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The first time it happened, Nathan didn’t know what to think.
What is the appropriate reaction for when you're picking up your coffee and you find someone's name and number scribbled under your own?
And with a very artistic flourish in the lettering, too.
Which made it even harder for him to read anything, what with his ongoing struggle with dyslexia – and by “struggle” he really meant “acting as if nothing was wrong and avoiding everything written like a very contagious, very disgusting plague”.
He prided in his stubbornness. It was what had allowed him to survive school. It was what made Gran hilariously angry at him sometimes.
It was also what guided him the next time his cup came with a signed number. The signed number. And the next one. And the one after that.
That first time, he wasn’t paying attention. He noticed the number only when he sat down at a table to sketch as he waited for Arran to finish his classes. Making out the name was absolutely impossible. Who the hell had this brilliant idea? he thought, irritation pinching at the corners of his eyes. He turned towards the counter. A guy with wavy dark hair caught his gaze and smiled at him. For a second Nathan just stared back. If someone had told him it was possible to smile in a way that was playful, sly, earnest and seductive at the same time, he would have scoffed in disbelief. No one can be that many things at once, right?
Well. Apparently, Mr-I-think-it’s-totally-cool-to-harass-the-customers could. He was even cute, how was that fair? Stalkers are supposed to be at the very least creepy.
Nathan had been saved from gaping and embarrassing himself by Arran’s arrival with his own order of coffee and cookies. Arran being Arran – that is, overbearing and with the uncanny ability to read him like a children’s book in very large print – he took one look at him before zeroing in on the cup. He almost managed to remain serious. Almost. Nathan could see he was hiding a stupid grin, the bastard. Arran tried to snatch the cup from him, but Nathan resisted.
“Oh come on, Nathan. Don’t you want to know her name?”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure it was the guy on the left of the count--- Jesus don’t turn!”
Arran snickered and turned back. “Aren’t you at least a little curious? Because I am.”
Nathan sipped his coffee, taking care to cover the name. “Sure I’m curious. I’m curious to know when and how that guy started to stalk me.”
Arran shot him an amused smiled. “We come here every Wednesday. You know, since it’s your free day, and I don’t have that many classes, and we always come here first? He works here. He doesn’t have to stalk you to see you.”
Nathan glared at him. “I never noticed he worked here before.”
“That’s because you’re not interested in anything that isn’t directly related to your beloved mountains. I’m sure you never even looked at any of the baristas who served you here,” Arran said, but there was fondness in his voice. “It’s unhealthy.”
Nathan decided to grumble behind his cup’s lid instead of answering. It was true he came here basically every Wednesday. Being a mountain guide meant he had more work on weekends, and he had negotiated with Bob to have Tuesday and Wednesday off.
He wanted to object to the mountains part, but he did love Wales and everything it had to offer, and there was only so much he could do to deny he was, deep down, maybe, kind of a loner who hated, well didn’t like, okay was supremely annoyed by people’s company. Mountains don’t talk. They just are. He understood mountains.
Which posed the question: what the Hell had that guy noticed in him?
(Not that Nathan was stealing glances at him. Not at all.)
He didn’t understand. Mr-I-harass-the-customers-for-fun was definitely good looking, lean and graceful as he moved behind the counter, mixing drinks and avoiding getting in the way of his colleagues. He was one of those baristas who attract customers just by virtue of being incredibly handsome, no doubt.
And yet he had somehow noticed Nathan? They hadn’t even talked. Not once. Nathan hadn’t even known he existed less than ten minutes ago. It was intriguing, but also creepy.
Arran snickered again. “Nathan, stop overthinking it or that frown will become permanent.”
“Aren’t you worried that some stranger is writing weird things on my coffee?”
Arran pried the cup out of his hands. This time, Nathan didn’t resist. He was curious after all.
“Nothing weird in being named ‘Gabriel’.”
Nathan waited in silence, but his brother just rolled the almost empty cup in his hand.
“Aren’t you going to spell out the number?”, Nathan finally asked.
Arran raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You really want to know it?”
Nathan smirked and said nothing. Arran looked a little bit lost, but complied.
The great thing about being dyslexic was that Nathan had a very well trained memory, so he only had to hear something once to remember it.
That was why, when he exited the coffee shop, he took the cup with him and searched the counter for Mr-apparently-Gabriel-who-was-definitely-not-an-angel. They locked eyes, and Gabriel’s lips painted the most suave smile Nathan had ever seen. Nathan shot him a blank look, pointedly stared at him, and crumpled the cup before binning it.
Gabriel’s face fell so fast Nathan just couldn’t help his grin. Defiant. Challenging. Maybe a tad bit evil.
He was surprised when Mr-suave-motherfucker recovered just as fast and shot him a smirk of his own. Even Nathan understood what that meant.
It’s on.
The second time it happened, Nathan was only mildly surprised, with a sprinkle of pleasantly so on top.
After all, who was to say Mr-stalker-barista hadn't regretted ever writing his name and number on Nathan's cup? People do stupid things all the time when they think someone is cute (Nathan should now).
It was raining outside, and the coffee shop was packed with people looking for shelter from the cold in the bottom of their hot beverage of choice. That was probably why Mr-I-have-hair-as-perfectly-wavy-as-a-shampoo-commercial didn't manage to give Nathan his cup himself; he was too busy mixing drinks for another fifteen patrons or so.
The name and number were scribbled a little hastily this time.
Nathan took the cup and sat at one of the booths facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn't like the spot much – too bright, too exposed to anyone passing by the street right in front – but there weren't any other seats left. He draped his jacket on the booth next to him – for Arran, later – whipped out his sketchbook, and drew as he waited.
Or he tried to, at least.
As the rain thinned and stopped, and the clouds frayed here and there in the fabric of the sky, the coffee shop more or less emptied. Arran was late. And Nathan knew Mr-I'm-not-even-trying-to-be-subtle was staring. He could feel his eyes burn on his nape.
Or, he thought he could. He didn't want to turn and check, give him a reason to be smug. He didn't like to be stared at, not even by handsome baristas who inexplicably flirted with him. He kept thinking about the unbelievable situation at hand as he sketched. He rolled every thought back and forth in his mind, kept them to the light, see how they caught the light. Nathan came to that coffee shop every Wednesday to see Arran. In a sense, he was a regular. He always ordered a black espresso. He always arrived half an hour before Arran – train schedules were inconvenient like that. Quite often, Arran's lectures dragged, so Nathan would find himself with even more time to sketch. Mr-stalker-barista worked at the coffee shop at least every Wednesday, and had been working there long enough to notice Nathan.
That still didn't explain why he noticed him. As Arran had pointed out, Nathan was pretty skilled in the art of avoiding people. He didn't engage unless absolutely necessary. He was sure he had never spoken to the guy.
So why?
He smudged a line of charcoal on the sheet, uncaring of the black stains that tipped his fingers. When he grabbed his cup, he left imprints there, too. He was staring accusingly at his empty cup when a plate surmounted by a thick, delicious-looking slice of chocolate bread appeared next to him. He was mesmerized for a moment by the smell of cinnamon and sugar before he registered whose hand it was that held the plate.
Nathan turned towards Mr-I-even-know-what-your-favourite-cake-is-like-that's-not-creepy-at-all, who smiled down at him, warmth and slyness equally mixed in his eyes. With the light piercing through the clouds and the window, Nathan could see they were a startling kaleidoscope of light brown flecked with golden-green. The colors burst in a crown around the pupil, scattering in jagged rings.
Hazel, Nathan thought.
He stared at Mr-even-my-eyes-are-perfect, hoping his own expression was suitably unimpressed. The corner of the barista's mouth twitched a little. “You looked mopey there. Hope this lifts your spirits a little.”
Nathan gaped. Mopey!
“I think you've got the word wrong. Irritated is more like it.”
He looked uncertain for a second. “Irritated?”
The sudden doubt in his face mollified Nathan a little. He didn't say anything. He watched as the barista tucked a curl of hair behind an ear.
“I just don't like being stared at,” Nathan finally said. That seemed to relax the other, who smiled again. “Yes, I noticed. You don't like being stared at and you don't like to talk to people much, or being talked to.” He shot a meaningful look at the empty coffee cup sitting all alone nearby. The name Gabriel was now covered with charcoal prints.
“Is that your attempt at making conversation?” Nathan asked.
He shrugged. “It seemed like a good start. Nice and slow. Respectfully distant, most of all. Besides, it's kind of like a message in a bottle left at sea, don't you think?”. He smiled broadly at that.
Nathan couldn't help it. He smirked. “You look pleased with yourself.”
The barista's smile got even broader. “I'm pleased to talk to you, finally.”
Someone called his name from the counter. They pronounced it funnily, more like Gabrielle than Gabriel. The barista sighed. “Sorry, duty calls. The cake is on me, obviously.” With that, he sauntered off.
Nathan didn't have the chance to ask him what ever possessed him to notice a sullen loner traveling four hours back and forth every Wednesday to drink coffee with his brother (then again, he probably didn't know about the traveling part. That was probably pathetic enough to kill his interest).
When Arran arrived just a few minutes later, Nathan sent him to buy another espresso as punishment for being late.
“I'm sorry, the lecture dragged and I lost the train...” Arran said, flustered. “I'm going to buy you that chocolate bread you like.”
Nathan showed him his plate, a half slice of the cake still on it. “No need.”
“What, you got hungry?”
“Not really,” Nathan said, cryptically. He kept his back to the counter, but there was no escaping Arran's polished attentive-and-supportive-big-brother sense. Arran turned briefly and searched for Mr-infamous-barista behind the counter. “Wow. He's really stepping up his game.”
Had Nathan had a coffee then, he would've chocked on it. “Do not , in any circumstance, say something like that in any situation involving me.”
Arran laughed and went to order their drinks.
Since it was still cold outside, they lounged at the coffee shop instead of taking a stroll like usual. When they finally decided to leave, Nathan took the first cup with him and searched the counter for Mr-I-think-my-life-is-a-pirate-novel-and-cups-are-just-like-messages-in-a-bottle. They locked eyes, and Gabriel’s lips curled in a challenging smile. Nathan shot him a look just as challenging, pointedly stared at him, and crumpled the cup before binning it with a smirk.
Try harder, Gabriel.
The third time it happened, Nathan pretty much expected it.
It was a lovely and crisp day outside – one of those sunny winter days so rare in England – and most people were outdoors, enjoying the blue sky. As a result, the coffee shop was nearly empty when Nathan arrived. That was probably why there was only one person working the counter. Of course, it was Mr-one-thousand-watt-smile. Even from the entrance, Nathan was very nearly blinded. What the hell is wrong with this guy, he thought, as he approached the cash register. Being expected with such eagerness was a strange new feeling. He didn't know what to do with it. The delight sparkling in the barista's eyes made Nathan feel flustered and out of balance.
It wasn't entirely unpleasant.
He wondered if it showed; if Gabriel was able to see the effect he was having on him.
Over my dead body!, his stubborn side readily supplied.
“The usual?” the barista asked, as mirthful as ever. It was like Nathan's littlest gesture amused him.
Nathan scowled, then nodded. That only seemed to amuse Mr-smug-bastard further.
As he worked on his order, the barista said, “I like your scowl. It's a proper scowl.”
Nathan couldn't help himself. He'd been dying to know for three weeks.
“Is that why you noticed me? Because I have a proper scowl?”
That was his style. Burst in, guns blazing, leave no survivors. Judging by how the barista half turned to him, surprise painted over his features, he didn't expect him to be quite that direct. He recovered quickly though.
“Well. Partly, I guess? It was more of an overall vibe you have,” he said as he cut a slice of chocolate bread and put it on a plate.
“What vibe?”
Mr-VERY-smug-bastard smirked at his cutting tone. “The same vibe you're giving now.”
Nathan scowled at him some more, waiting in silence for an explanation. The barista chuckled. “All right. You have this aura of broodiness and darkness at first glance. But if someone cares enough to look closer, they'd notice you're actually caring and gentle. The way you smile at your brother is absolutely adorable.”
Nathan felt his cheeks heat up. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“But if I really look back, I think I noticed you that one time you stormed in here with an expression that screamed MURDER on your face. I can only hope whoever made you mad survived somehow.”
Nathan tried to remember that occasion. “To be honest I scream MURDER in my head pretty regularly.” He had probably been mad at Jessica again. She always gave him shit for coming to see Arran every week – or, as she said, 'for proving just how sickening and codependent you two are'.
The barista smiled. “I'll bet. What's the point of having such a perfect broody anti-hero aura and not exercise it, I always say.”
He took Nathan's order, and Nathan lifted his hand to take the cup, but instead the barista grabbed a sharpie. Nathan was puzzled. “What are you doing?”
“I forgot to write your name.”
“What are talking about, you already wrote my name. Not that it matters, I'm the only one here anyway.”
Gabriel's grin turned a shade darker. He handed Nathan's his order and went back to the cash register to serve another patron.
Nathan sat at his favourite table and focused on deciphering the word – name? Gabriel's name and number were there, like always. Nathan's name had been barred, and under it was written something else. As soon as Arran arrived, he asked him to read it. Arran, too, was puzzled. “It seems French,” he said, and took out his smartphone to search the translation online. As soon as he found it, he chocked down his laughter.
“What? What does it mean?”
Arran just gave him the phone. The zoom and simplified font made it easier to read the two simple words occupying most of the screen.
French – hérisson. English translation – hedgehog.
Nathan was sure his face was on fire (Arran trying not to laugh wasn't helping).
When they left, Nathan took the cup with him and searched the counter for Mr-I-think-it's-appropriate-to-compare-people-to-cute-animals (it fucking isn't you prick). They locked eyes, and Gabriel’s smile was warm and playful. Nathan blushed, pointedly stared at him, and crumpled the cup before binning it, all the while fighting back a smile of his own.
I'll show you who's cute, Gabriel.
The fourth time it happened, and the fifth time it happened, and the sixth and the seventh and so on until he lost count, Nathan did his damn best to give Gabriel a hard time. Of course, he never forgot to crumple and bin his cup when he left.
He unsheathed all the sarcasm he could muster, he lunged with the sharpest snark he had, and that seemed to only spur Gabriel on.
Every sarcastic comment was met with a clever deflection. Every snarky word lit a spark of delight in the barista's eyes.
Gabriel had gotten particularly good at drawing tiny, cute hedgehogs on coffee cups.
Nathan was now looking forward to every Wednesday even more than before – at this point he didn't even deny the fact when Arran brought it up. It was fun. Gabriel wasn't scared of Nathan's rough edges – he seemed to revel in them, actually. And he was getting more and more forward, and ridiculous, and unbelievable with his poorly-disguised advances. Nathan thought the barista had hit rock bottom that time he recited French poetry at him, because for one, Nathan didn't speak French , and secondly, what is wrong with you you ridiculous Romanticism fanboy (Nathan was guessing at the Romanticism fanboy part, but he was 99% sure he was right).
But then, it happened.
The snark-to-unfazed-deflection combat had been particularly lively that time.
“The usual pour mon hérisson préféré?”
“Whatever you think you're doing with your French, let me remind you're in England, and we don't like you.”
“So thoughtful of you to warn me,” Gabriel said, grinning. “But I think I'm safe, since I'm not French.”
“So the obnoxious accent is just for show?”
“I'm Swiss actually. Well, half Swiss. It's really complicated.”
Nathan raised an eyebrow. “As complicated as your mess of an accent?”
Better not to mention how much Nathan had started to love said accent. Just in case Gabriel hadn't figured out already his Evil Stalker Plan Of Wooing was working 'alarmingly well' (Arran's words, not Nathan's).
“You wound me. Not my fault my mother is English, my father is Swiss, I was born in France and then I lived for a time in Florida too.”
“And what did you do to deserve to land in bloody England then?”
“Maybe it was fate,” Gabriel said, wiggling his eyebrows like the ridiculous idiot he was.
Now that wasn't difficult to meet with an unimpressed face.
Gabriel, of course, laughed. He had assembled Nathan's order as they talked, and as he handled it to him, there was a spark even livelier than usual in his eyes.
“Can I ask you a question, Nathan?”
“Would you not ask if I told you no?” Nathan answered, but actually he was intrigued by that spark. It spelled mischief.
Gabriel grinned. “Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven.”
Nathan gaped. He really, honest-to-god, verily remained speechless with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds, before covering his face with a hand. “I can't believe I fell for that,” he whispered. Even his lips felt on fire. Gabriel looked torn between amusement and uncertainty as he tried to peer into his face, but Nathan avoided his gaze as best as he could.
“Too much?”
“You're such an idiot,” Nathan breathed out, pointedly not looking at him as he gathered his order – and what little remained of his dignity – and walked to the table.
Such an unbelievable, endearing idiot.
When Arran arrived, he found Nathan with his arms crossed on the table and his face buried in them. “Nathan? Is everything okay?”
He got an incomprehensible mumble as an answer. “What did you say?”
Nathan's ears flared red when he said, “I'm gonna give him my number.”