piercings, leather jacket…& match
synopsis: In which Martin Edwards was the school’s most noticeable person ever. Down to the spikey hair, black leather jacket that he paired with his uniform (despite it violating school dress code) and his many ear piercings. Meanwhile, You, an honor roll student who observed people quietly, worked part-time at a new coffee shop nearby, just to scrounge up extra pocket money for school supplies. He comes in and orders a drink that you thought never really suited him.
word count : 2947
genre: peak comedic fluff, oneshot, ambiguous ending
a/n: my first fanfic in sooo long, this took me a lot of courage to finish nd a lot of back nd forth i hope u guys enjoy it !
There were a lot of noticeable people at school.
It wasn't a big campus to begin with. Just two tall, gray and definitely aging buildings that faced each other, its corners were surrounded with trees, a courtyard that flooded every rainy season in the middle and baked under the sun during the dry months. The hallways were small, barely fitting the crowd of students it had. Because of that, everyone knew everyone. Or at least, everybody knew of everyone. News traveled faster than the morning bell.The social system was always abuzz with whatever news was going on in the halls or in the classrooms. By lunch, whatever you heard in the morning was already old information.
The students thrived on observation. On speculations, quiet judgements made from across the rooms.
You had gotten pretty good at reading people just based on their appearance alone.
Not in some mystical, mind-reading way – Just through certain patterns. Postures, even expressions. You observed quietly, with curious eyes.
The student council was the easiest to box.
Strict. Polished shoes, clean uniforms, with pointed looks and constant sharp words at every assembly, reminding students of their responsibilities. They moved like a unit, they weren’t cruel nor were they overly bearing, just intimidating.
Then there was the basketball team. Whom you could hear before you even saw them, their rubber soles echoing on the wooden floors. They were notorious for walking around high and mighty after each game. They were loud and confident. They were admired by others. To you, they were predictable.
Even the quietest of students were noticeable. In their own way.
There were students who sat by the windows, sunlight painting their every being gold. Ones who had headphones in, they had their own world. Even a few who disappeared during group works but still somehow aced every exam
But Martin Edwards stood out in a way that felt…different.
His height was the first noticeable thing about him, Martin towered over most of the population in the school. With lanky arms that probably stretched for miles accompanied with long legs that made any athlete jealous. His short, blonde, spiky hair made people wonder if he could poke someone in the eye with how sharp the peaks were.
Then there was the jacket.
Thick, worn out and leather. It hung over his frame, just on top of his uniform, it creaked whenever he moved, and it was clearly lived-in. It violated practically every dress code rule the school had written.
Yet, Martin wore it anyway.
Under the fluorescent lights of the hallway, his ears glinted, the silver catching the brightness and it reflected back in small flashes. He had multiple of them. Rings, studs, even small little hoops you’d miss if you didn’t pay attention.
Students were required to dress professionally and Martin defied it from day one.
It made it easy for people to assume things about him, at first glance, he looked troubled.
The kind of student that didn’t bother. The kind that teachers expected to skip class, start unnecessary fights at the back of the school, or the kind that would disappear for days at a time. Someone who would sit in the back with his feet up the table.
But that assumption would fall apart the moment anyone paid any attention to him
Because Martin Edwards wasn’t a bad student.
Not even close.
In fact, he was the complete opposite of what people expected. His grades were steady – never perfect, just consistent, it never slipped into anything concerning. Martin turned in assignments on time, paid attention, he even wrote down notes. He even somehow managed to stay involved in school activities when he felt like it. Especially in events when a big stage would be held in front of a crowd, Martin loved one thing and it was music.
Sometimes, in the courtyard, you’d see him with his small friend group, underneath an old acacia tree where fallen leaves constantly gathered in the corners. An old, rustic looking guitar in his fingers that played confidently along the strings, his brows furrowed slightly as he focused. His voice would grow steadier with each verse.
He never really played full songs.
Sometimes it was just soft strumming, his fingers transitioning from chord to chord mindlessly – it was background music to conversations, a quiet hum. A few people would nudge him to play something familiar, and he would roll his eyes playfully before giving in.
Martin was a good kid.
He just looked troubled and that alone was enough for people to keep watching him, whenever Martin walked down the hallway, every reaction was the same. Juniors stared at him with bug eyes, whispering quietly as he passed. Seniors knew of him, and teachers sighed whenever they would spot him.
Positive reactions.
Negative reactions.
He didn’t care.
He walked the same way every day, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. His gaze would drift forward like the attention that surrounded him simply didn’t exist.
Because, in a way, it really didn’t.
Martin knew people would misunderstand him no matter what he did or what he wore, he figured that out a long time ago, He just decided he needed to look cool doing it.
The café across the school was new.
Not aggressively modern that made you feel like you had to whisper or spend money for just opening the door. It was softer than that, thoughtfully put together. The ceiling had warm pendant lights that hung low, casting small golden circles across the polished wooden tables. The walls were painted a muted sage green that somehow made the place feel cooler despite the humidity outside. Cream trims ran along the edges, broken up by framed prints of plants and handmade sketches that the owner insisted be put up.
The windows were large, comically so.
They let in so much afternoon light that the cafe almost didn’t need the lights it had, it made the place glow during golden hour, sunlight stretching across the tiled floors, it was like it wanted to stay longer than it was allowed to.
It was quiet.
Not silent, there was always the low hum of the espresso machine or clicking of ceramic cups. Sometimes, music would play on the speakers, something soothing that could probably make anybody relax.
It was peaceful.
Which was what you needed exactly.
Being an honor-roll student wasn’t easy, neither was it cheap.
A lot of people pretended that studying at a good school was all about knowledge and the determination to pass every class, but they never really mention the receipts. Textbooks felt like an added debt, every time you handed over the cash your stomach would twist, notebooks that needed to be changed every quarter with the new lesson plans because teachers insisted on “fresh materials for better organization”, miscellaneous fees that the school pressed on urgently that they needed to be paid immediately and group projects that required taking out a little too much pocket money that hurt just enough to worry if you would have enough to eat the next day.
Pocket money stretched thin and meals were skipped.
Worry would linger at the back of your head quietly, like background static.
That was why you worked.
After school, stepping into the tiny staff restroom and you would swap out the dark blazer for a green apron. Tying your hair up in a ponytail. You’ve memorized recipes, learned to smile even when the customer was testing your patience. Today was no different from that.
It was predictable.
Routine orders. Routine conversations, despite routine settling into your bones in that exhausting way that made your feet ache.
It was comforting.
The door chimed and you barely registered it as you cleaned at the back. Then, someone cleared their throat.
You looked up and blinked.
Martin stared with a bored expression on his face.
“Hi,” You greeted quickly, wiping your hands on the rag as you approached the register.
Up close, he was even more…Martin.
His hair was still spiky. You could see the amount of effort he had put in it. Despite the humidity in the air, you were pretty surprised it held up this long, smudged eyeliner that looked faded. It wasn’t messy, just slightly worn off the edges like he had rubbed his eyes at some point during the day, it made him come off as effortlessly cool even though he just stood there, somehow it made him look softer. Martin looked less like a poster from an underground club and more like a person who had a long day.
His leather jacket looked heavier. The kind that made you wonder how he wasn’t dying every time he donned it, especially in this kind of weather. Up close, you could see how worn down it was, it was most likely creased and folded over a dozen times.
His one hand shoved in his pocket as his other rested on the counter, fingers tapping on the marble.
He blinks, slow. Processing. “Oh, I didn't know you worked here.” His eyes roamed your uniform. “You’re in my literature class right?”
That made your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.“I didn’t know I was so famous.” You answer back, humming.
Martin shrugged coolly. “You sit in the front,”
“Devastating. I thought it was my personality,” You snorted. “What can I get you?” You added quickly, grabbing the order pad
Martin’s head tilted up, his eyes squinting slightly as he scanned the menu. His lips pursed, deep in thought.
It was oddly endearing to witness.
“I’ll take the matcha latte,” His voice was calm. Nothing intimidating that other kids made it seem to be.
It was strange, you’d heard him talk before. In class, in passing moments in the hallway. But, being just a few steps away from him felt different.
You stared for a while. “…Matcha latte?”
“…Yes..?” He slowed his words as if confused on what was going on.
“Are you sure you don’t want like…Motor oil or something,” You snorted as you jotted it down. The pen scratched against the paper as the absurdity of the image you proposed came across your mind.
Martin raised an eyebrow. A small, offended huff came out of him. “Wow.” The sound came out quietly wounded in a very theatrical way.
“I mean—“ You catch yourself, cringing at your own words. “Not literally but..”
He vaguely gestured to himself and you nod.
“Judging customers based on appearances now?” He asks.
“Just curious,” You finished lamely, tapping the pen against your order pad like it could rescue you from the situation you dug yourself into. “Iced?”
He stared.
He didn’t look angry, more so amused.
“Motor oil, huh?” Martin hummed. “And yeah, iced.” he finally answered your question.
You made a face. “Bad metaphor,” you reply.
“It was kind of funny.”
You raise an eyebrow at him. His humor was certainly odd, just like the way he placed himself outside the box. “One matcha latte, coming up.” you turn to your heel before going to the back.
You didn’t wait for a reply.
The moment you stepped behind the counter and into the preparation area, the familiar rhythm of work wrapped around you. Your fingers moved, hands steady.
Scoop. Pour. Stir.
However, your awareness felt…split.
Half was focused on the drink in front of you.
The other half was acutely conscious of the fact that Martin was still standing on the other side of the counter, you could feel his eyes without even turning your head. The way people sometimes just felt loud even when they weren’t speaking.
One hand still in his pocket, he let his eyes drift from across the room as if he were only pretending not to be waiting. The cafe wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. A few students sat near the windows with laptops open and textbooks spread out. A pair of office workers in the corner, speaking quietly over mugs of coffee.
Normal, very ordinary.
And yet, Martin kept glancing towards the back, as if waiting for you to reappear in front of him.
“You can sit, y’know?” Your eyes don’t meet his, but you speak up anyway.
“Maybe I like standing,”
This time, you do look at him, and he has a small almost teasing grin on his lips.
“You’re weird,” You laugh. Turning your attention back to the cup in front of you, the milk steamer hissed the moment you do.
Martin seemed to like that. “So I’ve been told.”
“You don’t seem too concerned,” You muttered.
He hummed in thought, leaning further against the counter. “Should I be?”
You don’t answer.
The milk frothed under your hand, growing warm through the metal pitcher. You kept your eyes on it, but your brain was still very aware of Martin, who shifted his weight slightly out of the corner of your sight.
“Do you always hover when you order at cafes?” You asked.
“Hover is a strong word.”
“It’s the correct word.” You countered.
Martin tilted his head slightly, watching you swirl the drink together with amusement written on his face.
“I’m observing.”
“Observing what?”
“You,” He answered bluntly.
Your hands paused for a second before snorting. “That’s creepy,”
This time, he laughs, clearly enjoying the moment. “It’s not,” he retorts.
“It’s a little creepy,” You finished mixing the drink and slid the cup under the ice dispenser.
Ice clattered down.
“Why?”
You gave him a look.
His grin widens.
“Normal people don’t just stand there and stare at their barista,”
“I’m not like most people, aren’t I?” Martin’s smile turns into a small smirk, smug.
Your lips pursed as you catch yourself. “You’re unbelievable,” was the reply you settled for, shaking your head.
“I get that a lot.”
“From who?”
He shrugged, the leather from his jacket creaked. “Mostly teachers,” he said casually. “My parents, friends, random people on the streets–” He lists.
That made you laugh again. “Random people on the street?”
“Yeah,” Martin nods, a serious expression on his face. “You’d be surprised how many strangers have opinions about me.”
“I can imagine,” You said dryly.
You placed the finished drink on the counter, sliding it towards him. He took the drink, fingers brushing briefly against yours.
The touch was accidental but the warmth of his skin was noticeable.
Martin lifted the cup, studying the pale green swirl around the plastic like it was a piece of art in a museum. “Huh, you’re good at this,”
“At making drinks?” You cross your arms against your chest, your weight shifting slightly.
“Handling people.” He answered vaguely.
“You’re one customer, Martin”
“I am quite the difficult person.”
“You do have a point.” You teased him.
This time, Martin’s the one laughing. He took a sip, lifting the cup to his lips. He swallowed and then nodded once. “Solid.”
“Solid?” You repeated, almost offended.
“What?” He snorts. “You want a standing ovation?”
You pause for a second. “Maybe.”
He pretended to think about it, eyes drifting up to the ceiling as his eyebrows furrowed together. “The texture's nice,” He begins. “Flavor’s balanced. Ice-to-liquid ratio was respectable.”
You stared.
“Ice-to– Now you’re just making things up,” You huffed.
“Am not.”
“You totally are.” You pointed this time, laughing.
Your cheeks were starting to sting from how much you had been doing so.
Martin gasped, dramatically. “I take beverages seriously!”
Your eyes rolled at his antics but despite that, the smile on your lips still never left, it tugged like a reminder that you were entertained by him. Martin leaned further into the counter, drink still in hand, he looked like he had no real intention of leaving yet.
“So,” he begins after taking another sip. “You work here everyday?”
“After school,” You shrugged.
“Brutal.” He whistled low.
“It pays,”
Martin’s eyes drifted around the cafe for a moment, to the students near the window, shifting to the office workers and then, quietly settling back on to you. “Fair enough,” he shrugged.
Before you could reply, a voice from one of the tables suddenly called out. The guy stood up, waiting, “Excuse me, can we get another straw?”
You turned automatically. “Just a second!” You grab the container and go to the side, giving it to the person, bowing a little.
Martin watched with curious eyes from the register.
“Still here, huh?” You grab a rag as you turn your head, seeing as his eyes never left you.
“I think so,” he jokes, looking around him.
“You really are weird,”
“Maybe I just like the view.”
You blinked, huffing out another laugh. “The view?”
“You’re very entertaining.” Martin gestured loosely. Smiling slightly, tapping the cup lightly against the counter. “If i come back tomorrow, are you gonna judge my order again?”
You smirked a little as you wiped down the counter just beside him. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you order something suspicious.”
Martin grins. “Okay, fair enough.”
And even though neither of you say it out loud, the way he lingered there—drink in hand, his eyes drifting back to you—made it feel like that “tomorrow” was certainly inevitable.
