Autumn had crept into the world like the slow rise of dawn, dipping the earth into cool air. Some would say there was no better time than this—when the dew clung to the grass as frost in the mornings and the air began to steal the breath from your lungs when stepping outside—to indulge in a little more coffee than perhaps was usual. Whether that fact was actually true, or fabricated by opportunist hot-beverage shops in the hopes of drumming up favor with the locals, you surely would not find Mortimer Dryden disagreeing.
Leaning on the worn brick of Geraldine’s, the heavy coffee cup-shaped sign squeaking quietly overhead in a sharp gust of wind, Mortimer fixated on his phone. Even out in the chill, he felt hot, as though a million eyes were watching him, and all he could do was squirm. He felt as though every stranger who passed by was gawking at him, observing him as they would a sideshow character whose pain or shame was fit only for their amusement. And really, it wasn’t as if he felt insecure enough as a junior-year college transfer in a mostly-unknown city; now he had this, this… thing to keep tabs on as well.
Mortimer fidgeted where he stood, his begloved thumbs flying over the touchscreen of his phone--where are you?--in an attempt to seem engaged in something, anything, or else he’d have to face the strange looks he was getting from passers-by. Or was he imagining them?
“Calm down, we’re right here,” said a familiar voice, and Mortimer looked up, releasing a relieved breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Stepping up from the slight dip in the crosswalk, Elijah Wakefield gave Mortimer a little smile. He wore a long beige coat whose edges were frayed with time and whose length had many rips pulled back together with hand-stitched precision. If the coat could tell a story, it probably had a fair many to tell. Around his neck, a thick, hand-knit scarf of greens and browns sat like a fat, contented, woolen snake. His black hair was styled in a homey textured fade atop his head, and dark, thick-rimmed glasses sat on the wide bridge of his nose. His complexion was dark and smooth, and his russet brown eyes were kind and observant.
Just behind him, hopping over an inconvenient pothole-turned-enterprising puddle, was Rakesh Singh. Rakesh’s hands were situated in the high pockets of his waist-length black military jacket smothered with a myriad of patches, the front opened to reveal a shirt underneath that read, in big blocky letters, “Eat Meat.” His own scarf, a thin, multicolored thing with no distinct pattern, hung off his shoulders in long tendrils. He had thick, half-curly hair that drooped pleasantly over his forehead, dark eyes like the welcoming solace of night, and tawny skin. Rakesh beamed at Mortimer once he saw him.
“Hey,” he said, moving in for a hug, stopping suddenly and pulling back away when Mortimer flinched back into the wall. A flicker of hurt and concern flashed in his eyes before he grinned, and he slid his hands easily back into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Still feeling sick?”
Mortimer ducked his head, shame burning his cheeks. He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, the knit of his glove scratching the sensitive skin there like a reminder something was amiss. “Uh, yeah,” he said.
“We should get inside and warm you up, then,” Elijah said, and he gestured to the door of Geraldine’s. Rakesh walked in first, waggling his eyebrows at Mortimer as he entered.Mortimer chuckled despite himself, holding the door in turn for Elijah.
Geraldine’s was a classy establishment, with hand-drawn chalk murals on blackboards dotting the dark walls of the room. While a few tables lined one of the walls, most of the seating was a widespread mishmash of different types of couches, settees, loveseats, armchairs, and even the occasional beanbag chair. The seating was usually centered around some equally unmatching end or coffee table, their surfaces replete with stains and the occasional bit of writing or carving. Geraldine’s made the best coffee and tea, according to Rakesh, though in the college seasons, it was full of college students. “I used to hate it,” he murmured as he placed his order, handing over some cash and casting a winning smile at the cashier. “Then I became one of those college students, and now I’m fully intending on abusing the college claim on this place and ordering as much coffee as I want.”
Elijah smiled. “You’ll have to introduce us to the sights once we get more settled in,” he said, pausing to give his own order. “Let us know what’s good to do around here.”
“Sure, sure,” Rakesh said, grinning back at Elijah. “There’s the museum, and once it gets warmer, some of the stalls on the pier open up. Oh, and there’s some cool historical houses around here, since you’re a nerd.”
“Proudly,” Elijah replied, and Mortimer grinned to himself as he placed his order, listening to his friends. He’d started college off at a local university, so he hadn’t had to move away from home. But his program had been torn apart by bureaucracy thanks to the college finding a “new identity,” and he’d had to find somewhere new to finish his program. He hadn’t exactly known what to expect when he’d moved away from home to attend college, and he’d kind of gotten in his own head about it. By the time he’d actually gotten to his dorm, he was slightly petrified, uncertain about everything, even as far as where he should unpack his belongings. Elijah and Rakesh rescued him from the uncertainty of rooming with people he barely knew so far from home. Elijah had arrived after Mortimer, and he spent the entire time he was unpacking making wonderful conversation and really getting to know Mortimer and letting Mortimer know him in return, as if it was easy and effortless to let someone strange and new in. Rakesh had broken the ice by bursting in with a Blu-ray collection of almost every pop culture franchise known to man and the promise to make tacos later if everyone helped him unpack. One chaotic unpacking session and shopping trip later, and the group was huddled on the dorm-provided couch, eating tacos and watching Iron Man do a lot of dumb things for a smart person. Mortimer had never felt more at peace than he had in that moment, and the rest, as Rakesh would opine, was “history, her-story, and their-story.”
Mortimer absently twisted his fingers together, the rough material of the gloves itching at his skin. He grimaced to himself. Apparently good things just couldn’t last.
Rakesh gently shoulder-checked him, and Mortimer blinked. Rakesh was smiling, understanding radiating from him. “Sorry,” Mortimer said. “Did I miss anything?”
“I was just asking about how syllabus week went,” Rakesh said softly. “Elijah went to go grab us a seat, by the way.”
Mortimer scanned the room, picking up on the color of Elijah’s coat on a loveseat across the room before nodding, looking back at Rakesh. “It was fine,” Mortimer replied. “None of my professors really stood out, I guess. I’ll give them time. How about you?”
Rakesh smiled, practically vibrating with excitement. “So Professor O’Donovan’s a hot mess,” Rakesh said, accepting his coffee cup from the cashier with a grin. He slid a five dollar bill in the jar labeled “tips (we go to college too)” and scanned the room for Elijah. “He completely forgot his syllabus handouts at home, so he tried to recite it from memory a la Royal Shakespeare Company.”
Mortimer chuckled despite his sour mood, accepting his own coffee with a strained smile of thanks. “So I take it you’re already in love?”
“I’m planning the wedding as we speak,” Rakesh replied, leading them toward the loveseat. Elijah was skimming through something on his phone, his coffee steaming in front of him.
As soon as they were truly settled into their seats, Elijah tucked away his phone, smiling at them. Mortimer could smell the hazelnut in Elijah’s coffee, even before he blew across the top and sipped it. “Seducing a professor,” Elijah said at length. “Think of the consequences.”
“I will do no such thing until it happens, thank you very much,” Rakesh replied. “Anyhow, I’m sure the consequences will be me and O’Donovan riding off into the sunset and making kissy faces at each other.”
“Call me so I may attend the nuptials,” Elijah said dryly, and Mortimer hid his laughter in his coffee.
The trio fell into silence, and Mortimer stared out the window, watching people walking by and the occasional taxi zoom past. He would return from his people watching to find himself sometimes absently squeezing at the cup in some attempt to get the warmth from within to suffuse through his gloves, with partial success. His jaw clenched of its own accord. He glanced up to find Elijah watching him, intent yet not invasive.
“Do you remember more of what happened at all?” Elijah asked, non sequitur.
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