Johnny Doe by Kristina Vorotnikova

The beer is disgusting.
Eric doesn’t actually like English porters, but they’re making it even worse. It’s warm and sour, and he can literally feel the simple running water’s taste on his tongue. Moreover, they have nothing but this hilarious joke of a porter.
But John is gorgeous. The guy’s ridiculously attractive, tall, dark-haired, with a graceful shoulder line. Eric notices him immediately after opening the heavy door, staring straightly onto his handsome face, and his inner self chuckled uncomfortably at something like, ‘oi, leastways your stare is straight’.
Definitely not funny, you dork. On unbending legs, he comes closer, placing himself awkwardly onto a storm-beaten bar stool.
Eric can’t remember why did he decide to choose this hell of a place over a tiny and cozy café on the opposite side of the street he visited a few times. Maybe, he was just too exhausted to make those extra-steps over there or the neon green ‘BEER’ sign seemed a bit more convincing than the 'Coffee' one, who cares. The fact is, he’s sitting there for an hour already, blushing hardly to the tips of his ears.
“What can I get you?” other’s deep low voice sends him goosebumps, and Eric smiles tensely, feeling his hazel-eyed look making his cheekbones burn.
“Pale ale, please?”
“Only English porters,” he scoffs, assuredly raising his expressive eyebrows, “And they're hardly a thing.”
“I’ll have a half-pint then, John,” Eric feels an odd satisfaction, watching the amused smirk on his lips, as he’s filling the glass with that murky liquid.
“That’s not my badge,” he chuckles cockily, showing the cute dimples on his cheeks, and… Wow.
“So,” Eric nearly chokes on air, flushing even harder, “Can I ask your real name?”
“My shift ends in forty minutes,” he finally turns away from Eric, letting him shamelessly gaze at the sharp features of his shoulder blades under the thin material of a simple white t-shirt. “You should wait a bit, Eric.”
He freezes out for a moment, watching the other cleaning the counter with a hidden smile.
“At least, I hope that’s your real name, Mr. García,” he breathes out almost mockingly, and Eric checks on his shirt, taking off that stupid badge, and nods. Totally embarrassed, he’s taking the first gulp of his glass.
The beer is disgusting, but he’s surprisingly fine with it.