Misconceptions

[Notes and Disclaimers]

The first time I saw him, he was drinking a cup of something from Whaddaya Joe between bites of danish. He had found a relatively quiet spot on the edge of the sidewalk for his mobile breakfast, a bubble of peace in the increasing flow of people on their way to work. He was beautiful, so much so that there was no way I could have not noticed him. His skin was the color of creamed coffee, stretched tautly over the smooth planes of his face. His eyes were dark and faintly tilted, with lashes so thick that it looked at first as though he'd lined his eyes. His hair was what fascinated me the most, though, captured in dozens - hundreds - of tiny braids that fell almost to his waist, the sides pulled back and fastened behind his ears, then caught with the rest in a heavy band at his nape. He wore the attire of any casual businessman, but on him the buttery yellow shirt and khaki-colored pants resembled more the raiments of a foreign prince, transported absurdly to downtown.

I should've known right away that he was shaping up to be an obsession; I was not usually given to flights of fancy.

I saw him only in passing that day as I hurried on my way to work, a good little programming drone. A full day's work succeeded in wiping him from my mind, and, by the time I'd dragged back to the tiny apartment I shared with my two roommates, I'd forgotten about him entirely.

I saw him again in the middle of the next week and it all came rushing back. He was standing outside the same shop, sans danish this time, meditatively watching traffic as he sipped from the paper cup. Embarrassingly enough, I was so caught up in ogling him that I ran into another pedestrian head-on, earning a blistering curse. Ducking my head, I could only apologize - "Sorry, sorry, really sorry." - even as, from the corner of my eye, I saw my distraction's head turn, dark gaze falling with abstract curiosity on the minor scene I had caused.

I wondered what he saw, even as I hurried on my way. I was nothing to write home about, built solid like the range boy I was in a city that seemed to worship the svelte. Even though I wear the professional uniform, I still look like I'd be better suited to joining the rest of my family back on the ranch.

A full workday was not enough to wipe him from my mind this time, my fingers automatically entering lines of code as my mind tried to untangle its current conundrum. His exotic looks intrigued me, no ethnicity I could easily identify. I had yet to hear him speak, but I imagined that he spoke with an accent, something lilting, or perhaps something more laid-back and lyrical. His name would be as exotic as his looks: Akaash or Nedu or Haimona or something else that my rough drawl would mangle. More than once I found my fingers stilled and had to shake my head to focus my thoughts again.

By the time I'd made it home that night, I'd at least managed to push him from my foremost thoughts.

I saw him again the next day, in part due to my own machinations. I've always been predisposed to rising early - years of tending to livestock led to habits and internal clocks that were hard to change - and used that to my advantage, skipping my usual viewing of the morning news to instead head off to work. Coffee isn't my thing, but I pushed through the doors of Whaddaya Joe regardless, and there he was. His teeth flashed, straight and white, as he smiled at the clerk. I was surprised to find, as he ordered a large hazelnut coffee, that his accent was Australian, but that was swept away as his voice washed over me, as smooth and creamy as his skin.

"Sir? Sir! Can I help you?"

I blinked, jarred from my abrupt fantasies to find that the clerk was looking at me expectantly, a hint of impatience in her face. "Ah," I said, edging forward uncomfortably as I rubbed the back of my neck, "I'd like some coffee. Er. A cup of your house blend. Small." I handed over a dollar-fifty when she rang it up, disinterestedly dumping my few cents in change into the tip jar as I watched my target from the corner of my eyes. He was chatting easily with the - what do they call them, anyway? Cooks? Chefs? Mixers? Waiters? - kid preparing the coffees, his forearms resting against the high counter as though he didn't have a care in the world. Our orders came up at the same time, but I waited for him to collect his and depart before grabbing my own; my nerves could only carry me so far.

The cup was hot in my hand even through the cardboard holder, and I murmured an absent 'thanks' to the kid as I fled the small shop with it. Outside, I took a sip and grimaced; even fresh and hot, it was barely more palatable than the coffee the hands had used to drink, the stuff that had been left on the back of the stove all day and came out so strong you could stand a spoon in it. Sighing, I dropped it into the garbage can at the curb, only to jump when I was suddenly addressed.

"Don't like it?"

It probably didn't do much for my image when I turned to face him; I knew I was wide-eyed, and my breath suddenly failed me when I met his smiling eyes from a few feet away. He was standing near a street sign, sipping his own coffee with every indication of delight. "I don't like coffee."

His eyebrows rising did fascinating things to his face, and I had to remind myself to blink. "Do you always buy things that you don't like?"

"No." I grinned sheepishly. "I see you around here, drinking it, so I thought I'd give it a try. Stupid, huh?"

He laughed lightly, another flash of teeth that made me have to firmly command my knees not to wobble. "Maybe you're trying the wrong thing. Here, have some of mine."

Before I knew what he meant, he was approaching me, offering his cup. The little drink slot was torn open, and in my mind I could see those smiling lips pressed to it, taking in the contents of the cup. It's been ten years since I was thirteen, yet the speed with which I was aroused was certainly reminiscent of those early years. I hesitated, but he was still standing there, still smiling, still holding the cup out to me. "Ah," I said, "thanks." I took it, and the fingers that brushed mine as it changed hands were nearly as hot as the cup, a burn sinking into my flesh. I stared at the cup for a moment, then raised it to my lips, thankful to find that my hands weren't shaking as I tilted the cup to send some of the coffee within into my mouth. It wasn't unpleasant, mellow and sweet, and I savored the taste as I lowered the cup again and swallowed. "Not bad," I admitted, handing the cup back to him, grinning sheepishly again. "Thanks. I'll have to try that next time."

"Another convert," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice, and I suddenly changed my mind; his voice wasn't smooth and creamy, but as mellow and sweet as the coffee he drank. "I'm Tom desChamps, by the way."

"Alan Hughes." It was automatic in my still rather shocked state of mind to reach to tip a hat I no longer wore, and I checked myself mid-motion to extend my hand instead. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Tom."

"You work around here? I see you every now and then, on your way."

I blinked then, once, then again. "You noticed me?" I said, then abruptly felt myself flush, waving my hands perhaps overenthusiastically as though to deny those words. "I mean, yeah, I do. I do programming for FIS. You?"

I couldn't even begin to read the expression in his dark eyes now. "I curate for a gallery over on Adams . It keeps me busy."

"Busy. Yeah. I'd imagine so." I suddenly became aware that the street that had been comparatively empty when we'd stepped out onto it was now almost overflowing, and a quick glance at my watch revealed that my early start for the day had long since been eaten up. "Shit!" I said, then flushed, looking guiltily at him. "Sorry, I've gotta run. I'll see you around?"

I could almost have kicked myself for the almost plaintive tone in my voice, but he only smiled and raised his hand. "Later, Alan."

My name hadn't ever sounded better.

I didn't see him the next day, or the next, or the day after that. A week passed without even a glimpse of him, and I told myself that it had been a fluke, that I should forget about him.

I still stopped at Whaddaya Joe every morning.

I was there almost a month later, picking up what had become my usual - hot vanilla and kringle (fresh-made and very nearly worth killing for) - and chatting idly with Ryan as he prepared my drink, when I heard my name behind me. The accent that wrapped itself around the syllables was familiar and my mind blanked for a moment before I turned to find Tom desChamps smiling at me. "Tom," I said. Then, for lack of anything better: "It's been a while."

How could he make even a shrug look elegant? "I apologize - something came up." Was his smile looking more nervous, or was that just me transposing? "I thought you didn't like coffee."

"He doesn't." That was Ryan as he slid my hot vanilla onto the counter with another cup. "On the house, Tom. Good to have you back."

We both said 'thanks' at the same time, then grinned at each other. Cups in-hand, we slipped out of the shop by mutual, silent agreement to stand side-by-side on the sidewalk and watch the early-morning traffic.

"Would you let me buy you a drink, Alan?" he asked abruptly as he picked at the torn slot in the lid of his cup.

I get stupid when I'm nervous: my mouth runs away with me. Even as I reminded myself of this, I said, "If I have another of these now, I think I'll start to moo."

He blinked at me but, before I could kick myself, started to laugh, as though my nervousness had burst the bubble of his. "Dinner, then?"

I had to be misunderstanding. No way was this gorgeous man interested in a displaced queer-as-a-blue-dog cowboy like me. I meant to ask him - I don't know what, maybe if he was kidding, or mad, or sure. Instead I said, "Dinner's good."

"You free tonight?" His grin was broader now, and I had to stop myself from staring at it. "Say... seven-ish?"

Kissing him now would be bad, especially as I could still be drastically misunderstanding his invitation. Kissing him now would be very bad. Still, my momma didn't raise no idiots. "Seven's good."

That damned grin seemed, impossibly, even wider. "Have you ever been to Charlie's?"

Charlie's? Shit, Derrick - one of my roommates - waited tables there. No way was I taking a date - a date ! - there, especially not one like Tom, not if I wanted a moment's peace once I got home. "What about Ming instead?"

"It's been a dog's age since I've had good Chinese; Mind sounds great. Shall I pick you up?"

"No." No, no, no. That would pose the same problem as Charlie's, only the Ernie-version. "I'll meet you there?"

His grin softened a bit - was that relief? "Fine - Ming, seven-ish. I'll see you there." And then - maybe I wasn't misreading as much as I'd feared - he leaned closer and brushed a light kiss at the corner of my mouth. "Later, Alan."

I think I said something, though I never did figure out what; the syllables were a meaningless garble in my head. Instead, I watched him walk away - and God but those pants did amazing things to his legs - before heading off in the opposite direction, knowing that I wasn't going to get any work done that day.

- tsuzuku -

Notes and Disclaimers

Misconceptions is an original work of fiction and is © Shana Gardner.

Misconceptions was begun as a piece of fluff and has firmly remained that way; I like writing stories in which relationships are established. It's currently a WIP.