The Inner Workings Of Coffee Drinkers

for @freethelgbt

this is my entry for the Valentine's Day One-Shot contest. a million thanks to @freethelgbt for hosting the competition and i hope you enjoy! xx

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Come sit down with me, darling, when your drink's still warm. Don't roll your eyes and whine to me when you grimace at the taste of cold, bitter coffee against your tongue, because I told you. The longer you dawdle, the more people pass by. We're missing our chance! Look at that woman by the lamp post; I could've told you about her last failed relationship or how much she loves Mozart. That little boy with the yellow balloon; you could've told me how that's his third – and last – one, because his mother is tired of him letting go of the string and watching it rise into the heavens like it's not just a piece of colorful plastic filled with hot air.

There, that's better. Watch the people with me, I know how it relaxes you. Don't point; I've told you numerous times that it's rude. The art of people watching is one of discretion and imagination. Use your mind and your eyes only.

That man in grey outside the window. Him. Uptight businessman. Failing company, failing marriage. Permanent stick up his ass; look at the lines on his face.

Why do you shake your head at me like that?

[It's always about lives in shambles with your stories], you inform me.

Fine, then, it's your turn. Pick someone and get on with it.

You deliberate, your eyes training hard outside, and you nod in that direction.

[You see those two boys over there?] you say. [They love each other so much. No, not just best friends, though they are. They're in love with one another.]

You've always been a bit fanciful in your stories. 

[You don't see it?] you insist. [Take another look. Don't you see the way his eyes linger a little too long on the other's face when he talks, a little too full of ardor, a little too intense? The way their hands are intertwined isn't platonic, the way their knuckles are blanched from squeezing tightly, like they are afraid someone will pull them apart. Come closer to me, there's a better view from this angle, and let me tell you a story about them.]

[1.

They would've met in a café like this one, perhaps in the early evening. One of the boys would've spotted the other at the bar and struck up a conversation in which they talked about cars and books and girls, and how neither of them liked them all too much. Too public the place would've been, so the first boy took the other's hand – though not obviously – and led him outside, into the alleyway where they were clouded with shadow by the silent bricks that loomed over them like a mother bird in her nest. The first boy grabbed the other by his shirt-collar, pulled him close, and showed him exactly how much he didn't like girls, while the walls whispered their secret into the unforgiving night.

[2.

All it took was the wrong place, wrong time, and their world collapsed in on itself. Furious screaming, violent sobbing, shrieks of, "Abomination! Disgrace! Devil!"  Words of love from the holy book would have bled with hate as they were pelted inexhaustibly at the boys, sinking their teeth into their mottled, blackened hearts. Stones were never thrown, but their skin absorbed their loathing like brittle earth, thirsty for water during a drought, and they may as well have been boulders. Still they survived, and their skin became thicker, but their love grew to be a hard kind of love, a seasoned veteran to the hatred.

[3.

That day came inevitably, where twenty minutes behind a dumpster, bruised ribs, and a blackened eye changed everything. Reckless boys out for a good time thought it would be funny to teach their local faggot what they thought of him.

His partner would've seethed with rage at his wrecked state, gently cupping his face, his arms, his shoulders. Anywhere he could touch, just to make sure that he was still there.

"Are they right?"

"About?"

"Are we as bad as they say?"

Fingers would've tightened around his wrists, almost insistently.

"You know my answer."

"God wouldn't do this to us unless we are sinning – "

"Loving you could never be a sin." A pause. Then a whisper. "Come, leave with me, start anew."

Hesitation. Then, imperceptibly, a nod.

[4.

Many nights were spent under damp bridges and reeking alleyways, blankets thrown over them, protecting them from the elements. On good days, they would've spared money for off-nights in cheap motels, and they would sleep like the dead, their limbs so entangled you'd think they were a single being. Mostly, though, they scrimped their savings for necessities like food.

During their bleakest moments, they reached for each other's hands, reassured by another warm presence, and they pressed onwards towards salvation.

[5.

Neither of them could tell you exactly when their old life ended and when a new one began. It might've been the moment when one of them was finally able to call himself employed. They celebrated that night, sharing a milkshake at the McDonald's on the street corner. It could've also been the moment their apartment lease was finalized, or when their new circle of friends told them that they already knew, and they loved them nonetheless.

It was times like these that they thought, just maybe, they'd be alright.

That's rubbish, I tell you, and sip from my steaming mug. The profundity of love you hold for strangers always surprises me. How did you reach a conclusion like that?

[Small gestures, stolen glances,] you say sincerely. [Their struggles cemented their bond. It's why they love each other like they do.]

Today is that special day of the year, all too-wide smiles and pink hearts and goodwill forced upon couples by corporate companies. 

It's Valentine's Day, they say. Give your loved ones a special something to let them know they're loved!

Bullshit.

But it's not so forced with the two of us, your body cushioning mine as we watch the people and you talk carefree circles around me.

Today is reserved for you and me. Let's not talk about hardships, agreed? We left all those things behind us a long time ago, and so did they.

[Their story is nothing like ours,] you say, and a hand closes over mine on the cold tabletop, tightening suddenly.

And how true that is. Think of all the times when it felt like nothing mattered, when we wondered how those razors would look lodged in our throats, when the whole world was crushing us like bugs beneath the heel of its shoe. Think of those times and everything we've endured and I wonder, without you there, if I would've come out alive at all.

How lucky I am to have you.