#with a preference for jon's asexuality being respected or handled well

[razzek]

Aww I'm all out of Magnus Archives long fics to read. :C Gonna have to keep digging and see if there's anything to my tastes I haven't read yet that's at least over 10k words.

[bluejayblueskies]

peaches and roses

happy international asexual awareness day! this doesn't deal directly with asexuality (though jon and martin are both ace in this)--it's a follow-up to one of my aspec archives week fics, agape, but can be read as a standalone!

ao3 link in the source

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The bell that hangs above the door to the bookshop—hung there by Gerry and too high up for Jon to reach without significant effort—jingles, and Jon immediately snaps the book he was thumbing through shut like he’s been caught committing a crime.

“Hi!” Martin says cheerily, his cheeks red and wind-bitten from the chill of the October air, and Jon’s never been more thankful for a dark complexion that doesn’t give away the fact that his face is burning up at the moment as well. He subtly slides the book to the side and covers it with another as Martin steps fully into the shop, a travel mug of tea in each hand. He approaches the counter and hands one of the mugs to Jon with a smile before saying, a bit playfully, “Got any new poetry books?”

“No,” Jon says, too-quickly. “No, uh. Just the usual.” He thinks he should probably say something along the lines of We’ve already got too many books of poetry for any self-respecting bookshop or You would just complain about their excessive use of metaphors anyway, but all he manages is, “Any, er. Any new blends this week?”

Martin hums and gestures to the mug Jon’s holding. It must be quite cold outside—Martin’s cheeks are still bright red. Jon makes a mental note to dig his gloves and hat out of the back of his closet. “It’s, er. It’s not really a new blend? I- I mean, it’s- it’s new, it’s just not… it’s not something I’m serving in the shop yet.”

“Oh,” Jon says, looking at the mug in front of him with growing curiosity and, beneath it, something warmer that curls in the pit of his stomach. “I… what is it?”

“Oh, just- just some, uh—you know, it- it’s a combination of things—well, of course it is, all blends are—just some, er, you know, a- a bit of rosehip and dried peach, Lady Grey and- and oolong—”

“You hate oolong,” Jon says, amused.

“Yes, well, it’s not for me,” Martin says, a bit snappishly in that way Jon adores, where his forehead creases along the middle and his lips purse ever so slightly. “Threw in some dandelions too, I know you’re fond of those, and just a bit of almond because I would never hear the end of it if I left that out—”

“Martin,” Jon says, his stomach twisting into something light and fluttering and fond in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Martin makes a small noise in lieu of finishing his sentence and says, quietly, “Yeah. It’s, er. You- you’re the first to, er… try it, so- so let me know if it’s not—you know what, I’ll just let you… yeah. Should- shouldn’t be too hot.”

This has to be the thousandth cup of tea Martin’s given Jon. It’s certainly not the first that’s been made specifically for him; Jon can still taste the smoke on his tongue, tinged with almond and blueberry, when he thinks back on the day he’d stuttered his way through a poorly-executed coming-out and Martin had taken it with a smile that sent Jon’s heart racing in his chest.

Maybe he’d known before that, that he was a little bit in love with Martin Blackwood. But the first sip of that tea had solidified it into a flower that blossomed within him, growing ever bigger with every smile and cup of tea and teasing remark.

Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of the way Martin says his name, like he’s learning it again for the first time. He never, ever wants to stop hearing him say it.

The tea warms Jon from the inside out and tastes like spring mornings and summer sunsets and Martin, Martin, Martin. With the lingering taste of rosehip on his lips, Jon says, “It… it reminds me of you.”

Martin makes a small, choked noise. “Y- yeah? Does… does that mean it’s good?”

Softly, Jon says, “How could it not be?”

“Oh,” Martin says, just as softly. And, well. It seems as good an opening as any.

“You know, I- I never really liked tea before I visited your shop the first time. It served a- a utilitarian function, so to speak, a slightly more palatable caffeinated alternative to coffee. I’d always just get black—whatever was cheapest—and try to pretend like I didn’t hate it.” Jon lets out a small laugh. “Gerry used to joke that I wasn’t a real Englishman.

So—and forgive me when I say this, Martin, I- I really do know better now—I didn’t come into your shop with the… highest expectations. I honestly think I just chose at random from the menu—your selection is quite extensive, Martin, much as you seem insistent on expanding it every other week. But I- well, to say it was a life-changing experience would probably be a touch excessive, but it- it did change me. Er, a bit.”

Jon swallows, ignores the little curl of embarrassment in his stomach, and continues, “I- I made it a mission, if I’m being honest. I thought, maybe it’s just the one. Maybe I- I just got lucky, found the- the one kind of tea that I like. So I came back the next day and got a different one. And it was good.” Jon laughs, a bit breathily, and says, “They’re all good, Martin. Even- even the kinds I don’t like, the- the herbals and anything with peppermint, they… they’re still good, in their own way.” Jon hesitates, only a moment, before deciding that if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right. “I still don’t know if I like tea, but… but I like your tea, Martin.”

Martin is staring at him with wide eyes, and Jon curls his fingers around the mug in front of him so he won’t lose his nerve. The warmth seeps through his palms, a comforting presence, and he lets out a small breath to relieve the tension. “I- I like the way you notice what I like, the- the flavors and the kinds of leaves, things I- I don’t really understand. I like the way you smile at me, when- when I tell you I like one of your blends, and- and the way you say my name. I like the way you talk about poetry, and even though I- I’ve never understood the appeal of it before, I… I want to.”

Jon tries not to let his hands shake as he reaches over and retrieves the book he’d been leafing through earlier, the small scrap of paper still stuck in between the pages to mark his place. “I- I’m not very good at…” He trails off and waves his hand in the air, gesturing at Martin and then himself and trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his chest. “And I- I wanted to write you a poem.” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, as they bring with them a hot flush of embarrassment, augmented by the way Martin’s mouth parts slightly in shock, and he continues quickly, “But, er. I thought this might be preferable.”

He flips the book open to the marked page, takes a precious few seconds to attempt to steady his breathing, and begins to read.

Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,

And sweet is the voice in its greeting,

When adieus have grown old and goodbyes

Fade away where old Time is retreating.

Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,

And earnest a kiss on the brow,

When we meet over sea and o’er land

Where furrows are new to the plough.

After he finishes, there’s a few moments of silence before Martin says, quietly, his voice cracking around the words, “But… but that’s Keats. You hate Keats.”

It’s true; Keats is a bit too old-fashioned for even his tastes, and half of his poems sound like frivolous drivel. But even still, Jon had picked up the Keats book as soon as it had arrived, had skimmed it over and over, had carefully chosen the best poem he could find for his purposes, because…

“But you like him. And… and I like you. It’s- it’s not personalized tea blends, but I… I wanted to give you something. To- to show that.” Jon runs his thumb along the edge of the page, a nervous motion prompted by the steady increase of his heartbeat. “And- and maybe to ask if you… wanted to get dinner sometime? With, er. With me.” Of course with you, you’re the one who’s asking him.

Jon opens his mouth again, not entirely sure what he’s planning on saying but certain that it’ll end in another stuttering mess of embarrassment, when Martin’s voice cuts him off.

“Yes.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut so quickly his teeth click together. “Yes?” he says, so quietly it’s barely audible over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Martin laughs; it’s a beautiful sound, like the twinkling of wind chimes and the tweeting of birds at dawn and the whistling of the wind through tree branches. “Yes, Jon, I- I’d love to get dinner with you.” He laughs again before pressing his hand over his mouth, hiding that smile that Jon adores so much. His words devolve into giggles a few more times before he manages to say, “Christ, sorry, I- I’m just… happy.” He removes his hand then and looks at Jon, a new, shy smile upon his lips that Jon’s never seen before but that he immediately holds close to his chest to treasure forever. “I’m just happy.”

Martin leaves eventually, and Jon presses the Keats book into his hands as he goes, letting his fingers linger on Martin’s skin for a moment before they part. The tea is still hot when Jon takes another sip, rose and peach and almond blooming across his tongue, and he feels his lips curl into a smile, wide and giddy, against the lip of the mug.

The bookshop smells like roses and paper and ink and Martin, Martin, Martin.

It smells like home.