He had never been one to sleep much.
He was, it seemed, incapable of doing so for more than three hours at a time, which suited him just fine, as he had discovered at an early age that his body functioned just as well on two hours of sleep per night as most did on eight. He was not fond of sleep as it did not escape him that his life –as everyone else's – was but ephemeral in the grand scheme of things, and to spend such a great part of it unconscious was, to him, a damn waste. There was far too much to experience and not nearly enough time to do so for him to want those other six hours, and so he counted his ability to fare well on but the two as something as a blessing.
But never so much so as this evening, as he sat in his usual seat in the corner of the obscure little café.
Sparrow's was a hole-in-the-wall had there ever been one. As it was lit dimly and had but one window and a single, somberly-colored maroon door so slim you'd have to be looking for it to notice it at all – he was convinced that nobody had ever ended up there by mistake. At least, not until tonight. Its patrons consisted solely of friends of Sally's -the owner- and their friends, and as a result the café had a cheery, familial atmosphere as paradoxically juxtaposed given its drab, thoroughly unimpressive exterior as the décor found within it. The space had, prior to its days as Sparrow's, served as a brasserie, fitted with gas lamps, a bar, heavy, red velvet curtains with booths to match, tiled flooring, and a high, ornate ceiling.
Although age had diminished and muted the colors and lessened their vibrance, the place still exuded an air of opulence. Yet Sally had lacked the sufficient funds to furnish the place according to its architecture, and so she made no efforts to buy furniture that corresponded with its established style. She had purchased tables she liked, bar stools when she had come across them, and chairs when she happened to find them in pairs. As a result, everything in Sparrow's seemed incongruous and anachronistic. It was as if the café itself could not decide where it was supposed to be or what time period it belonged to.
It had crossed his mind more than once that perhaps this was why he was so fond of Sparrow's, as everything in it was out of place, and as someone who had never fit in, there, he felt as though he finally did. And so, late at night until early morning, every day, without fail, he was in that chair by the corner, drinking tea and reading from one of the leather-bound books that could be found on the shelf behind the bar that had once served as a home to bottles of liquor – waiting for something to happen.
Things seldom ever did.
He would look up from the book he was reading whenever he turned the page, just to glance out the window across the room to see if anything of interest was happening. While he entertains the idea that he should make more of an effort to see new things and meet new people, he much prefers to live vicariously through the characters of novels and to learn from them. It seems to him that they never look for trouble or love or adventure – it finds them. And so he sits, sips, and reads - waiting for something to come his way. He longs for the day that he will feel like the protagonist of his own story.
And now, he thinks perhaps his diligence has paid off.
He hadn't noticed her come in. His routine, fleeting glance out the window – upon registering her presence – becomes instead a lengthy stare. His fingers freeze at their place on the corner of the page, and he assesses her quizzically. She's never been here before – of that he is certain. He knows everybody who frequents Sparrow's, if not by name than at least by face, and he has never been graced with the privilege of seeing hers. Added to which, she's uncomfortable – a word that is never used in association with the café - and it's not the result of the brutal rainstorm raging on the other side of the window, nor the violent thunderclaps, nor because her skirt and jumper have been soaked through. It's as if she thinks she shouldn't be there; almost as if she feels that she's out of place. The corner of his lips twitch into a smile at the thought. Nobody is out of place at Sparrow's, but by God does she stand out. As unlikely as it seems, he decides that she did stumble in haphazardly, perhaps in search of shelter from the storm. He dares not look away from her, but he takes a sip of tea and resumes flipping the pages of his novel, so as to not draw attention to himself, yet he knows that he needn't do so. She's far too captivated by the downpour and the unrelenting force with which it torments the ground to notice him, peering at it beneath layers of mascara and sopping fringe. Her fingers, adorned with rings, tap the beat of a rhythm he can't make out against the white porcelain teacup sat in front of her. Both of her hands grip to it – a desperate attempt to warm herself – and she's bent over it slightly, willing the wisps of hot steam to rise and curl around her face.
And while he isn't a fool, he fears that he might be one for her, this girl to whom he has uttered no words and of whom he has speculated much but knows nothing. He reckons it's shallow and unreasonable of him, as this idea is based solely on her beauty, and he blames both the novels for implanting such a notion in his mind and his heart for being easily conquered, but he finds himself thinking that this is the woman he is meant to love. He's determined to introduce himself, to walk over to her with the confidence he only ever finds after having had one too many drinks and to enchant her with a wit he knows he lacks.
Lost in his thoughts, he must have put his cup down more noisily than he had intended, as her head turns away from the turmoil behind the pane of glass in front of her and looks over her left shoulder, towards him. Her soft brown eyes lock on his for a moment and before focusing her attention back on the tempest, she gives him a small, uncertain smile.
He knows that the sensation in his chest is that of his heart having ceased its beating.
He shivers despite the warmth coursing through his veins, and an overwhelming sense of euphoria whips him as the rain does the pavement.
He sets his book on the table, her smile having instilled within him a resolve to finally prove himself as equal to the characters in it, and he stands, his chair making a horrendous screech as it moves against the tiled flooring.
And yet, it is concealed by the deafening sounds of howling gales and thunderous rain, as the door had opened just as he had stood. A flash of aubergine obscures his view of her for a few moments before it takes a seat to her right.
As he sinks back into his chair, so does his heart in his chest.
John Smith.
John was also a regular at Sparrow's, dropping in almost as frequently as he did. Although they had shared a few good conversations, he wouldn't go as far as to call themselves mates. He prefers solitude, while John is usually accompanied by his brother David or his friends Amy and Rory. But if there was one thing he could say with certainty it was that John Smith was a good man. The jealousy he harbors towards him in regards to the girl dissipates rapidly as he observes them.
John's fingers lace over hers where they lay on the tea cup, and there is a brightness in her eyes as sudden and striking as the lightning that animates the sky. "I'd nearly given up on you, Chin Boy." He hears her say with a teasing lilt.
A grin breaks out across John's face unlike any he has ever seen before, and he looks down at where their hands are touching and blushes, as if suddenly aware of the contact. "You have too little faith in me, Clara Oswald." His thumb begins to stroke her knuckles.
She replies with a tone that makes John raise his eyes to meet hers. "On the contrary, I think I have far too much. Letting you pick the venue for our first date? I must be mad."
John's features look pained. "Do you not like it here? We can go elsewhere if you like."
She is quick to reassure him. "No, John, it's lovely, really." The hand that isn't covered with his reaches up and straightens his damp bow tie. "And besides, neither of us were sensible enough to bring an umbrella, and I'm not too keen on the idea of going back out there." She shoots a quick glance towards the relentless rain.
John relaxes considerably and leans back into his chair. "You said first date. Am I correct in assuming that that implies more to come?"
She chews on her lower lip thoughtfully, "That depends."
"On what?"
She leans closer to him and responds quietly, intending for only John to hear, yet he does as well. "If someone better comes along." And she plants her lips on his cheek to assure him that she's only jesting.
While he knows he ought to look away, if only to preserve whatever dignity he has left, he finds that he can't. He watches the two of them for longer than he cares to admit. And when he eventually does stand up to leave, he does so carefully, so as to not recreate the noise he had previously and disturb the couple's discussion. He tosses a handful of coins on the table beside the borrowed book and his empty teacup, and braves himself for the assault of rain he knows will greet him upon exiting Sparrow's.
And when he finally does step outside, he doesn't notice it at all. Nor is he bothered by how dimly lit the streets are, or how obscured his vision is by the torrents. None of it matters. He's left Sparrow's physically, but his mind is still there, still aching to learn from the young, inhibited lovers who seem to know so little and who despite the fact seem to be getting it right. He's read books his whole life but it dawns on him that perhaps they are just to be read and not to be trusted. He's not at all experienced in romance, but John and Clara taught him more about it in the short while he spent observing them than the thousands of pages he had read ever could.
The novels illustrate love as this thing that is to be flaunted and yet…and yet John and Clara sit as good as lost to the world in the little café, sheltered from the rain and hidden from the eyes of others, keeping to themselves and not expecting anyone to take notice of them. And despite this, theirs was the love that rapt him, not the one concealed in the pages of the leather-bound book. There was simplicity to it, an uncomplicated joy that seemed to go hand in hand with holding hands. And it occurred to him, while watching nervous chuckles, averted gazes, and flushed cheeks progress into playful teasing, confident touches, and unbridled laughter that perhaps bravery isn't what initiates love, but rather something that results from it. It's as if they make each other brave. And, contrary to what the novels endorse, he learned that passion isn't solely expressed in spontaneous, lustful actions. Yes, there was an urgency and desperation to the way John kissed her, but it was by no means the only time it was present. Every gaze, touch, and word he spoke carried the intention of making her feel desired. It wouldn't be enough to say that John's actions were fueled by passion – no. He is passionate about her.
He fumbles for his keys impatiently as he approaches his flat, eager not for warmth and dry clothes but, for the first time in his life, sleep. He hopes he'll dream of a love in which he is not a spectator, as he has been for so long, but a participant. A love like theirs; powerful and persistent as the rain that floods the streets and as intimate as the ambiance found within the walls of the place where they sought refuge from it. A love consisting of pink suffused cheeks, sheepish grins, and bashful declarations of adoration. A love that, try as they might to keep unobtrusive, is noticed by all who come across them.
A love that entices attention.
…
Thank you for reading! This story is not a collection of one-shots, but if you happen to have any suggestions for one-shots that you would like to see me try my hand at, do not hesitate to PM me, or simply comment what it is you'd like to read. I would be more than happy to post those separately. Any reviews, comments, or prompts would be greatly appreciated!