Archive of Our Own ^beta

The problem began at 6:42 a.m., which was already an offensive time to be conscious.

Henry lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wrapped in blankets like a burrito that had given up on life, listening to his phone vibrate with notifications he refused to acknowledge.

Monday.

His body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. One socked foot was warm, the other inexplicably cold. His neck hurt for reasons he would never understand. Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off and stayed on long enough to feel personal.

Henry groaned and rolled onto his side.

“Okay,” he told himself. “You can do this.”

That was a lie, but it was a familiar one.

Normally, mornings were a tea affair. Quiet. Gentle. Kettle on, steam rising, mug warming his hands like a promise that the day didn’t have to be hostile. Tea was patient. Tea understood him.

But that morning, tragedy had struck.

Henry shuffled into the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and found exactly zero tea.

None.

His Earl Grey tin was completely bare, an echo of his own disappointment. Not a single chamomile lurking in the back. Not even a questionable green tea he didn’t remember buying. Just an empty shelf.

He stared into the cabinet for a long moment.

Then he closed it. Opened it again. As if tea might appear if given a second chance.

It did not.

“Okay,” he said aloud. “Okay.”

He checked the counter. Nothing.

The drawer. Nothing.

His emergency stash? Gone.

Henry leaned against the counter and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back against the cabinets, contemplating his life choices.

This was how it ended. Not with a bang, but with tea withdrawal.

He could go to the grocery store. That was an option. But that required socializing with Basil, and he wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment.

Which left…

He sighed.

“The coffee shop.”

The words tasted bitter in his mouth, which felt on-brand.

It wasn’t that he hated coffee shops per se, Henry just felt misunderstood by them. Like they had built an entire culture surrounding a beverage he did not trust. Coffee shops were loud, confident places full of people who seemed to know what they were doing. People who ordered things without hesitation. People who owned reusable cups and opinions.

The only thing Henry had from that list of requirements was a pack of reusable cups of his own.

Still, desperation won.

He filled David’s food bowl, got dressed, grabbed his bag, and headed out, whispering a small apology to tea as he locked the door.

The coffee shop was doing that thing where it pretended to be peaceful while secretly hosting at least seven minor emotional crises. It looked calm - warm lighting, exposed brick, plants that had never known suffering - but the moment you stepped inside, you could feel it. The quiet desperation. The caffeinated urgency. The low-grade panic of people trying to become better versions of themselves before noon.

Henry paused just inside the door, letting it close behind him, and took in the scene before him.

Every table was full, every outlet occupied, packed in a way that suggested that everyone in the city had independently decided this was the place to emotionally process their lives. Someone was typing like their keyboard owed them money. Someone else was whisper-fighting on the phone, arguing with Siri. A girl in the corner had three empty mugs and the haunted look of a grad student on a deadline. One guy was clearly on a first date pretending not to be on a first date. There was a dog wearing a sweater and getting more attention than it deserved.

David is far cuter.

The air was thick with espresso, steamed milk, and false confidence.

Henry stood in line and immediately knew he’d made a mistake.

Not a life mistake. Just a social one.

The menu board glared down at him like it had a personal vendetta against its customers. The font was aggressively minimalist. The drink names were not. There were words like artisanal and single-origin and notes of stone fruit, which felt less like beverages and more like accusations.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t panic. In and out. Tea. You’ve ordered tea before. You are a grown adult. You can do this.”

The woman in the front of the line ordered something that took thirty seconds to say and still required clarification.

The line did not move.

He shifted his weight, squinting at the menu. Tilted his head. Squinted harder. There were too many words. Too many sizes. Too many options. Somewhere in there was tea, allegedly, but it was buried beneath a long list of coffee he’d never asked to make decisions about.

The man in the front of the line ordered confidently, like this menu had never hurt him. The woman who was next took a long time, asked questions, changed her mind twice, and then apologized to the barista like she was confessing a crime.

The line continued to stall.

Behind him, someone cleared his throat - not impatiently, more like they’d accidentally inhaled confidence and wasn't sure what to do with it.

“Do you want an honest opinion,” the person asked, a Southern twang in his voice, “or emotional support?”

Henry startled so hard he almost apologized to the menu.

He turned around. The person was a man, a bit shorter than him. Dark, unruly curls adorned the top of his head, which paired perfectly with his blinding smile. A smile, that suggested kindness, not judgment, which immediately made Henry like him and resent him a little.

“Is it that obvious?” he asked.

The man nodded. “You did the squint. And then the head tilt. And then the whispering. That’s how I knew.”

“I was strategizing,” Henry said defensively. “This menu is unhinged.”

“It is,” the other man agreed. “They change it just often enough to keep us humble.”

Henry glanced back at the board. “Why are there four kinds of vanilla?”

“Seasonal emotional manipulation,” the man grinned. “They want you vulnerable.”

Henry laughed, quick and surprised, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“What’s the bad news?” Henry asked, curious.

“The menu is lying to you,” the man said.

Henry’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank God. I knew it.”

“The good news,” he continued, “is that none of it actually matters.”

“That feels untrue,” he said. “This feels like a test.”

“It is,” the man agreed. “But the baristas are forgiving. Mostly.”

Henry turned back to the menu, then immediately back to the brown-eyed man. “Okay, real talk. Why are there all of these different kinds of coffee but only a handful of teas?”

The man made a face. “Ah.”

“Ah what?”

“We’re about to fundamentally disagree.”

Henry crossed his arms. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” the man said. “I am firmly pro-coffee.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Coffee is a scam.”

“Are you just saying that because you feel the need to defend your fellow British?”

“Coffee tastes like bitterness and regret, and yet society has collectively decided it’s essential.”

The man laughed, loud enough that the person ahead of them glanced back. “Okay, first of all, that’s wildly unfair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Coffee is complex. Nuanced. It has depth.”

“So does tea,” Henry shot back. “Tea is soothing. Tea doesn’t scream at you to be productive. It doesn’t threaten you with palpitations if you don’t respect it. Tea says, ‘Sit down. Breathe. You’re allowed to exist.’.”

The man tilted his head. “Coffee says, ‘You have potential.’.”

“Coffee says, ‘You are behind.’,” Henry shot back.

“Coffee says, ‘You can do more.’.”

“Tea says, ‘You are enough.’.”

“That’s because tea has given up,” the man rolled his eyes.

Henry gasped. “Tea has found peace.”

The man blinked, caught off guard, then smiled in a way that was softer than before. “That was… unexpectedly profound.”

“I contain multitudes,” Henry said.

The line shuffled forward. They stepped closer together, which neither of them commented on, but both noticed. Or at least Henry did.

“Coffee,” the man started, continuing their debate, “is ambitious.”

“Coffee,” Henry countered, “is aggressive.”

“It motivates.”

“It threatens.”

“It smells amazing.”

“So do candles,” Henry pointed out. “I don’t drink those.”

The man pressed a hand to his chest. “You’re telling me that you don’t like the smell of coffee?”

“I like the idea of the smell. I don’t like what follows.”

“Which is?”

“Disappointment.”

The man laughed again, shaking his head. “Okay, then explain this. Why are you in a coffee shop if tea is your soulmate?”

Henry gestured around them. “Because society is built around coffee. Tea is an afterthought.”

“Like the middle child,” the man replied.

“Exactly.”

The line moved forward again. Henry was next.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

“You’ve got this,” The man assured gently.

Henry looked at him, letting himself get lost in those brown eyes. “What if I choose wrong?”

“Then we learn,” The man shrugged. “Growth.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Okay. But if this goes badly, I will be blaming you.”

The man opened his mouth in mock-horror. “But it’s your choice?”

“Easier if I have a scapegoat.” Henry shrugged before turning to the barista. “One Earl Grey please. Small.”

The barista nodded and rang Henry up. He paid and stepped aside, exhaling like he’d just jumped off something high.

The man ordered next.

“Your usual?” the barista asked.

“Yup,” the man grinned.

They waited together, leaning against the counter. Their arms brushed once, accidentally, and neither of them moved away.

“So,” Henry started. “What did you get?”

“My usual.” The man replied with a cheeky grin.

“And what’s your usual?”

“My usual.”

“Oh, are you one of those matcha people? Or maybe something that’s more sugar than coffee?”

The man wrinkled his nose.

“Oh, I know,” Henry grinned, leaning into the man’s face. “You’re secretly an avid tea drinker and-”

“As if!”

It was only then that Henry noticed just how close the two were, noses practically touching. So close, that he could count each individual eyelash that framed the other man’s eyes. All he had to do was lean in a bit more and those perfect lips of his would be against his own and-

“Your drinks are here! Have a good day you two!” the barista called, placing two cups on the counter, and effectively interrupting their moment.

Henry never wished for the ground to swallow him whole more than he had in that moment.

The two of them got their drinks and found an empty table near the window without discussing it, like gravity had decided for them.

They talked. Henry tried to not make his fast-growing crush any more obvious. Though with the way he was going, he might as well had a big neon sign behind him exclaiming in all caps I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU.

But it wasn’t like he could truly do anything about it. He would rather die than let the other man know. So instead, he settled for talking. About drinks. About habits. About how Henry liked mornings and the other preferred evenings. Their debates never fully resolved, but they softened, blurring into something else.

Henry couldn’t help but watch while the other man talked, so bright and passionate and alive.

“What?” the man asked, halfway through his point on why Empire was the better Star Wars movie.

“Nothing,” Henry smiled. “You’re just… easy to listen to.”

Silence settled. Not awkward, but charged.

Henry checked his phone and sighed. He had to go and take David on his walk. “I should go.”

The man nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stood, suddenly shy.

“Well…” The man started, running a hand through his curls, “if you ever want to continue this debate…”

“...Yeah.”

Their smiles lingered. Names were exchanged. Numbers followed. They paused, neither of them wanting to be the first to step away.

As Henry left, Earl Grey warm in his hands, he felt lighter than when he’d arrived.

It was only then that he remembered.

“I never figured out what his goddam order was.”

And what better excuse was there for a second meet-up?