Chapter Text
Marc sat at the dinner table with a half finished cup of lukewarm coffee and tired eyes straining at a blank word document on his laptop screen. The dim white light locked him in an idle trance of mindlessly typing a few nonsense words, before robotically tapping the delete key. The dance went on for hours. A lazy waltz to the coffee pot for a refill, followed by another hour of nodding off at the table.
He gripped his hair as his eyes darted left and right, reading imaginary lines of very real deadlines his editor had set prior. Am I having a panic attack? His heart had set an unhealthy rhythm, and his fingers were becoming numb. Food–he had decided to blame. The brain craves carbs to do smart brain things, right?
5 A.M. turned into 6 A.M. turned into 7 A.M., and all he could do was watch the numbers go up. He heard his younger brother, Jake, patter into the kitchen with a yawn, fumbling through the fridge and clattering about with pans and other tools.
Jake said nothing as he raised his eyebrow at his brother in a silent, ‘no dormiste?’
Marc stared off. ‘Yup.’
Soon, the savoury scent of caramelised butter and sugar wafted from stove to dining table, along with the sweetness of vanilla soaked eggy bread. And… cinnamon? Marc stiffened at the aroma. His stomach groaned, nose twitching with interest. The crisp sizzling sounds of burning sugar behind him. He turned around in his chair with drool pooling in his cheeks.
‘Are you making French toast?’
‘Correctamente, mi hermano.’ Jake replied. He squinted at his pan, head still foggy with sleep. He poked at the bread, a haste decision forming in his brain, and flipped the toast with his fingers. He yelped as sugar and batter crackled upwards, burning his fingertips; but at least now he was feeling fully awake.
Marc winced. ‘You’re using a fork for mine, right?’
‘Pero… why would I do that?’
‘Because your hands are dirty.’
Jake shifted to face his brother. One hand on the frying pan’s handle and the other poised firm at his hip. ‘No, mi hermano, I mean–why would I make you French toast?’
‘I’m your brother and you love me.’ Marc chanted half-heartedly, a smug mantra he had used a thousand times.
His younger brother snorted. ‘Mano, and which one of us is always left cleaning la cocina? Además, I have an order of a few dozen macarons to start soon and I don’t have time to cook for you too.’
‘Does it hurt you to do something nice for your older brother?’ Marc frowned.
Jake smirked. ‘It puts a little ache-y in little Jake-y.’
Marc slammed his laptop shut, with more force than necessary. ‘‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered. He stuffed his laptop into its sleeve and tucked it under his arm. An unwarranted feeling of annoyance budded in his chest, and he could feel the heat of anger bloom into his neck and face.
‘I’m heading out,’ Marc grunted. ‘I can’t get anything done with your smug face looming around.’
Jake paused with one folded brow. ‘We have the same face, Marc. And you never get anything done.’
‘Point not taken.’ The older man snapped, swiping the keys off the counter and shoving his feet into his worn shoes. He released a shaky exhale as he tied off his laces. A malevolent storm rang in his ears. He knew he was being dramatic, that his aggressive actions were the result of small stacking strifes towering into larger ones. Jake teased him all the time, but it felt different today. As he straightened his posture, facing his little brother from the door, he noticed it at the edge of Jake’s expression: Concern, but mostly, hurt.
Marc’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry.’ He quickly apologised. The anger waning from his core. He had been working on his temper, but the situation between himself, Jake, and their mother had left the twins worse for wear. Jake, a bit reckless, fared ultimately soft hearted but distant. As for Marc, he had been left with unchecked anger and resentment.
‘I’m at the edge of my latest deadline and I honestly have nothing.’ Marc explained by the door.
‘I know,’ Jake replied emptily. ‘You’re stressed, tired, hungry, and one slice of toast isn’t going to write your blurby-wordy thing. You’ve been interviewing nobodies at our dinner table for almost a week, and your ass probably left an imprint in the chair. Stretch your legs, ir a caminar, Marc. And besides, I’d like full use of la cocina today, free of your smug face.’
Marc rose his palms defenselessly. ‘Alright, alright. I’m going. But you better not burn down the apartment while I’m gone.’ He chuckled as he quickly closed the door, still able to hear Jake’s shouting from the other side.
‘Una vez, yo quemé la crema, Marc. UNA. VEZ.’
Afternoons were a fickle.
While New York was a city home to coffee shops around every corner, Marc was struggling to find a cafe unlittered with students and loiterers as it approached closer to noon. Lines crept long and tables were packed tight. The writer considered the library–but also considered calling his editor begging for an extension–again.
His head fell back as he weighed the outcomes of losing his job to writer’s block. He knew he was more than a capable writer, and his past articles proved so. Readers enjoyed the candidness of Marc’s writing, and how he could unfold the nuances of the lives he interviewed. While many had offered the intimacy of their lives to be explored, Marc had not found a muse–but unsurprisingly so.
As a journalist who’s written and heard stories in the thousands from both the famous and nonchalant, Marc felt spoiled. Nothing felt new. Everyone’s lives started feeling more so… sort of the same. A hodgepodge of recycled events. He had been nursing the idea that one day–his life, too–would become a hodgepodge of recycled events. But worst of all, he would also be alone.
While his head lolled towards the sky, his eyes caught an abnormally small, minimalistic sign in the shape of a leaf. The sign was much too small to be noticed, or properly read, but at the very bottom he could make out the words ‘tea shop’ in a delicate typeface. Why the hell would you make your sign that small? Marc wondered. Curious, he began stalking the building for this ‘tea shop’s’ entrance.
He circled the building once, then twice, pausing to catch his breath as he rounded the block for the third time. His reflection against the windows mocking him as he failed to locate the entrance. Glancing up once more, he was met again with the sign lazing above in the wind, taunting him endlessly.
‘You lost, mate?’ A voice quipped. Light, cheery, but a hint of weariness hidden beneath an alto tune. Marc was sure he heard an accent, British; he shook his head to round his thoughts.
The journalist came face to face with a man who looked familiarly similar to himself. He crinkled his brow, unbothered to hide his confusion. There were subtle differences though. The most obvious being the British man’s hair. While textured and coloured the same as Marc’s, the man’s hair was slightly longer and completely unkempt. Curls lopped messily to the side, with loose strands resting over his forehead. Some hairs were sticking awry, as if he had woken up that way.
The British man’s jawline was also a tad softer. His eyes gentler, but tired, with lids half drooping over his brown irises. And overall, the man was possibly shorter than Marc–by about an inch, he guessed. But the oversized brown jumper the British man was wearing did little to confirm Marc’s assumptions.
Marc cocked his head, and his mirror did the same. The two eying each other, the shorter making an expression more gaudy than Marc’s own face of surprise and confusion. The silence was beginning to feel itchy, but the other was first to speak.
Mouth twisted in embarrassed bewilderment, the British man spoke with a nervous smile. ‘Y-you thinking the same thing, mate? Cause if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were twins.’
It was then Marc noticed that the man wasn’t exactly shorter than him, it was his slightly bowed posture–inspective and cautious. Marc relaxed his shoulders, offering a laugh that came off more forced than friendly, attempting to ease the man.
‘You think so too?’ Marc exhaled. ‘Thank god. I thought I was losing my mind from work-related stress.’
‘Well–’ the man sang, his smile growing more genuine as he warmed up to Marc’s mannerisms. ‘I happen to run a tea shop, and tea is abso-bloody-lutely fantastic for the nerves. I’m quite a bit of a tea specialist if we’re sharing a bit of honesty.’
Marc’s brow lifted as the eccentric man tugged on his hands. Normally, the sudden pull by a stranger would have sent Marc’s fists flying. But the shopkeeper’s timid enthusiasm was too sweet to resist. He found himself striding behind little quick steps only a few paces from his original location to a window of glass with a gold leaf inscribed on the centre. Marc noticed the man resting his hand on a glass knob, and what he had mistaken for a window pane was actually a door.
‘I’m Steven Grant, by the way,’ the tea shoppist mentioned as he pushed through the glass, ‘and welcome to my little corner of New York.’
‘Marc Spector,’ Marc replied, stepping into Steven’s second home. ‘I’m a journalist…’ His voice trailed off as he took in the intricacies of the hidden tea shop. The space was narrow, but deep. Its facade of a single, tall glass panel had camouflaged the storefront between a bustling bakery and designer salon. Birch floors complimented oak walls and shelves. The lighting was dim and rustic, but homely. There wasn’t much room for tables, but a lengthy, pub-style counter ran across the long end of the shop, providing adequate seating. Both walls were lined with canisters and glass jars of loose leaf teas, some Marc could recognize, most he could not. Lastly, was the smell: Robust and earthy, with a touch of pollen and sweet floral cuttings. It was different from being in a mainstream cafe, but different was what he needed right now.
Marc set his belongings on the counter and took a seat, Steven following shortly after. He watched as the man pulled out a notebook, jotting a few mysteries and counting a few jars. Marc found himself enraptured by the simple things Steven did–because everything Steven had done, simple or not, Steven did with pride and pleasure.
There was a hint of jealousy in Marc stemming from the idea that someone could love their job to the most minute degree. He unsleeved his laptop while the shoppist unveiled a glass teapot and a tightly knitted ball of what appeared to be plant cuttings.
‘So… not trying to be rude,’ Marc began, filling what he thought was an uncomfortable pinch of silence between them, ‘but your store sign is small, and your storefront might as well not exist. What’s with that?’
Steven chuckled, but mostly to himself. Nonetheless, his soft laugh and shy smile sent Marc’s heart fluttering.
‘That’s quite alright,’ Steven said. ‘Most of my sales are online. And Layla handles delivery of local purchases. The storefront is more for legitimacy, and having a physical address is good for business. Otherwise, I’m happy filling orders and entertaining the few who find me. Oh, and leafing through books in my spare time.’ He laughed at his own pun.
The gentleness of Steven’s spirit and quaintness of the shop, eased Marc’s stiff shoulders. He felt himself relax into his seat, laughing along with Steven, watching as the tea specialist expertly adjusted the water’s temperature and combined the wounded ball with steaming water in the glass. The water tinted a light green. Within a few minutes, the ball unravelled, blossoming into three tiers of white, yellow, and purple flowers, creating a serene biome in the glass.
‘That’s–’ Marc paused, unwilling to admit he was impressed by the mere sight of flowers in water.
‘It’s called flowering tea.’ Steven hummed, lifting the teapot to pour.
Marc blubbered. ‘Wait, wait, wait a second. You’re going to drink that?’
‘No,’ Steven smiled. ‘You are.’ The curls of his hair bounced as the tea shoppist nodded encouragingly for Marc to take a sip. He pushed the decorative teacup closer, locking eyes with Marc, savouring the satisfaction of finally having company. Admittedly, it’s been a while since Steven had customers. The growing popularity of chugging coffee and chasing caffeine highs had whisked away even his most loyal patrons.
Marc tilted the leaf water in the shallow cup, eying the petals, wondering if the whole thing would taste like the smell of lawn clippings. ‘I’m not really a tea guy,’ Marc said absently.
‘Oh, but you will be,’ Steven replied with earnest, leaning against the countertop to close some space between himself and Marc. ‘And if you don’t like that one, I’ve got hundreds more and a whole lot of time.’
There was a drip of venom laced in Steven’s voice making Marc fluster more. He could feel his cheeks, even his ears, burn red. He was used to being the one to make the first move–but was Steven even making a move? Marc swallowed the nervous bolus that had formed, and shoved the comically small teacup to his lips in a poor attempt to mask his embarrassment.
While the tea looked relatively light in colour, it was strong and bitter–but not in an unpleasant way. The smell was perfumey, which would have put Marc off, but being half intoxicated by the man in front of him had its benefits. Instead of a mad sprint pounding in his chest, he felt as if he had a warm blanket across his stomach. No twitchy fingers or deadpanned focus, just a soothing lull spreading throughout his body.
‘You know what,’ Marc announced, ‘I’ll admit it. This is amazing. You didn’t drug this, did you?’
Steven let out a laugh, one a bit louder and more obnoxious, but Marc loved every second of it. A sly smile spread across Steven’s cheeks as he gestured a sealed zipper across his lips, before refilling Marc’s cup for a second, and a third, time.