Chapter Text
Martin stepped into the empty building with an excited smile, shy though he was alone. The dream of what this place could become meant enough to him that he blushed, taking in the sight of sunlight pouring through the windows to highlight the perfect check-in desk, the gleaming hardwood floors. He wandered into the big space in the next room, which would be the ideal dance studio with a long wall just waiting for mirrors and a barre, and felt a shiver, like a premonition of a future he would once have considered impossible. Embracing his dreams had never been easy, nor had stepping out of his introverted comfort zone. But dancing made him happy and he wanted to share his gift with others. He needed something to keep him inspired in the wake of a hurtful divorce; he couldn’t just give up and collapse into himself as he once might have. Most of all, he wanted to make his sons proud, and Tommy, too.
The dream seemed alive in this room, ethereal and almost touchable. Martin had just enough savings to invest in the new business, and he could do it nights and weekends, keep teaching his normal hours. The boys were getting older now, and he didn’t see how it would overextend him to spend what would have been free time on an activity that brought him joy, might do the same for others, might even prove lucrative. Just imagine if Martin made enough of a success of it as a dance instructor and studio owner that he could quit his day job! But now he was letting his daydreams spiral. He hadn’t even spoken with Lene, the real estate agent who was selling the space. For all he knew, he would be far from the only one interested in buying it.
Hard to believe this used to be just another typical bar in a town whose main streets were well-studded with drinking hubs. The building had been cleaned and refurbished with fresh paint jobs, this particular room in a lovely, warm teal color which Martin might even keep if he made it his studio. And the floors just seemed made for dancing, nothing else.
Whimsically, he drifted back into his fantasy, distantly aware the agent would be there any minute and he might be interrupted in this silly spectacle. But then, it was hardly the first time Martin had broken into a public dance performance. This felt, at least, quiet, private, and his own, a moment of reflection. He tried out a few simple steps, a one-man waltz, gracefully moving to and fro, imagining a favorite love ballad was playing and that he had a class of couples behind him following along with the demonstration. He could teach couples to ballroom dance for their wedding days! Wouldn’t that be grand? Martin would feel special, proud and useful, and--
And someone was watching, he realized, making the next turn in the dance, then coming to an uncoordinated stumble of a stop, his eyes lighting on the young man in the doorway. He wasn’t sure, all of a sudden, if it was the surprise audience or the stranger’s appearance that caused the stumble; it wasn’t only in his feet, it seemed, but in the almost harshly sweet clutch of his heart. He should laugh this awkward moment off, yet he felt his face turn red as he cleared his throat, then straightened his posture. Didn’t quite know what to say or do.
The young man, who looked about college age, had bright blue eyes, soft, pale skin with rosy cheeks, plush lips and a tousled head of brown curls. There was an intelligence, a curiosity and an unmistakable aura of mischief in his demeanor, and he was absolutely staring at Martin, as if he had seen a ghost.
Well, perhaps that’s just how it felt, walking in on some old guy dancing by himself. Martin felt chaotic and foolish. “Er, Um...hej?” He greeted, accidentally making it sound like a question. “Undskyld, jeg vidste ikke, at andre var her.”
The stranger smiled, wheels clearly turning very fast in his head as he formulated a reply. In the meantime, he raked his striking turquoise gaze up and down Martin again, as if the sight of a fifty year old man with silver hair, creases by his eyes and dressed unimpressively (flannel, tan trousers, sneakers) was something special.
“Hello! I think you said…” The young man replied carefully, “You said, ‘sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was here’?”
“Oh, English?” Martin answered, “It’s okay, I can speak English.”
“Sorry, why did I just assume you speak English?” the stranger ducked his head with a self-conscious laugh. “Or that we should speak English to each other because that’s my first language when I’m in your country, for God’s sake--”
“It’s totally fine,” Martin assured him. “I don’t mind at all.”
Their voices echoed from the walls of the otherwise empty building; their eyes stayed locked together.
“I did learn Danish specifically in order to be able to move here and communicate,” the young man laughed again, and it was such a lovely, musical laugh, warm and something Martin would like to hear more of, would like to make happen by saying just the right thing to bring it on.
“But I’m really nervous and out of sorts today, coming here, I’ve been wanting to see about buying this building,” the stranger continued, and Martin thought oh no, we both want to buy it, when why should that matter? They didn’t even know each other. But it made him more anxious in a different way. After a few moments of this man’s company, Martin didn’t want to compete or argue, he wanted...what did he want?
“And then when I saw you dancing, I got even more nervous,” said the young man, smiling now, setting off a strange tickle in Martin’s stomach and a skip in his heartbeat.
“I’m a dance teacher, or at least I want to be,” Martin explained, flustered, “I wasn’t just randomly dancing about.”
“It was amazing,” the stranger told him, taking a step closer. He had his hands hooked casually into the pockets of his blue jeans, and the dark purple long-sleeved shirt he wore had a low collar which showed off his neck. Martin never noticed other men’s necks, but this one was delicate and pretty in a way that made him feel unexpectedly protective.
“Your dancing was amazing. I’m Jack, by the way.” He held a hand out to Martin, who gripped it briefly to find the skin was warm and soft just as he had imagined.
“Martin.” Looking intently into Jack’s face, Martin swallowed, trying to think of something clever to say. “Thank you” was all he came up with, but that was okay. Jack’s eyes lit up and he grinned.
“People must tell you that all the time, you move so beautifully. You looked…”
Jack paused, as if unsure he should continue. His cheeks got pinker and Martin couldn’t stop staring at his lips.
“It’s easy,” Martin assured him, trying to help Jack feel less nervous even as he grew more so by the moment. “Anyone can learn to do it, that’s hopefully why I’m going to be here. Well, if you don’t outbid me, that is.”
He experimented, giving Jack a teasing wink that brought a naughty smirk onto the younger man’s lips.
“Show me how easy it is,” Jack requested. “I’ve got two left feet and I’m pretty damn sure I’d be your worst pupil.”
“You haven’t seen my friend Peter try to dance,” Martin laughed.
Well, the agent wasn’t there yet, and they were present here and now, and although it made the tickling sensation in his stomach turn into a hot twinge that traveled lower to think of holding Jack in his arms, he stepped forward, lifting his brows with a smile of invitation.
“See, all you need to do is place your hand in mine, then your other hand right here on my shoulder,” Martin guided.
Jack smelled nice, he must be wearing some cologne which combined notes of mint, lemon and vanilla, tantalizing Martin as much as the heat of his slender body drawing closer and the cute laugh he released as they got into position.
“Please tell me I follow your lead at this point, because I’m completely clueless,” Jack pleaded, looking up at Martin with amusement mixed with sincere admiration.
“Yes, just follow along with my footwork, let your body relax into my lead.” Martin smiled.
“I think I can do that,” Jack said more seriously, and Martin’s heart thudded so loudly he thought it must be audible outside himself.
“Okay, so just hum your favorite slow song and we’ll get started.”
“Hmm. That’s personal,” Jack remarked, teasing, a sparkle in his eyes.
“The waltz is nothing if not personal. It’s a valuable tool to have in your dancing arsenal. Anyone you’d like to dance with would be impressed if you can do it well.”
“Alright, here goes.” Jack firmed up his hold on Martin, fingers perched on a strong shoulder with that same curiosity again, feeling out the way they were together, so quickly entwined somehow, nothing they could put words to, but nothing they could ignore.
Jack started to hum, and Martin used the melody to guide their movements as he showed Jack how to begin the simplest version of a waltz. He counted out the steps at first, but it kept making Jack lose track of where he was in the song, and that made them both laugh and start over.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Jack kept the song going with an adorably thoughtful pinching of his brows and a determined set of his mouth.
As they turned to the song, Jack started singing a few words under his breath, “Come away with me and we'll kiss...on a mountaintop... Come away with me and I'll never stop loving you,” and the sound of his voice was barely there, half-conscious, somewhere immersed in the connection forming between them, a hum vibrating in Martin’s soul.
“You must be the dance instructors,” Lene the realtor said in Danish when she arrived in the doorway smiling and seemingly thinking nothing was odd about the two men dancing here.
“Oh! Uh, he’s the dance instructor,” Jack said stringing the words together in reasonably correct Danish, stepping back from Martin as the older man released him with a pained feeling of regret and near-desperation to have him close again.
Jack was so lovely, attentive, seemed so kind, burning with an ambitious interest and lust for life that touched on the same in Martin. How was it that Martin had never felt this sort of attraction for another man before, and now it was all he could think about?
“I’m uh, cafe? I mean, I’m Jack, and this is Martin, he’s the dance instructor.”
“So you said,” Lene replied, friendly and unfazed with her white-blonde bob and grey suit. “Though I never would have guessed you two weren’t partners as you dance so well together.”
Surely she only meant professional partners, but Martin’s cheeks flamed as Jack wiped his palms on his jeans, as if they had suddenly gotten sweaty.
“You want to open a cafe here?” Martin asked Jack in English.
“Yes, it’s perfect,” Jack said quickly, staring at Martin as if he’d forgotten Lene was there after doubtless preparing for the meeting for some time beforehand. “Isn’t it?”
They stood with the realtor patiently waiting between them as the tension in their gaze grew nearly unbearable. “Yes, it really is,” said Martin.
***
Lene gave them a tour, explained the costs involved with the purchase, and handed them each a card for when they were ready to call her with their offers.
“Well, how are we ever going to resolve this?” Jack asked Martin as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It was a charming spring day in this cute, quirky little town where Jack had been so excited to maybe find a new home. He ought to be admiring the boutiques, pubs and bookshops as they began walking side by side, going nowhere in particular and unwilling to part yet. But he was admiring Martin’s profile instead, gazing at chiseled cheekbones, striking amber eyes and full lips, a perfect jawline covered in light stubble, thinking little more than shit, shit shit, shit shit he’s gorgeous, what do I do?
“I suppose we could become bitter rivals,” Martin proposed, looking so cheeky that Jack wanted to jump into his arms right now and kiss that smirk off his face. “I could fight you tooth and nail for the building.”
“That’s one option. Even though I think it’s kind of absurd on your part, seeing as the place is obviously ideally suited for a cafe, and this neighborhood needs one. Gotta offset the 900 bars along the way here with some good old fashioned coffee and pastries, don’t you think? It’ll be good for all the hangovers.”
Martin laughed, a throaty sound that went just right with the sexy rasp of his voice, sending a pleasured tremble through Jack. Imagining that voice in his ear under erotic circumstances was enough to get Jack’s blood pumping hot and way too fast.
“Says you,” Martin countered, “If you ask me, the place is destined to be a studio. And there isn’t one anywhere in this town at all, whereas we do have several very nice cafes a few streets from here.”
“‘Very nice,’” Jack repeated, “My cafe wouldn’t be ‘very nice.’ It would be extraordinary. I’ve been waiting for this chance over so many years, working on my recipes. I can make eclairs and macarons and tarts that would blow your mind, and I just got this amazing cappuccino maker…”
“I believe you,” Martin smiled, pausing outside of a bookstore, taking in the sight of Jack’s energetic “off on a tangent” face as if he found it delightful, instead of tiresome and annoying like most people. “And although we hardly know each other, I feel we could be good friends. That’s why I’d rather not be your bitter rival.”
Jack felt the heat in his own cheeks and the gallop of his heartbeat, registering the fact that he didn’t seem able to control his physical reactions to Martin’s presence. Dammit, he didn’t come here to try and start yet another doomed romance, and that’s all that ever happened when he fell for someone, and he couldn’t fall for this guy. Not this quickly, not when a business hung in the balance, not when he had decided to take a few years of being single to find his true self, to be completely independent for the first time. This was the worst thing that could have happened, and he couldn’t resist trying to keep it going, either. Glutton for punishment.
“Hey, do they have coffee in here?” Jack inquired, nodding at the bookstore.
Martin glanced at it and nodded, “Yes, and tea, lemonade, muffins, even, I think.”
“Let’s go in and talk it all out then, what do you think?”
“I think that’s a great idea.” Martin held the door for Jack like a gentleman and the younger man wanted this to be a date so badly that it hurt, a pleasurable pain, something he needed another hit of.
“Now you can check out the competition,” Martin suggested as they wound their way through the selections of used and new books to the back of the store, where there was a counter with a barista serving drinks and snacks.
“I thought you were the competition,” Jack retorted slyly, earning himself another one of those sexy smirks.
“Hello, Martin,” said the barista, just like several of the customers they had passed.
It was a small town, yes, but everyone seemed to do more than just know Martin; they took special note of him, stopped what they were doing to take the sight of him in with smiles, and Jack couldn’t blame them. He understood it completely, but what threw him for a loop was that Martin seemed so completely humble and clueless about the way he affected other people.
All Martin had said was “I’m a history teacher, and in a community this tiny, of course I’ve had many of their children as students, or else they’ve been in my class.”
A history teacher and a wonderfully talented dancer, all in the same handsome, sexy package? Martin was clearly way out of Jack’s league, smart, accomplished, yet so mellow and unassuming.
Martin said something to the barista in Danish, among which the only part Jack really understood was “two cappuccinos,” which meant he really needed to get studying the language again.
If only Martin could give me private lessons. Help me learn to move my tongue properly to pronounce the words…
His head was up in the clouds, and he could kick himself for being so flighty and such a total imbecile when it came to attraction, but he was having so much fun at the same time. It always started out like this. It never ended well. Jack had to wonder if he was poison, the element that ruined every relationship.
While he was off in dreamland, Martin had paid for both of them, which Jack only realized when the older man passed him a cup of steaming coffee with foam attractively curled at the top, and a small plate bearing a muffin that smelled beguilingly of fresh fruit and chocolate.
“It’s white chocolate raspberry,” Martin said, nodding to the muffin. “You’re not allergic to any of that, are you?”
And he’s ordering for me, paying for me, that’s fine. Jack pasted a helplessly goofy smile on his face. Daddydaddydaddydaddy--
“N-no, I’m not, this is perfect, thank you, Martin,” he babbled.
For fuck’s sake, he was going to forget English next at this rate. Martin grinned, showing off pearly teeth like fangs, and Jack could have fainted. The older man looked so pleased to have gotten it right, and to treat Jack.
“So how does an aspiring cafe owner from the States end up choosing this town of all places?” Martin asked, blowing on his drink.
Jack’s mouth went dry as Martin’s lips puffed out to cool the coffee, then wrapped around the cup to take a sip. He had never been so jealous of a damn cup in his life.
This is so stupid, you are not going to get yourself all infatuated and twisted up inside over this guy. This was not the plan. Just to prove to himself how much of a perpetual fuck-up he was, Jack decided not to sugarcoat his journey to date in his explanation.
“To be honest with you, I’ve had a rough go of it all my life. Nothing left for me in the States, and I fucked up every good thing that happened to me in Paris. I hurt two people I cared about, lost almost everything, put my life in danger over selfish schemes, and barely managed to scrape through in one piece. I came away with some money, just enough to start over and finally open this cafe I’ve always wanted, and Denmark looked like a quiet, refreshingly quaint prospect. I really don’t want to be anywhere near bright lights, salacious lifestyles or cause trouble again. But part of me is afraid that’s all I’ll ever be: trouble.”
After lobbing this maudlin, yet entirely true speech at poor Martin, Jack sighed dejectedly and sipped his coffee, certain this explanation would repel the man from wanting to know him.
“Jeez, I don’t know why I went off like that,” Jack said into the thick silence that followed. Afraid to meet Martin’s eyes, he stared down at the coffee and muttered, “Guess I’m a person with relatively few selling points, if you know what I mean.”
“Actually, I was just thinking that you’re brave to be so honest.” Martin reached forward, lightly cupping Jack’s face so that the younger man looked up, startled, into sensitive whiskey-colored eyes. He carefully swiped at Jack’s upper lip and murmured, “You had some foam there.”
“Thanks,” Jack said with his heart in his throat.
He wanted to suck Martin’s finger into his mouth so badly, he wanted to suck more than that, and his speech had only made the impulse stronger by evoking Martin’s admiration.
“And I was thinking that I can relate,” Martin continued, unwrapping his muffin, his big fingers moving deftly.
Jack had never seen such beautiful hands before, and the idea of them on his body was dizzying. One of the first things he’d checked for on Martin was a wedding ring, with a crazy whoosh of relief hitting him when it wasn’t present.
“What’s this all about?” Jack asked with a grin, lifting Martin’s hand gently to indicate the chipped black nail polish he was wearing.
“Oh, that,” Martin chortled, “My older son painted my nails to look like his so I could be cool as well. What do you think, did it work?”
“Definitely.” Jack very much enjoyed the way Martin froze and looked at him in bewildered bashfulness for a moment. So cute. He wished he could flatter this handsome sweetheart of a man so often that Martin felt his worth, but he was getting way ahead of himself yet again.
“See, you’re so sweet,” Jack went on, “You can understand why I find it hard to believe you’d relate to my bleak and twisted past.” Although he imbued the words with humor, Martin saw right through the attempt to play off his pain as comedy.
“I’m serious, I really can relate to what you said,” Martin corrected him with gentle firmness. “Last year, I came to a difficult crossroads in my life. I’d frittered away years on depression over the chances I never took; it messed up my marriage. My wife ended up having an affair, which…” Martin sighed. “Sorry, this is getting too personal, isn’t it?”
Jack placed his hand briefly over Martin’s on the table. “Not at all. Please go on.”
“Which broke my heart, but maybe I had it coming. Those lines are all blurred,” he shrugged. “I started drinking much too heavily with a group of my friends, and it’s a very long story but we thought it was justified. I learned a lot about how far I can take it and when to stop, but there were good times too; I reconnected with my students and my own kids. And I found my passion for dance again, which I hadn’t done in many years. There were also terrible times: I lost my best friend, and my marriage crumbled finally. The only consolation I can give myself is that I tried to save it, tried to keep Anika happy once I saw she was slipping away. Even though it was too late, I gave it everything I had.”
“That’s important,” Jack nodded, “You can always remember that you did your best. And I’m so sorry about your friend. Life is fucking hard and messed up, you gotta go easy on yourself.”
“Do you ever say those words to yourself?” Martin asked softly.
“I think my past sins run a little deeper than yours.” Jack shook his head.
“You don’t know that. Don’t be so sure. And how old are you? Early twenties?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five,” Martin said very reflectively. “Your life has just gotten started. You have so many years ahead of you to learn from past mistakes, and if you ask me...you’re ambitious, intelligent, funny and kind. You have a lot to offer, and I even bet your baking is great enough to put this place to shame.”
“Well,” Jack answered, beyond overwhelmed, “I’m not sure about the rest of my supposed good qualities, but I can definitely bake.”
Martin chuckled. “I think you should prove it.”
“How do you mean?” Jack asked, brow furrowing as the playful dance of Martin’s eyes over his features made butterflies swirl in his stomach.
“We’ll have a little contest, you and I, to determine who should be the one to buy the building. I’ll dance for you, and you bake me something, whatever is your very best recipe. I can ask Lene if we can use the building itself, and if the kitchen can be up and running enough for the purpose.”
“How do we judge the winner?” Jack wondered, by now far more focused on Martin than the building, and frustrated with himself for the fact.
“The one who gets outshone is simply going to have to be honest about it,” Martin determined thoughtfully. “I don’t think that will be a problem for either of us, do you? We’ve seen from our talk here today that we are both quite open.”
Not open enough to tell you I’ve been salivating over you from the first moment I laid eyes on you. Jack nodded a little too fast, “Of course, that won’t be a problem. And if you win, I’ll be happy for you. I’m sure I can find another spot for the cafe on the off-chance I don't annihilate your fancy footwork with my tasty baked goods. What’s meant to be will be.”
“Do you really believe in that sort of thing? Destiny?” Martin smiled as if entranced by wondering.
“I think I do,” Jack admitted.
“Well then,” Martin proposed, putting his hand across the table to shake Jack’s. “May the best man win.”
Sure, it sounded enough like a contest and a fair, fun way for friendly new acquaintances to settle such a matter.
So why the hell did it feel so much like they were planning a date?