Starbucks

2

Craig is standing outside the front door, a large bouquet of flowers obscuring his face as he tries to work up the strength to go inside.

There are a lot more people milling around inside the Starbucks today than there were late last night. And just thinking about walking in front of all of them, carrying his bundle of daises and daffodils up to Delirious (Jonathan, his mind gently corrects) and asking the question that's been burning a hole in his brain all day has his nerves running rampant.

"Will you go out with me?"

To dinner, a fancy restaurant or something similar, out to have a nice romantic evening with just the soft gentle glow of candles the only light on the table between him and Jonathan.

Just the two of them, leaning in close and closer yet, and have you ever wanted something so much it burns? His lips still tingle with thoughts of last night, the kiss, the dropped coffee.

The manic stumbling as he ran out the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in haste in embarrassment. A need to put distance between them, just for a few hours, just long enough to think.

To go to the shop and buy the largest bundle of flowers he could possibly find (too much red, he needed softer colors, a gentler presentation; daisies and daffodils) and slink, finally, back here.

But there's too many people, to much movement and action inside the store. And as much as Craig really wants to walk through that door, his heart also desperately wants to go home and completely forget about everything.

About the date, that he's seen Delirious' face and it's beautiful, that there's now a Starbucks that he's actually loathe to enter.

He's pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside, and he's trying not to be too conspicuous, too obvious, but he can feel the eyes on his back. The weight of the stares from the audience on the other side of the glass wall digging into him.

What's the worst that could happen, after all? Maybe Jonathan laughs. He always laughs. He'd probably laugh at his own laugh, as a matter of fact.

And the best thing..?

Craig stops just before the curb, with all the city's traffic flying past him in streaks and streams of light and color and forceful wind that pushes him back.

His laugh.

Jonathan's face lighting up, joy spreading across his cheeks, that slow curl of his lips as he smiles and shuts his eyes, truly and utterly happy.

The sound that could lull a thousand people and a thousand more, the joyous noise of pure mirth, snorts and broken exclamations and all.

Yes, that's a certain type of heaven.

"Excuse me, mister?" Pulled from his daydream, he looks down at the tiniest of tugs on his pant's leg, and when Craig turns there's a small child there, barely seven years old probably (he's not really the best judge of ages to be honest).

"What's wrong sweetie?" He asks, starting to bend down, but a styrofoam cup is shoved right in his face.

"The man at the bar told me to give this to you," the child tells him, then turns and runs back inside.

The glass door is slowly swinging shut when Craig finishes blinking and looks down at the coffee in his hand.

There's some writing on the side facing away from him, so he carefully tucks the flowers in the crook of his arm, taking great care not to crush them, and turns the cup around.