It was a rainy, dreary Saturday morning and the last thing Anthony wanted to do today was be out grocery shopping, but the cafeteria at Cripps Court didn't serve breakfast or lunch on weekends and Anthony was also getting low on the finger foods he liked to keep on hand for intense study and research sessions. He was grateful that holiday break would be coming soon and he'd get to be spoiled by his mother's cooking for a couple of weeks. In the meantime... here he was at Tesco, feeling like an alien who had just landed, a bit lost in the sea of food.
He had one last big exam before holiday break, and as he walked through the aisles, part of his mind was elsewhere, worrying about the exam, making himself recall every bit of linguistic trivia he could even though he knew most of it wasn't likely to come up. He liked to err on the side of preparedness. His anxiety about the impending test was such that he ended up bumping someone else's cart.
"Pardon me," Anthony said, snapping fully back to the present for a moment. Then he saw that someone else was the harpist from the open mic night. "Oh... oh god." Anthony started to pull his cart back - even though he needed something from that aisle, the humiliation of stuttering in front of the guy came rushing back to him and he needed to bolt.
"Hey," the harpist said. Then when he noticed Anthony trying to back out of the aisle, he said more firmly, "Hey, you. Don't run off."
Anthony blinked, mortified the harpist knew that was what he was doing. He stood in place, feeling like a deer trapped in headlights.
The man was just as lovely as Anthony remembered, if not moreso - he looked badass and sexy in a black leather jacket, open to reveal a KISS T-shirt over dark blue jeans. The man's black hair hung loose to the middle of his back, in soft, silky waves. Anthony resisted the urge to reach out and touch his hair.
"Thank you, again, for buying me coffee after my performance," the man said, his deep voice as silky and dark as his hair, making Anthony melt a little. "That was very kind of you."
"It was kind of you to share your gift with us," Anthony said. "And I'm sorry I ran off. That was rude."
"You were nervous about stuttering." The man cocked his head to one side. "It's OK. I get anxious around people too."
Anthony swallowed hard. He hated that this man seemed to know what was going on, but it was also one of the very few times in his life that the stuttering problem had elicited compassion rather than pity or derision. "I'm a bit shy," Anthony confessed.
"So am I," the man said. "Which is kind of a curse when you're a musician and you're compelled to play for an audience."
Anthony nodded. He felt a little more at ease in front of him, but only just so. His cheeks burned as he looked into those gorgeous grey eyes. "I wouldn't have known. You commanded the room."
The man smiled, and Anthony's stomach fluttered. "I suppose. Though it means more to me when it affects an individual deeply. I would honestly rather have one or two people let me know my music touched them, than fifty people who are just there nodding along to pass the time."
"It... certainly did." Anthony shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fighting the urge to bolt again. Curiosity was getting the better of him, however, and he found himself asking, "So... music, it sounds like your calling. Are you a professional musician, or is it just a hobby?"
"Professional." The man nodded. "I'm taking musical theory."
"At Cambridge?" Anthony immediately felt like a dolt for asking the obvious.
"Yes, my college is St. Edmund's."
Since St. Edmund's housed a majority of mature students and the man looked late twenties or early thirties - possibly older - that made sense. "Ah." Then Anthony volunteered, "I'm taking linguistics. My college is Queen's." Idiot, he doesn't care about that.
But the man's lips quirked with a small smile. "Linguistics, eh? I can appreciate the study of language."
"I like languages. They make more sense than people sometimes."
"A bit more than sometimes. People rarely make sense." The man laughed softly.
I sure don't, because I shouldn't be looking at him like this. He probably isn't gay. Anthony glanced at his watch, even though he had nowhere to be today, hoping that would look like he needed to be somewhere so he could go without looking like he was rude. Before I make a bigger idiot out of myself.
"I shouldn't keep you. I just wanted to say thanks again," the man said.
"You're welcome. And... thank you. That performance was... wow. It was amazing." And then Anthony gave a little saluting wave and was on his way, heart hammering in his ears. He kicked himself for not even asking the guy his name, trying to reach out more - he was lonely, he didn't have friends, this guy seemed to understand shyness, maybe he was a safe person to try to make friends with, if nothing else. But Anthony's face was on fire, and his stomach was doing flip-flops, and his tongue was tied.
As much as his thoughts had been on the exam that morning, when he got back to his dorm and cracked open a book, he couldn't think of the test, or the information he needed, at all. He kept thinking of those eyes, that sexy voice, the silky black hair. He kept thinking of the performance at the cafe, the way it had shaken him to his core, feeling like they'd already made a connection, one that went beyond words.
Almost a full week passed, and on Friday night Anthony found himself once again leaving the campus and going into town, to the cafe, to attend its open mic night.
Even though the man had said he was a professional musician, it didn't guarantee that he would be at the open mic night for a second week in a row - in fact, last week had been the first and only time Anthony had seen him perform there, so he wasn't sure the man would be there again this time. Nonetheless, he found himself hoping, and his heart soared when the man once again took the stage with his harp.
There were different songs this week, a mix of original instrumental compositions and covers; Anthony smiled at the man playing "Enter Sandman" on the harp. The man closed with "James" by Pat Metheny, which impressed him - Anthony's mum Elaine was a great lover of jazz and he'd grown up listening to it and developing an appreciation for it himself. It was the sort of thing that didn't incline him to popularity in school - as a teenager nobody in his classes had even heard of Pat Metheny or John Coltrane, let alone listened to them. Anthony once again felt like he'd found a kindred spirit. He didn't believe in fate or destiny, he was an agnostic, but it still felt like they had been meant to meet somehow.
This time after the performance, the man sought him out rather than the other way around. Anthony gently steered him to the queue for ordering. He took out his wallet. "I'll pay for anything you want."
"No, this time I want to treat you." The man patted his shoulder; the little touch made Anthony tingle, and his cock stirred a little. "The look in your eyes as I played my last song of the set was worth at least a dozen coffees."
Anthony grinned, his cheeks burning. He noticed my eyes! Followed by internally kicking himself with a snarl of The look in your eyes. You probably looked like a pathetic, hyper little dog excited to go on a walk. Get over yourself. "It's not every day I meet a fellow Pat Metheny fan."
"He's brilliant, isn't he?" The man smiled. Then he chuckled. "I wouldn't have thought someone your age would even know who he is." He cocked his head to one side. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Eighteen. And truthfully, I got into him because of my mum, but -"
"But still."
Anthony went with his usual hazelnut latte, and the man got an Irish cream coffee. To Anthony's relief, a window-side table near the back was open, and they took their drinks there. Anthony's stomach did flip-flops, feeling awkward and shy again, but things were off to a good start and Anthony decided to press on. "You asked me how old I am, so... how old are you?" Anthony raised an eyebrow.
"Old," the man said, with a self-deprecating smile.
Anthony snorted.
The man leaned back in his chair. "Thirtysomething. An untrustworthy age."
Thirties seemed correct and yet somehow incorrect at the same time. The man felt older, like he'd seen some things, the melancholy was palpable in the way he played and sang. Anthony noticed the man had significant burn scarring on his right hand. There's a story there. But Anthony wasn't going to press it; he already felt like he'd been rude asking the man about his age. "I realize I asked you your age before I asked you your name." Anthony frowned and took a sip of his coffee. "I'm terrible at this."
"You're not," the man said. "And I asked you your age before I asked you your name too, so we're even. Anyway... I'm Mark." He put out his scarred hand. "Lauer."
Anthony took it; Mark's grip was firm, and Anthony responded with firmness of his own. "Anthony Hewlett-Johnson."
"Do you go by Anthony, or Tony?"
Anthony rolled his eyes. "Anthony. The only person I've ever allowed to call me Tony is my uncle Nigel. Was," Anthony quickly corrected himself. It was still hard to believe his uncle was gone.
Their eyes met, and Anthony knew Mark had caught that and probably sensed there was something behind it. Being called Tony reminded Anthony too much of Nigel. Besides, Anthony sounded more serious, and that was important in academia, and his future law career. "You were close to him?" Mark asked.
Fuck. Anthony didn't want to get into the sad story here. "Yeah, he was my favorite uncle. He died earlier this year."
"My condolences." Mark gave him a sympathetic look. "I was very fond of my uncles, they're gone now and I miss them terribly."
Anthony felt a little empathetic twinge - his own loss had been difficult to bear, and knowing another person was experiencing a similar sort of grief made him ache; Anthony was convinced grief was the worst emotion known to man. "I'm sorry."
"Me too." Mark looked down, then up. "It's why music is so important. It helps us sit with our memories, and our feelings... helps us cleanse the wounds."
"Yes." Anthony nodded. He liked Mark even more now. A bit more than liked - his face was on fire again. He fought back a sigh. Then he opened up - still holding back from the fullness of his grief, not wanting to make an emotional scene here, but just a little weight off his shoulders... a little fuel to spark the connection. "Last week, you touched that wound."
"I can tell." Their eyes met again. "Honestly, your response last week motivated me to come back and play again. I was hoping to see you in the audience."
Anthony's mouth went dry. He's just talking about your response to his music, he's not flirting with you, for fuck's sake. Anthony's heart still skipped a beat. "I'm glad you came." Mind, gutter. He did not need the mental image of Mark Lauer having an orgasm. He especially did not need the mental image of himself helping Mark Lauer have an orgasm. "I needed this, tonight."
"I did too. It helps to get it out when I play for an audience."
"I'd be happy if you played here every week."
Mark smiled. "I'll take that under consideration."
A few moments of silence passed, and Anthony felt antsy. He was horrible at small talk, and he genuinely didn't know what to say. He was full to the brim of questions about how long Mark had been playing, what got him into it, why he was at university in his thirties, and he felt like everything would be too invasive. He didn't want to annoy the man, make him feel like he was on trial. But at last Mark said, "So you like Pat Metheny."
"Yes." Anthony sat up, knowing this was leading into something. His heart beat a little faster, wondering what.
"Have you ever heard Metheny on vinyl?"
"Probably not since I was very young. I haven't seen either of my parents use a record player since the early eighties."
"It's an experience," Mark said. "An experience you should have. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"
"Er, no." Anthony would study, but he felt like his brain had processed all the pre-test information it could handle and he was overdue for a break.
"Would you like to come to my room tomorrow and listen to some records? And I'll cook for you."
Just the offer of a home-cooked meal alone would have been enough for Anthony to accept - he hadn't had a home-cooked meal since the late summer, when he left his parents' house for university. There were kitchens on each floor of Cripps Court, but Anthony's culinary skills didn't extend much beyond heating up soup and making sandwiches. A home-cooked meal sounded wonderful. Actually having company for a change... even better. "I'd like that very much, thank you."
"How do you feel about chicken cordon bleu? That was what I was planning on making tomorrow. Or if you're a vegetarian, or have other dietary restrictions -"
"No, I'm not, and I don't. That sounds... good." Anthony was impressed with the fact that Mark could cook a real meal, he hadn't met too many men who could. Apart from Nigel and his partner Steve. Which made Anthony wonder if Mark was gay. That's a stereotype. You're gay and you can't cook worth a damn. Stop it. But he still couldn't help wondering.
More like hoping.
"Excellent. Can you come over at six?"
Anthony nodded. "I can come anytime." His face was on fire again. He could feel himself hardening in his jeans, and desperately fought it, not wanting Mark or anyone else to notice an erection when he was ready to leave.
"OK. So we're on for tomorrow at six." Mark took a notepad and pen from his pocket and wrote down the exact address of his dorm room, and a number to call if he was running late or had to cancel.
When Anthony got back to his own dorm later that evening, he delicately placed the paper with Mark's elegant handwriting on his bedtable, next to the box of tissues. But when he got under the covers for the night he found himself picking up the piece of paper, like it was a piece of Mark himself. He could smell Mark on the paper - petrichor, sea salt. After breathing him in, he brought himself off, fast and furious, and then lay there, cheeks burning, feeling embarrassed that he was having this sort of response to Mark. He probably isn't gay. He'll probably be creeped out if he finds out you are and that you're lusting over him.
But the heart wanted what it wanted, and as much as Anthony needed a friend and would be happy just with that, he couldn't help but hope it would turn into something more, given time.
chapter 3 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index