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It had been 247 days since Alfred Jones had started working at NovelTea, a small bookstore and café located in the sleepy town of Middle-of-Nowhere upon Avon, England.
It had been 247 days, just barely more than the 232 days since he’d begun watching that man. He came into the store every Wednesday at 7 am sharp without fail. He’d order a pot of their blackberry-infused assam blend, give Alfred a small smile and a big tip, only to then spend the following three to four hours browsing their thriller section. By the time he was done, he’d return the pot and cup, thank Alfred once again, and then leave without another word.
Alfred didn’t know his name or anything else about him, really, beside the fact that he had not once missed his weekly “appointment” in the time that Alfred had been working here.
And truly, as strange as that level of sticking to one’s habits might have been, even Alfred knew better than to judge. After all, it was just as strange, which was to say a whole lot stranger, that he paid so much attention to the man as to even notice that those were his habits in the first place.
Then again, in his defence, part of the reason he’d even noticed that particular customer in the first place was that Alfred’s boss had noticed him - namely, that he had noticed that the man never bought anything beside that one pot of tea during his weekly stay at the store. And as happy as he was that people took them up on the offer of tea and coffee, what really made his boss happy were guests who bought the books they’d discovered here.
But no, more than seven months into this non-existent relationship of theirs, the man had yet to buy a single book.
As the weeks went by, Alfred had taken to anticipating his arrival, he noticed. Every Wednesday at 6:55 he’d find himself standing behind the counter, fiddling with his apron as he awaited the familiar chime of the doorbell. By November he’d begun setting out the ingredients ahead of time and come February the pot of assam was already brewed by the time the stranger walked through the door. That was one more thing Alfred had noticed actually: as autumn turned to winter turned to spring, he found that the tea-drinker had become a part of his routine as well.
It was a strange thing to realise, that somebody you’d never really talked to had become a part of your weekly routine. Alfred couldn’t deny that. At the same time, or at least that was what he told himself, he couldn’t really help it. The man came around like clockwork, and not only was he polite and well-mannered, but also was he quite attractive on top of all that, not that Alfred would ever admit that.
He couldn’t quite put into words what drew him to the man - a right shame, considering his profession. Then again, he was only half a librarian and/or bookstore employee; the other half of his job was nothing but a glorified barista. Beverages and job titles aside however, Alfred’s inability to describe the mysterious not-quite-customer didn’t stem from a lack of trying.
If he had to put it into words, he’d have described that thing the other had in much the same way that he would have described the English coast.
There was something rough and unpolished about him, with the wind-tousled hair and the bags under his eyes, with traces of stubble on his chin from time to time, as though he’d simply forgotten to shave. But behind that cover, behind harsh wind and broken cliffs, he drew Alfred in with that sharp, attentive gleam in his eyes, with that hidden glint of a smile when he took his first sip of tea on every Wednesday morning, with those soft mutters as he leafed through a book, like the murmurs of a small stream.
Alfred had thought about all of that once or twice before, but as he now stood there on yet another Wednesday morning, fidgeting and shifting as he stared down the clock hands on the opposite wall, an uncomfortable realisation spread within him. Customer service was one thing. Routine another. But mentally writing novel-esque descriptions of a man he’d never even spoken to with any words that weren’t Welcome! or That will be 5.95! was something so utterly different that he didn’t even want to admit it to himself. Oh, but he did.
It was on that morning in April, some time after 6:47 am, that Alfred Jones realised that he might have developed a crush on Mr Wednesday. “Might have” as in “most definitely had”.
With that thought now bouncing about inside his head like a bouncy ball that had been thrown with just a little too much force, Alfred stood there behind the counter, retying his apron for the second time within the past five minutes. He was fine, he told himself. This wasn’t the first time he’d crushed on somebody, right? But it is the first time you’ve fallen this hard, an unhelpful little voice at the back of his head said. Not to mention that it’s the first time you’ve fallen for somebody without talking to them.
Alfred prayed that that voice would get hit by the bouncy-ball-thought.
He ran a hand through his hair, dishevelling what few strands had actually lain nicely for a change. Okay, this was fine. He could deal with this. He’d just- The train of thought ground to a screeching halt. He’d just what? Ask Mr Wednesday out? Hell, he didn’t even know the guy’s name! He couldn’t just walk up to him and say that he liked how rugged he looked and how structured he was, could he? Was that a line that would work? Could he just-
“Alfred?” He flinched, torn from his thoughts by the voice of his boss.
“Y-Yeah?” he stammered, as though he hadn’t just been fantasising about a certain someone’s appearance yet again. Unfortunately, the picture of that smile proved to be rather persistent, which was the nice way of saying that even if he’d wanted to, Alfred couldn’t quite push away the thoughts of Mr Wednesday’s jawline or his startlingly green eyes.
“Do me a favour and write down some recs for him, will you?” his boss asked from the back room. He didn’t even have to make up a name for Alfred to know whom he was talking about. “Maybe he’ll buy something, if he actually finds a book he likes.”
“W-Will do!” Alfred replied hurriedly, even though the idea of writing down recommendations for him, much less talking to him, seemed like both a dream come true and a nightmare at the same time. A nightmare come true, maybe.
And so he stood there, hunched over the counter, the pot of tea steaming beside him and filling the cool morning air with the fragrance of black tea and berries, as he mentally went through what he knew about Mr Wednesday. He liked thrillers, that much was obvious. More often than not, Alfred had seen him standing in the corner with the psychological thrillers, though he never as much as looked at the most famous ones.
So maybe he was looking for something a little more niche? If Alfred was honest, he wasn’t all that big on thrillers himself (he still wanted to be able to enter his building’s basement without a flashlight and two people as backup, mind you), but he did have some ideas. King or Harris were out, of course, but there was one relatively new author that he could recommend.
Alfred had read some of his earlier stuff, a collection of romantic short stories and instantly fallen in love with the writing style, and though he hadn’t read any of his more recent works, he knew for a fact that the author’s descriptive style would work amazingly for anything dark or dangerous. With another glance at the clock - 6:57 - he scribbled down the names of some of his more recent books, before, at the very bottom, adding the collection that he liked.
With another thought of that smile twisting into a smirk (God, how did even that look hot? It wasn’t even real!) and of how embarrassing it’d be to explain why he’d added it, Alfred crossed it out again almost immediately, just when there was a ring by the door.
Quickly, Alfred straightened his back. “Welcome back, Sir!” he chimed, already setting down the tea on the counter, complete with a cup as well as a saucer with lemon, sugar, and honey to accompany it.
“Good morning, Alfred,” Mr Wednesday chuckled, and God, Alfred wanted to melt simply because of the way his name sounded when those lips formed it. “Thank you for the tea. 5.95, was it?”
Alfred nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak. He was glad to take care of the money just then - this way he had something to occupy his trembling hands with that wasn’t tearing up the little note of book suggestions. As he was still occupied with the cash register, the other already turned to leave, tea in one hand, cup and saucer in the other.
“U-Uh, wait Sir!” Alfred blurted out, and he wanted to slap himself as soon as he did. Wait? Couldn’t he have phrased that any less urgently? “I, um- I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to be interested in our thriller section! I was wondering whether you’d maybe like some-” his voice faltered, but Alfred swallowed the uneasy feeling- “some suggestions?”
“Suggestions, hm?” Mr Wednesday asked, as though Alfred had offered him something else entirely. The smile that still danced around his lips sure didn’t look like that of a man who’d been offered customer service. Another service maybe- Alfred almost did slap himself that time.
“I’d appreciate that, yes. Maybe I missed something here that I might enjoy,” he said, and a part of Alfred wondered whether he’d chosen that phrasing deliberately. No, of course not. Right?
“Oh, um, of course!” Alfred stammered, and on legs so wobbly they might just have been made from Jell-O, he walked over to the very same set of bookshelves where the other always stood. He pulled out his little list, hardly noticing just how crumpled it’d become on the short way over.
He scanned the shelf, quickly finding what he’d been looking for - Passenger 23, Arthur Kirkland. Alfred felt Wednesday’s eyes on him as he pulled the book from the shelf.
“I noticed that you seemed to be interested in the psychological thrillers, so I mostly focused on that,” he began. Alfred handed the other man the book, and for some reason his smile seemed to widen, as he picked it up. “This one is still fairly new, but it’s from an up-and-coming writer with an amazing style. Kirkland picks up the fact that about 23 passengers disappear from cruise ships a year and plays with the question of what happens when one of those 23 shows up again out of nowhere.”
Mr Wednesday tilted his head slightly. “That does sound interesting,” he said. “I see you have more books by this Kirkland-fellow on your list. Are you a fan of his?”
For some reason unknown to him, a faint heat rose to Alfred’s cheeks. “Oh, um- Well, I have to be honest, I’m not much of a thriller fan myself, but I did read some of his older works and fell in love almost immediately. It’s why I’m so sure that you’ll like his works - his style is incredible, it pulls you right into the story.”
“Love, hm?” Wednesday asked, and Alfred felt as though he was being interrogated. “Do you have any of his older works too, then? I’d love to hear more about those. It never hurts to branch out, does it?”
“Ah- Of course! One moment please, I’ll get it for you, Sir.”
With steps almost as fast as his heartbeat, Alfred scurried to get the little collection of short stories that were so dear to his heart. Was Wednesday really interested in romance or…? He pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t even think something like that; it’d only lead to disappointment.
When he returned, Mr Wednesday had taken a seat at one of the desks amid the shelves, a cup of steaming tea in front of him. He watched Alfred approach, eyes on the (admittedly, very well-read and loved) copy of Kirkland’s collection.
“Oh, this one, is it?” he asked. “What draws you in about it, Alfred?”
His hands trembled more than he would have liked to admit when he slid the book across the desk. The book showed its age, both with the slight yellowing of the pages and with how beaten up it was around the corners and edges. A large red rose decorated the cover, the name A. Kirkland curling across the petals in a silvery font.
“W-Well, it is the first work I ever read by Mr Kirkland, admittedly, and as I said, I fell in love with his style of writing almost immediately. His characters feel so incredibly alive, from their feelings to their flaws to the decisions they make. And with the way he describes the settings, it feels as though the reader joins the characters on the page, as though he experiences the story first hand. He combines all of that with these beautiful, heart-wrenching plots that just took my breath away the first time I read them. Sometimes I…”
Alfred cut himself off, noticing how much he’d been rambling.
“Sometimes you what?” Wednesday prodded gently.
“Sometimes I wonder why he stopped writing romance,” Alfred admitted quietly. Hurriedly he added: “O-Of course his new works are in no way bad, b-but I... I just-”
He faltered, embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t make out. There was an awkward break, and where Wednesday could take a drink from his tea to fill the silence, Alfred just sat there, squirming like a schoolboy awaiting a scolding.
“He stopped because his publisher told him to,” Wednesday said eventually. “They said that there were too many works on the market like his first, and that his style would lend itself well to writing thrillers. That he should just write those, if he ever wanted to be successful.”
Alfred’s brows furrowed. “How do you…?” he began, but he cut himself off as soon as the realisation of just how came to him. “Noooooo,” he cried, burying his head in his hands. “You could have told me sooner, you know? And to think I said so much about- God, I’m going to sink into the floor-”
Mr Wednesday - Arthur Motherfucking Kirkland - chuckled. “Maybe I should have,” he said, “But then again, I can’t say that listening to your praises wasn’t nice.”
“I’m gonna die,” Alfred lamented from somewhere behind his hands. “I’m going to die, and then I’m going to haunt you like Amelia in Spectre In Spe for making me die of shame.”
Kirkland didn’t even hide his amusement. “Well, Amelia does end up having her curse lifted by the end of that story, not to mention that she falls for the-”
“Spoilers!” Alfred interjected.
“- woman she haunted,” the author concluded. “So how about we speed all of that up a little, and you allow me to repay you over another cup of tea, hm?”
Alfred looked up, transfixed almost instantly by the sincerity in those bright green eyes. “I- um…” he stammered. “Just because I like your books?” he asked, and at the same second Alfred wanted to bite off his tongue. He had not just asked that. God, how could he be so-
Opposite of him, the author gave him another one of those little smiles. The slightest quirk of the corner of his mouth, a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. For a moment, Alfred almost forgot how utterly mortified he was.
“I was going to say because I have a thing for cute baristas with good literary taste, but that sounds as if I’d care for anybody else. So really, the better, more truthful answer might be that you caught my eye the moment I first saw you standing behind that counter over there.” Alfred’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. After a moment, Kirkland added: “Of course you liking my work helps, don’t get me wrong, but it’d be a lie to say that I didn’t care about you before today.”
“That being said… What do you say?”
“I think I’m gonna die,” Alfred said tonelessly.
“You said that already, yes,” Kirkland laughed. “Though I’m afraid I’m nowhere near as good a cursebreaker as Alice is, so I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”
For the second time that day, Alfred had a particularly stupid idea. “If I say yes,” he began, as though he wouldn’t jump at the chance regardless of what was to come, “will you buy a book?”
The author’s brows furrowed. “What?”
“My boss keeps nagging me because you’re here every week but never buy anything… so could I maybe get you to buy at least one book so he leaves me alone?”
Kirkland burst out laughing. “You know, if that’s what it takes to get you to go out on a date with me, so be it.” He picked up the worn copy of Rose-coloured that lay between them. “How much for this one?” he asked.
About five years later, on a small property just outside Middle-of-Nowhere upon Avon, one Arthur Kirkland-Jones sat beneath a pergola, overlooking his garden. With his feet up on the table and his laptop resting on his legs, he typed away at his most recent work, a romantic novel about a rebel prince and the rock star he’d fallen in love with.
The creak of a dying hinge cut through the peaceful silence of a late afternoon, then a familiar head of straw-blond hair poked through the gap of the old, wooden door. The head gave him that smile that never ceased to brighten Arthur’s day.
“Do you have some space on that table, or should I let the tea get cold?” Alfred asked as he pushed open the door with his elbow, carefully balancing a small tray with a pot of tea, a pair of cups, as well as a small bowl of honey. Over the years he’d learned that Arthur took his tea with just honey, that he didn’t need sugar or lemon. Arthur liked to say that he didn’t need sugar when he had Alfred around.
“You know I always have room for you,” Arthur replied, already setting down his laptop and the document titled Draft 3.2 he’d been working on.
Alfred carefully set down the tray, before settling in the chair opposite of Arthur. “Same as usual?” he asked, and a small smile danced around his lips as he used the same tone, the same words he’d spoken so many times before.
“Will that be 5.95 today as well, then, Mr Kirkland-Jones?” Arthur quipped.
Alfred hummed, pouring his husband a cup of the very same blend that had first brought them together, blackberry-infused assam.
“You know, I’d much prefer a different kind of payment, Sir,” he said, before stealing a quick kiss from Arthur’s lips. “Though I do believe that, accounting for inflation, that doesn’t quite cut it just yet.”
“Is that so?” Arthur chuckled.
“I believe it is, yes.”
“Well, I will just have to pay my dues then, I fear,” Arthur said, before leaning in to capture Alfred’s lips in another kiss, sweeter, slower this time.
As he did, his thoughts strayed to the book that still rested in a prime spot in their living room. It looked even more worn nowadays than it had five years ago, but it was no less loved than it had always been. Rose-coloured, the title said, and truly, whenever Arthur looked at the man he’d married, he couldn’t find any other words to describe his life with. Five years, and he didn’t regret the words he’d scribbled onto the half-title page that day in April one bit.
For Alfred, who made it nigh on impossible for me to write a thriller ever again because all he makes me think of are love and loving.