered and yellowed pages of the novel Davey still held in his lap that looked more loved than neglected.
Davey brightened and showed Jack the cover, which was held together by tape. "Les Misérables,"
"Ain't that a musical?"
"Based on the book, yes,"
Jack nodded a little, looking at the cover. He wasn't a big reader, preferring to watch or listen to stories, but something in Davey's expression made him smile and ask, "It good?"
Davey nodded and set the book on the table next to Jack's sketchbook. "Long though,"
"Doesn't look it,"
"This is volume one of two,"
"Oh," Jack eyed the book and laughed a little. "I see,"
"The plot's amazing, and the writing. I find some of the detail a tad unnecessary though, which contributes to the length," Davey said, running his fingers absently down the books broken spine. He looked a little more relaxed than he had.
"How so?"
"Well, we never find out half of the secondary, but still important characters first names, but we do know how the bishop feels about every piece of silverware that he owns and how many chairs he has in his house,"
Jack laughed again, both at the information and at the manner of fact way, slightly exaggerated Davey spoke. Mainly the latter.
Davey smiled, glancing at Jack quickly. "There's also a three and a half page, uninterrupted drunken rant about halfway through that ends in talk of Cleopatra and a rug," he said.
"Now that I'd read,"
Davey laughed and Jack smiled, pleased. The two continued to talk, Davey about his book, or Jack's drawing while Jack made comments and cracked jokes. Davey smiled and tapped the table and Jack smiled and looked at Davey. When the café closed they said reluctant goodbyes and Jack left with a big smile and his heart light. His head swirled again with unchecked thoughts and this time he didn't try to control them.
•••
The next day was a Monday, and the café was emptier than usual, the atmosphere significantly more relaxed. Jack sat in his usual seat and ordered his usual drink but this time Davey sat opposite him and they talked utter nonsense. Talk of books, coursework, art, anything that sprung to mind.
Davey was as interesting a person to talk to as Jack had first thought. He always seemed slightly hesitant at first, a little unsure of himself when approaching a topic but he always found his footing and seemed to be able to discuses things for hours with an enthusiasm Jack found hard to match.
His face lit up when Jack added on to something he'd said or said something about himself and it was that expression that made Jack's heart flutter and his stomach knot and squirm. It didn't take long, a few weeks of falling into a new routine of meeting him in this run down little café, for Jack to come to the realisation that he was most definitely falling for Davey and looking at him talk, running his finger around the brim of his cracked mug and looking at the table, he didn't exactly mind.
November slipped into December and rain came down in regular sheets, the scent of it heavy on the air. Jack looked at Davey, resting his elbows on the table and listening to the spitting raindrops that beat against the windows. He drew a smiley face on the fogged-up glass and smiled when Davey laughed a little at him.
"What?" Jack asked, putting on a feigned look of offence.
"You're adorable," Davey said, looking at the little drawing even as condensation began to cover it over again. The humidity in the café was thick enough to cut.
"Am not," Jack said as his heart did a little flip.
"No, you most definitely are. The textbook definition of a dork,"
Jack mock pouted before laughing. Even he couldn't take that expression seriously. He shook his head even so. "No," he said simply.
"No? That's your only argument?"
"Absolutely,"
"You'd be awful at debates,"
Jack spluttered and laughed again. "No need to sugar coat it,"
Davey smiled again and looked out of the window, though it was near impossible to see the street outside; just the orange glow of streetlamps and the looming shapes of the buildings opposite them. Jack swallowed and a softer, more nervous smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Dave-," he said.
Davey looked over at him and tilted his head slightly. His head was bowed a little and he was still laughing at Jacks words, that brilliant smile on his face. Jack leaned forward a little and brushed his hand over Davey's as he did. He didn't say anything for a beat, just looking at Davey, who laughed again, quieter and seemingly at nothing. He was looking at their hands.
"What?" Jack asked, amusement mixed with curiosity in his expression.
"This is so cliché,"
Jack couldn't help but smile at that. Sitting tucked in the corner of that steamed up, rundown little café, he was gripped with a rush of confidence and leaned forward again, resting his hand over Davey's and kissing him lightly for barely even a second.
"I'm a sucker for clichés," he murmured.
Davey flushed and smiled brighter than Jack had ever seen him, and whatever feeling of regret Jack might have felt in that split second vanished as Davey looked at him, meeting his gaze and holding it longer than he had since they'd first met.
"So am I," he said quietly, and connected their lips again.