![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Fic - JonMartin - Meet cute on the train
This is for Lu, who mentioned wanting a JonMartin meet cute, so I thought I'd provide. Found a list of meet cute prompts, and picked: "The person sitting next to you on the train is wearing clothes that match your lucky colors from your fortune that morning in the paper"
With a rushed sigh of relief, Martin drops into the empty seat the moment it becomes available. His grip on his grocery bags was starting to slip, and his feet hurt from walking all day. He lets his head tilt against the back of the chair and gives another sigh.
The man next to him shuffles in on himself, nose buried in a sheaf of papers. It’s the way he shifts his leg to adjust a manila folder that catches Martin’s attention.
Or, more appropriately, the color of his pants.
A nice bordeaux shade, Martin thinks idly, and something in his brain clicks a little with recognition. His gaze lifts a degree, just enough to catch the worn hem of an ochre cardigan barely visible beneath the tweed jacket.
The man looks like a mildly outdated fall fashion catalog, and not in an ironic way — since, if Martin had to guess, they’re probably close to the same age.
That’s not the important part though.
The important part is the colors.
Martin reads his horoscope every day, because he has nothing better to do, and maybe, just maybe, he hopes that one day it will be right and he’ll feel vindicated for wasting all of that time hoping.
Today’s lucky colors were bordeaux and ochre, which were wildly specific and also not descriptive of anything in his own wardrobe. And now, at the end of his day, which had been incredibly unlucky, Martin finds himself sitting next to the colors that he’s been thinking about.
The man clears his throat, and Martin jumps. “Do you mind?” he asks, voice prickly, and Martin sheepishly meets an equally prickly gaze.
“I just— your pants.” Martin could kick himself for that. He swallows thickly and tries for a reassuring grin.
The man quirks an eyebrow. “What about them?” He doesn’t sound defensive, more resigned, which is kind of an odd tone to take unless he’s been questioned about them before.
What about them, indeed. It’s hard to say I’ve been looking for that shade all day without sounding ridiculous, so he goes with, “They’re nice. The color looks good on you.”
Well that was foolish.
He mentally kicks himself again, though the man’s expression shifts from prickly to, very briefly, caught off-guard.
“Oh.” He clearly doesn’t know how to respond, though the moment of softness is gone and back to a studied non-expression that borders on boredom. “Thank you.” Still, he unfurls a bit, allows himself to straighten back into a proper posture.
“I’m Martin,” Martin says, because he’s already messed up this conversation, so he might as well make the best of it.
“Jon,” the other man says, though his attention has already returned to the papers in his hands, and the name is offered more as an afterthought.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Martin finishes, and gets a noncommittal grunt in response.
(A week and three days later, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon on a just barely too crowded train. His horoscope that morning said to be on the lookout for what turns out to be Jon’s button-down lilac shirt and dark charcoal blazer. He gives Jon his number — well, he gives Jon his business card. This time, Jon’s answer is a bemused snort, but he takes the card anyway, and Martin considers that a victory.)
With a rushed sigh of relief, Martin drops into the empty seat the moment it becomes available. His grip on his grocery bags was starting to slip, and his feet hurt from walking all day. He lets his head tilt against the back of the chair and gives another sigh.
The man next to him shuffles in on himself, nose buried in a sheaf of papers. It’s the way he shifts his leg to adjust a manila folder that catches Martin’s attention.
Or, more appropriately, the color of his pants.
A nice bordeaux shade, Martin thinks idly, and something in his brain clicks a little with recognition. His gaze lifts a degree, just enough to catch the worn hem of an ochre cardigan barely visible beneath the tweed jacket.
The man looks like a mildly outdated fall fashion catalog, and not in an ironic way — since, if Martin had to guess, they’re probably close to the same age.
That’s not the important part though.
The important part is the colors.
Martin reads his horoscope every day, because he has nothing better to do, and maybe, just maybe, he hopes that one day it will be right and he’ll feel vindicated for wasting all of that time hoping.
Today’s lucky colors were bordeaux and ochre, which were wildly specific and also not descriptive of anything in his own wardrobe. And now, at the end of his day, which had been incredibly unlucky, Martin finds himself sitting next to the colors that he’s been thinking about.
The man clears his throat, and Martin jumps. “Do you mind?” he asks, voice prickly, and Martin sheepishly meets an equally prickly gaze.
“I just— your pants.” Martin could kick himself for that. He swallows thickly and tries for a reassuring grin.
The man quirks an eyebrow. “What about them?” He doesn’t sound defensive, more resigned, which is kind of an odd tone to take unless he’s been questioned about them before.
What about them, indeed. It’s hard to say I’ve been looking for that shade all day without sounding ridiculous, so he goes with, “They’re nice. The color looks good on you.”
Well that was foolish.
He mentally kicks himself again, though the man’s expression shifts from prickly to, very briefly, caught off-guard.
“Oh.” He clearly doesn’t know how to respond, though the moment of softness is gone and back to a studied non-expression that borders on boredom. “Thank you.” Still, he unfurls a bit, allows himself to straighten back into a proper posture.
“I’m Martin,” Martin says, because he’s already messed up this conversation, so he might as well make the best of it.
“Jon,” the other man says, though his attention has already returned to the papers in his hands, and the name is offered more as an afterthought.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Martin finishes, and gets a noncommittal grunt in response.
(A week and three days later, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon on a just barely too crowded train. His horoscope that morning said to be on the lookout for what turns out to be Jon’s button-down lilac shirt and dark charcoal blazer. He gives Jon his number — well, he gives Jon his business card. This time, Jon’s answer is a bemused snort, but he takes the card anyway, and Martin considers that a victory.)