The Elysium Café
by A.L. Davidson
Surely! Surely his face was sculpted by the gods!
Thoughts like that often danced through Pat’s mind. Flittering musings. Prancing rumination. Pondering images that held him in a vice grip. Things he never knew his brain could conjure. Especially not with such vivid colors and impactful motions. It was impossible to deny those thoughts their requested entry whenever his eyes caught a glimpse of him. They knocked on the doors of his mind like angry souls in Hades demanding entry to a better place, to an Elysium they could find peace in. He refuted them like annoying pests, but nevertheless, they persisted.
The coffee shop grew crowded on rainy days, especially once the sun started to set. The storms brought the best and most unique people-watching experiences. College students with classic literature bundled up in their arms would drape their bodies over plush armchairs and tabletops, then read the works of Homer and Hemingway, Ovid and Orwell, consuming the words with pursed lips and furrowed brows. Stacks of Sophocles and Dickens were capped with mugs of lukewarm caffeine, cooled to a bitter temperature after the intensity of a harrowing chapter captured their minds too harshly, rending their attention away from the most basic of needs until the warmth slipped away.
Even he would lose himself to a moody piece when the rain came.
Today of all blessed days, the clouds grew deep in color. Despite the beautiful, moody hues, Pat could only purse his lips and furrow his brow much like the patrons he so often silently judged for doing much the same. The storm on the horizon caused him to spill a latte on his hands absentmindedly as his eyes were drawn to the darkening skies and a ripple of lightning that streaked across the heavens. The thought of his arrival made the poor barista’s brain tumble inside of his skull.
Pat enjoyed storms. Not necessarily because of the weather—though the misty days did refresh his tired soul—but because of the dichotomy he would see among the customers who wandered through the doors when the sky wept. Surrounded by lush greenery, long plants and budding blooms, the entrance would open and a variety of unique souls would arrive. The brave individuals who ventured out in a storm wove a tapestry of weird and wonderful views.
None of them were as wonderful as him.
Not in Pat’s eyes.
Les was truly a sight to behold.
The first time he noticed him, Pat thought he was hallucinating. He was muscular, but in a lean, well-wrought way. Tall and cheery, a youthfulness was painted upon his visage, one that drew all eyes toward his athletic frame and welcoming grin. Pat’s own gray-hued irises struggled to break free once they honed in on his figure. Les felt familiar, though they never spoke more than a few meaningless words, and Pat was comforted by his presence even from half a room away.
It felt so familiar. The curl of his hair, the angular shape of his jaw, the soft smile that always seemed to be accompanied by a laughter that vibrated the fabric of his half-finished soul.
Yes, Pat felt as if his soul was torn asunder. That he was born with only part of it intact, that the other half of him was lost to the voids long ago.
He was sure of it. As sure as he felt that he knew Les’ handsome face intimately. Not necessarily here, in the now, but long ago. Pat saw many individuals come and go, many weren’t worth remembering. He couldn’t expunge him from his mind, hard as he try. Les had his thoughts in a vice grip.
The Elysium Café sat in the heart of the ever-bustling Greek Row of their haughty college. It saw many faces, warm afternoon sunlight, and the textures of many, many books.
He’d forget them all in time, but he persisted. Les burrowed himself into his gray matter and made a home there, one that the stranger did not know he held the keys to. Pat’s stomach would ache. With longing, with pain, with nerves, with memories he could not recall.
Like a wayward spear once pierced him there and the phantom wound enthralled him still. The ache of a thousand lifetimes, and he sat doomed to endure it. It only made his brooding stronger.
As the skies dipped into darkness, he arrived. Les—with that ever-present smile on his face—walked through the doors of The Elysium. Of course… of course! Of course he’d arrive!
The football field would be closed with the sudden storm and he’d take refuge here in the presence of the quiet. He always arrived when the rain and darkness came in.
Pat felt his lips curl into a smile. Involuntary, sheepish, and filled with longing. The kind of desperation-filled smile that overtook a heartbroken man looking upon his lover after many months—no, years—apart. The smile often flittered off to nowhere, and was received by no one, but it was wholly meant for Les.
This time, however, Les noticed. That warm, welcoming grin upon the athlete’s face reached across the small café like an arrow let loose from a taut bowstring. It was sent with intent, with focus. Pat’s throat became parched, desperate for something to slake it, for an ambrosia sweeter than the chocolate-dipped latte that scaled his skin. A small sip of that unbelievable nectar and he knew he’d never think clearly again.
Les approached, ordered a black coffee, and made his way to the small table in the corner to begin his long afternoon of reading. Pat brewed the liquid void into the cleanest, largest mug he had on hand. With unsure footing, he approached. His legs ached in a way that was new and strange. In a way that overshadowed the throbbing that came from hours of horse riding during the late fall or hiking with his father in the dewy springtime air.
And, with his mind lost in the clouds, he stumbled.
But, with haste, Les caught him.
Those strong hands kept him from falling. The mug hit the floor and spiraled. That contact of flesh on flesh left Pat’s heart racing. His stomach screamed. This was familiar, terrifying. Despite it all, it felt right. It felt like fate.
Flashes of rolling fields overwhelmed his mind. Of warm afternoons on horseback, of a childhood not his own that felt so right, of a bloody war and the spear that ended his odyssey in the blink of an eye. Of a life not his own that he remembered with fervor. A life spent with this man at his side. An Iliad wrought in the annals of history and lost to the mistranslations of men who refused to allow their beautiful narrative to ring true. No more. Not this time. Not Hades, not the Fates, no mortal man or scholar could sever these bonds. No one would separate them again.
“You good?” Les inquired as he helped Pat upright.
“Yes, it’s my damn Achilles tendon,” Pat mumbled. “I’m so sorry, I’ll get you another coffee and clean this up.”
Les chuckled. He didn’t know why. Something about that kindness, that polite and genuine tone, caused his heart to skip a beat.
“I’m fine. I didn’t really want it… the coffee, I mean. I wanted to talk to you,” Les stated gently.
Pat felt his face heat up, “Why?”
“I don’t… know. This may sound weird but… it felt like we needed to finish a conversation that I don’t remember having.”
Pat knew. He felt it, too. For the first time in months, his stomach did not ache. The fractured lines of his soul suddenly felt glued. Standing amongst the quiet, lush landscape of The Elysium, Pat and Les could not deny the fact they felt connected. That somehow, someway, something more powerful than either of them knew predestined this meeting. That a lifetime ago they were denied this moment and now, on this quiet autumn day as the skies were slated to slip into a starry landscape marred by darkness rain clouds, the wars and wounds of an era long since gone had been worth it.
No one would deny them their happy ending, not this time.
Bathed in the soft glow of the overhead lights, Pat’s eyes glistened like starlight. He felt his heart skip a beat as Les’ hand slowly slid down his forearm toward his wrist. Toward his trembling fingers with a desperation to hold him despite the eyes shifting to look at the commotion.
“Your eyes are beautiful,” Les whispered, lost in the glossy moon-like shimmer of his silver irises.
Pat’s heart thumped in his chest, his lips parted to speak with hesitation. A confirmation seemed impossible, but he needed to know.
“Have we met before?” Pat inquired, desperate to know, desperate to understand.
“Feels like it, doesn’t it?” Les asked with a lopsided smile.
Yes, this moment was millennia in the making, and he would not be denied the powerful desire that settled in the beating of his heart.
“I… get off in a half hour,” Pat said quietly.
“I’ll be here,” Les assured with desperation in his tone.
As if he were promising it. As if he felt that Pat would not believe him. As if he had vanished once before and carried the guilt to this day. Now, in this moment, Pat believed that this man would still be here and oh, how his heart sang out at the thought of reclaiming that lost time. Yes, this beautiful place, this Elysium, would be the starting point of a new epic. One he was elated to experience.
A.L. Davidson (she/they) is a Pushcart Prize, Indie Ink, and Queer Indie Award nominated, disabled and queer author who specializes in massive space operas and tiny disturbances. She writes stories about ghosts, grief, isolation, space exploration, eco-horror, queerness, and the human condition.
They have penned several stories that have been featured in lit mags, online pubs, and anthologies, and are best known for their eco-horror romance novella When The Rain Begins To Burn, the R-PNZL: A Futuristic Fairytale series, and web novels, The Wayward Souls of Avalon, The Night Farm, and Lonely Planet Hotel. Her forthcoming cosmic eco-horror novel The Scientist, The Spaceman, And The Stars Between Them will arrive in May 2024 from Timber Ghost Press. They live with their cat, Jukebox, in Kansas City.