ficathon fill: karaoke palace + donut shop.
for this prompt by loki_unleashed at the lirry ficathon:
AU where liam works nights at a 24-hour karaoke palace and harry works at the donut shop across the street. idek what i want from this, really, aside from liam stumbling around sleepily at the end of a long shift, all dopey smiles and humming to himself unconsciously, and harry smelling like cinnamon and having smears of flour on his cheeks.
warnings for it being in all lower-case & written like actual comment fic, as well as nothing at all happening. standard disclaimer applies. hope you enjoy it, boo ♥
*
harry hasn’t exactly been inside of the karaoke palace before, though he’d seen the queue outside curling around half the block like a comma even at dawn enough times to know there must be something to the posters and adverts selling reasonably priced happy hour slung up against the corkboard in his shop, fraying on the brick walls of the adjacent buildings lining the street, above the windows of the tube that he catches on his way home. every now and then the posters’ll have an attractive face or two graphed on them, featuring returning nightly guests, but they blur by too fast for harry to commit much to memory - a slur of mediocre graphics and borders.
it’s not entirely intentional that harry has yet to step foot in; it’s been down to conflicting work hours, a matter of circumstance - and as he shuffles into the shop, exchanging a sleepy nod and lazy slow-dimpled smile with the blonde irish bloke who takes the graveyard shift before him, stumbling behind the counter and tying his white apron around his waist, he wonders what it’d be like.
the glimmer of lights from the palace reflect well into the shop, flashing against the clear surface of the countertop, touching over the rows of pastries below in the display case. even from the cash register in the corner, it’s not hard to squint through his shop’s large window out across the street and envision the crowd, the smell of smoke and grease - nothing like the sweet frosting and fresh dough he’s surrounded by, the stage splayed out under great big spotlights and the roar of the crowd as each newcomer takes the mic. maybe the private rented rooms are more subdued - more full up on relaxed comfortable giggles and tipped over empty bottles.
it’s almost enough to imagine it, anyway, as harry takes inventory, biting at his thumb and peering into the shelves of baking pans. he doesn’t need to actually see for himself.
he’s having a particularly slow night. exhaustion buzzes above his skin like a simmer that won't boil from the chilled morning weather and yesterday’s late lecture he'd tried to diligently take notes on and, instead, mostly managed to doodle an idea of a tattoo he's been tossing around - not that he'd ever set anything into stone before talking it over with his artist, zayn, who takes all of the sloppy ink harry gets to heart whether he'd personally had a hand in it or not. but now it's the start of the weekend and he’s found a mess of overstocked jams for fillings and powdered sugars for him to play with that won't keep come monday.
he’s distracted by curving his hands around the dough, trying not to frown too much at the wonky oblong shape - no different than the four other donuts that’ve come before it, each one now spaced out on the sheet of wax paper next to his elbow. he glances over to the flash fryer, bubbling and hot and ready to go, and doesn't hear the bell above the shop door chime, signaling the entry of a customer.
he doesn’t know anyone’s there until he’s finished deep frying, set the donuts to cool safely, and he’s wiping his sweaty face on the sleeve of his jumper, pushing his curls off his forehead where they’ve started to stick to his skin, stumbling out of the kitchen and into the front room, the lighting feeling temporarily overly bright, blinding when he tries to blink and clear his eyes.
when he can focus, there’s a tall boy standing on the other side of the counter, leaning up against it on his elbow, his hip slanted into the display case. he’s smiling though, like he’s been terribly amused and hasn’t been left waiting at all. his overcoat collar’s pulled up around his neck, the lapels open so that harry can see he’s got a black tie loose around his throat, hanging undone over a crisp white button down, like a waiter off work.
harry smiles easily back at him, setting his hands palm down on the other side of the counter across from the boy. “hi,” he says. “what can i do for you?”
the boy looks down for a moment at the display case, his mouth folding in like he’s rubbing his lips together, and harry’s struck by the length of his eyelashes, the slope of his nose.
“hello,” he says, his voice warm and lower than harry expected. he glances back up to harry’s face, his cheeks pushing up with a smile as he says, “wondered if i could get a bit of coffee, haven’t been able to decide on one of these yet,” he taps the top of the counter with two fingers. “though, whatever you’ve been working away at back there looked like fun.”
fortunately, harry doesn’t have to try very hard to convince him that he really should rather pass them up, the boy gives into a laugh easily, and harry asks for a mo’ before he turns around to start a fresh batch in the coffee machine.
while he waits for it to drip, he thinks he hears a soft hum, almost a murmuring. he looks over to the other side of the counter where the boy’s dropped into a squat as if to get a better view of the pastries inside, and harry can’t see his face, but he’s pretty sure it’s him - that lilting hum, just hinting at the thread of a melody, tucked beneath his breath like he doesn’t mean to.
sure enough when harry returns to the counter and passes the boy a full styrofoam cup, he shrugs, apologetic, sheepish like he’s been caught, quirking half a smile at harry, saying, “sorry, mate, got a tune in my head, can’t get it out for the life of me.”
his low voice takes harry by surprise for the second time, something about it disarming in combination with his face. harry shrugs back then, smiling indulgently. “that’s alright,” he says slowly. “care to share?”
the boy raises an eyebrow at him as if asking are you sure before shooting harry a grin like he’s taking him up on a challenge and crooning on pitch just loud enough to be heard the opening to george michael’s faith.
his tone is smooth and easy, and his whole face transforms, his eyebrows creasing up, involuntarily gesturing with his hands. it sets harry back a moment until the recognition clicks in and harry throws his head back, laughing. he thinks fleetingly of the tattoos on his ankles.
in the end, the boy pays for his single cup of coffee in cash, so harry doesn’t catch his name like he’d been half-hoping he would from a potential credit card. when he leaves, harry can see the boy isn’t wearing slacks like harry had expected - just dark wash fitted jeans sagging below the cut of his coat.
*
harry doesn’t think about the boy for the rest of the day - not even the next morning on his commute, but the bloke comes in again around the same time, catching harry just as unaware as the first time around.
harry’s crouched behind the counter, shelving warm apple fritters and bear claws, his knees against the cold hard tile of the floor, biting his lip in concentration when he hears a tentative, amused, “alright there?” the voice is tinged with familiarity, and harry almost drops the whole tray he’s balancing in one hand.
he manages to keep it together - reaching up and placing the tray on the counter, bending to stand, brushing off the excess dirt and flour stuck to his jeans and the front of his apron, looking up again into the boy’s voice like déjà vu. his expression seems almost identical to the first time around - that same watchful, bright, appreciative grin, same full mouth, same straight white teeth, same stubble.
the boy’s more energetic this time though, pantomiming expansively with one hand while he talks, rubbing his fingers across his mouth with emphasis, retaining eye contact the whole time harry takes his order. when the boy bends his head down towards the case, his eyebrows drawing together in thought much like they had when he’d sung before, his fingers spanning the rows of pastries below, harry can see the way his hair’s longer on top, sculpted like a faux hawk.
the boy introduces himself after harry hands over a coffee, calling himself liam, and harry repeats it over and over in his head, liam liam liam, like it’s difficult to remember as he pulls out a multicolored sprinkled donut from the case with a pair of tongs, sliding it carefully into a bag for liam.
*
liam isn’t difficult to remember at all. he returns like clockwork most mornings - right in the sweet spot of harry’s dead hours, most normal people asleep or just getting there, only waking up if they have to.
liam becomes a jumble of a new song stuck in the quiet space between them just like it’s stuck in liam’s head, breathing to life whenever harry’s got his back turned towards the coffee machine, whenever he’s leaning over to bag a chocolate bar or glazed buttermilk. liam’ll hold his hands out in front of himself, placating, swearing that he isn’t doing it on purpose whenever harry finds himself humming along, not that harry exactly minds; harry’s mostly distracted by the way liam’s hands look spread out like that - his wide palms and long fingers evenly spaced apart. he’s always got his coat on too, and he’s armed with an endless supply of those same soft smiles that manage to appear genuine, as if harry honestly brings them out of him.
sometimes, liam strolls in with a mate, this bloke shorter than both liam and harry, his voice more raspy, but he’s nice, funny, even when he whispers something furiously to liam while harry’s ringing them up that has liam elbowing the bloke sharply in the stomach.
one night before harry has to wake up for his shift, he dreams that he’s in the shop already but it looks wrong, different, the counter and display case in the center of the room, turned sideways, spread like a surgeon’s table, the bright overhead lights shining down on it and making it hot to the touch. the cash register’s gone, disappeared, and there’s sheets and sheets of uncooked pastries on wax paper in the kitchen, littered over every piece of available surface.
harry feels the need to try a finished product - and he reaches right through the glass, into the display case, selecting a glazed twist out of the assortment.
he wets his mouth in anticipation and brings it up to have a bite, but before he can, his mouth hung open, tongue already out, he suddenly hears liam say, “do you mind? could i have a go?”
harry looks up from the donut to see liam laying on the display case on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. he’s not got a shirt on, and his skin looks shiny, as if it’s glazed too. he’s grinning at harry - a much wider grin than he’d normally offer, all of his teeth showing.
liam pushes himself up onto his hands, his palms flat against the display case, leaning forward like harry’s already said yes, his bare chest and shoulders looming closer, his head angling up so that he has enough leverage to take a bite, his mouth unfolding.
harry watches liam as he chews slowly and swallows, making a drawn out noise, a heartful mmm, as if he’s been starving, hasn’t known food for years, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, his lips pursing slightly, so harry does the only thing he can think of, proffering the donut, chasing liam’s mouth with it, saying, “did you want more?”
“yeah,” liam says slow and sure, opening his eyes that look dark now, dilated. “i’d like that.” he licks his lips.
it makes harry feel dizzy to watch liam’s face, like his head’s weighted and his sinuses are stuffed, as if it’s too much for him to lift up alone, and his gaze drops to the floor, his hand suddenly feeling heavy too, and he’s tipping forward before he realizes it, collapsing into the side of the display case, dropping the donut to the floor, though liam doesn’t seem to mind. the meat of liam’s naked shoulder is right there, nearly under harry’s mouth, and harry realizes that he hadn’t wanted the glazed twist all along, it’s been the wrong choice, what he’d really wanted - what he really wants is this, so he opens his mouth on liam’s shoulder for a taste.
harry’s in the middle of trying to eat liam’s fingers and neck simultaneously when liam’s breathy voice saying, “there’s enough of me to go around, no need to rush, i’ll be here all night,” morphs into a loud series of beeps and harry blinks his eyes open only for the side of his duvet and pillow to come into view, the dry taste of stale air rolling around in his mouth rather different from liam’s sweet skin.
he’s half-hard in his pants, torn between confusion and trying to suss out if he has enough spare time to finish the job. he shuts off his alarm.
*
the next time liam walks into the shop, he’s early - really early. harry’s only let himself in moments ago, he’s still fumbling with the strings of his apron, winding them twice around his middle, about to tie them into a bow in front of his tummy.
liam doesn’t have his coat on or his tie loose around his neck, and his button-down shirt isn’t the same either, a darker gray color, the top few buttons left undone, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, closed pockets at his pecs. he’s got tattoos on his forearms that flash into view when he waves a greeting and waltzes up to the counter with purpose, stopping harry’s startled hello mid-track.
“listen,” liam says. he seems buzzed, bouncing on the toes of his feet, pressing his hands down onto the glass and leaning forward as if to get a better look at harry’s face. “you’re not too busy right now, are you? does it ever fill up around here at this time?”
harry shrugs. “not usually, no,” he says, clearing his throat to work out some of the hoarseness leftover from his sleep.
“great, alright, wicked,” liam says, all in a row like that. “will you come with me - er, i mean,” he says, suddenly losing a bit of steam, his eyebrows beginning to crumple together, though his smile only dims for a moment before it returns, earnest. “there’s - across the street, you know that karaoke place, yeah?”
“yeah,” harry says slowly. he gives liam an encouraging smile, his dimples poking out.
liam says, “well,” and touches his hand to the back of his head, ruffling his own hair. “i’ve sort of finally got a spot in the line up, you should - will you go over there with me?”
harry feels both of his eyebrows raise up. “right now?” he says, glancing over at the clock at the wall, down at his hands still holding his apron’s loose strings, at his grimy unwashed jeans and the queen t-shirt he threw on that’d been sitting on his floor.
“yeah, right now,” liam says. he reaches out with one hand, offering, grinning again.
harry looks at his palm for a moment - it seems warm and dry, his fingers steady, and harry has a sharp flashback to his dream, how those fingers felt sliding around his mouth, along his tongue, scraping at his teeth. he knows what he wants.
“alright,” he says, and removes his apron as quick as he can before taking liam’s hand.
liam leads him out. he only lets go of harry while he locks up and shakes his hands through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, but as soon as harry’s finished and facing liam again, crooking a helpless smile at him, liam laughs like they’re sharing a joke and says, “come on, then.” he takes his hand once more, guiding him across the street.
“you smell good,” liam says, leaning closer for an exaggerated sniff, his arm winding around harry’s waist to steady him as they step up onto the curb. “is that vanilla?”
probably it is, harry thinks. and it’ll be nice, to finally see what the palace is like inside.
*
harry’s been unable to get the robin thicke medley liam had sung from the other night out of his head, recalling over and over the way liam’s voice had lifted so easily up into a falsetto, sliding seamlessly down into his vibrato, and liam’s in the shop now, on a fresh morning, tucked back into his regular coat and tie and white top, staring at the same rows of pastries that’re always there each time he comes in, his expression a picture of deliberation like he hasn’t probably memorized the options by now.
harry suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, refusing to believe that it’s this difficult for him to decide, not that they’re in a rush.
“don’t see anything you’d like?” he asks, giving liam half a smile when he looks up at the sound of harry’s voice.
“oh,” liam says, touching his own neck, sliding his fingers across the angle of his jaw. “it’s not that, i just -”
“right, maybe there’s something in the back,” harry says. “that you haven’t tried yet, yeah?” he holds the eye contact with liam when his gaze snaps up to harry’s face again. “if you want to have a look,” harry says.
liam drops his hand from his face. he looks at harry, then down at the case again before shaking his head once, resolved. “alright, yeah,” he says, “let’s go on, then.”
harry hadn’t had time to fool around with any overstocked supplies this morning, so there isn’t anything in the kitchen that hadn’t been in the display case out front, but it doesn’t stop him from showing liam the supply cabinet, explaining that this is where he keeps the extra flour, if liam wanted him to whip something up quick on the spot, though he might not put the most sincerity behind his words, might not’ve been as convincing as he would’ve liked.
at least, liam doesn’t seem very surprised when harry winds up pressing him against the closed cabinet door instead, murmuring, “or, you could always go for today’s special, i hear it’s delicious,” before he kisses him under the dimmed overhead light, surrounded by the smell of butter and sugar.
the real surprise is the way liam kisses back until they’re breathing heavily and harsh into each other’s mouths, harry’s jaw feeling sore, liam’s hands hot on the back of his neck and in his hair.
AU where liam works nights at a 24-hour karaoke palace and harry works at the donut shop across the street. idek what i want from this, really, aside from liam stumbling around sleepily at the end of a long shift, all dopey smiles and humming to himself unconsciously, and harry smelling like cinnamon and having smears of flour on his cheeks.
warnings for it being in all lower-case & written like actual comment fic, as well as nothing at all happening. standard disclaimer applies. hope you enjoy it, boo ♥
*
harry hasn’t exactly been inside of the karaoke palace before, though he’d seen the queue outside curling around half the block like a comma even at dawn enough times to know there must be something to the posters and adverts selling reasonably priced happy hour slung up against the corkboard in his shop, fraying on the brick walls of the adjacent buildings lining the street, above the windows of the tube that he catches on his way home. every now and then the posters’ll have an attractive face or two graphed on them, featuring returning nightly guests, but they blur by too fast for harry to commit much to memory - a slur of mediocre graphics and borders.
it’s not entirely intentional that harry has yet to step foot in; it’s been down to conflicting work hours, a matter of circumstance - and as he shuffles into the shop, exchanging a sleepy nod and lazy slow-dimpled smile with the blonde irish bloke who takes the graveyard shift before him, stumbling behind the counter and tying his white apron around his waist, he wonders what it’d be like.
the glimmer of lights from the palace reflect well into the shop, flashing against the clear surface of the countertop, touching over the rows of pastries below in the display case. even from the cash register in the corner, it’s not hard to squint through his shop’s large window out across the street and envision the crowd, the smell of smoke and grease - nothing like the sweet frosting and fresh dough he’s surrounded by, the stage splayed out under great big spotlights and the roar of the crowd as each newcomer takes the mic. maybe the private rented rooms are more subdued - more full up on relaxed comfortable giggles and tipped over empty bottles.
it’s almost enough to imagine it, anyway, as harry takes inventory, biting at his thumb and peering into the shelves of baking pans. he doesn’t need to actually see for himself.
he’s having a particularly slow night. exhaustion buzzes above his skin like a simmer that won't boil from the chilled morning weather and yesterday’s late lecture he'd tried to diligently take notes on and, instead, mostly managed to doodle an idea of a tattoo he's been tossing around - not that he'd ever set anything into stone before talking it over with his artist, zayn, who takes all of the sloppy ink harry gets to heart whether he'd personally had a hand in it or not. but now it's the start of the weekend and he’s found a mess of overstocked jams for fillings and powdered sugars for him to play with that won't keep come monday.
he’s distracted by curving his hands around the dough, trying not to frown too much at the wonky oblong shape - no different than the four other donuts that’ve come before it, each one now spaced out on the sheet of wax paper next to his elbow. he glances over to the flash fryer, bubbling and hot and ready to go, and doesn't hear the bell above the shop door chime, signaling the entry of a customer.
he doesn’t know anyone’s there until he’s finished deep frying, set the donuts to cool safely, and he’s wiping his sweaty face on the sleeve of his jumper, pushing his curls off his forehead where they’ve started to stick to his skin, stumbling out of the kitchen and into the front room, the lighting feeling temporarily overly bright, blinding when he tries to blink and clear his eyes.
when he can focus, there’s a tall boy standing on the other side of the counter, leaning up against it on his elbow, his hip slanted into the display case. he’s smiling though, like he’s been terribly amused and hasn’t been left waiting at all. his overcoat collar’s pulled up around his neck, the lapels open so that harry can see he’s got a black tie loose around his throat, hanging undone over a crisp white button down, like a waiter off work.
harry smiles easily back at him, setting his hands palm down on the other side of the counter across from the boy. “hi,” he says. “what can i do for you?”
the boy looks down for a moment at the display case, his mouth folding in like he’s rubbing his lips together, and harry’s struck by the length of his eyelashes, the slope of his nose.
“hello,” he says, his voice warm and lower than harry expected. he glances back up to harry’s face, his cheeks pushing up with a smile as he says, “wondered if i could get a bit of coffee, haven’t been able to decide on one of these yet,” he taps the top of the counter with two fingers. “though, whatever you’ve been working away at back there looked like fun.”
fortunately, harry doesn’t have to try very hard to convince him that he really should rather pass them up, the boy gives into a laugh easily, and harry asks for a mo’ before he turns around to start a fresh batch in the coffee machine.
while he waits for it to drip, he thinks he hears a soft hum, almost a murmuring. he looks over to the other side of the counter where the boy’s dropped into a squat as if to get a better view of the pastries inside, and harry can’t see his face, but he’s pretty sure it’s him - that lilting hum, just hinting at the thread of a melody, tucked beneath his breath like he doesn’t mean to.
sure enough when harry returns to the counter and passes the boy a full styrofoam cup, he shrugs, apologetic, sheepish like he’s been caught, quirking half a smile at harry, saying, “sorry, mate, got a tune in my head, can’t get it out for the life of me.”
his low voice takes harry by surprise for the second time, something about it disarming in combination with his face. harry shrugs back then, smiling indulgently. “that’s alright,” he says slowly. “care to share?”
the boy raises an eyebrow at him as if asking are you sure before shooting harry a grin like he’s taking him up on a challenge and crooning on pitch just loud enough to be heard the opening to george michael’s faith.
his tone is smooth and easy, and his whole face transforms, his eyebrows creasing up, involuntarily gesturing with his hands. it sets harry back a moment until the recognition clicks in and harry throws his head back, laughing. he thinks fleetingly of the tattoos on his ankles.
in the end, the boy pays for his single cup of coffee in cash, so harry doesn’t catch his name like he’d been half-hoping he would from a potential credit card. when he leaves, harry can see the boy isn’t wearing slacks like harry had expected - just dark wash fitted jeans sagging below the cut of his coat.
*
harry doesn’t think about the boy for the rest of the day - not even the next morning on his commute, but the bloke comes in again around the same time, catching harry just as unaware as the first time around.
harry’s crouched behind the counter, shelving warm apple fritters and bear claws, his knees against the cold hard tile of the floor, biting his lip in concentration when he hears a tentative, amused, “alright there?” the voice is tinged with familiarity, and harry almost drops the whole tray he’s balancing in one hand.
he manages to keep it together - reaching up and placing the tray on the counter, bending to stand, brushing off the excess dirt and flour stuck to his jeans and the front of his apron, looking up again into the boy’s voice like déjà vu. his expression seems almost identical to the first time around - that same watchful, bright, appreciative grin, same full mouth, same straight white teeth, same stubble.
the boy’s more energetic this time though, pantomiming expansively with one hand while he talks, rubbing his fingers across his mouth with emphasis, retaining eye contact the whole time harry takes his order. when the boy bends his head down towards the case, his eyebrows drawing together in thought much like they had when he’d sung before, his fingers spanning the rows of pastries below, harry can see the way his hair’s longer on top, sculpted like a faux hawk.
the boy introduces himself after harry hands over a coffee, calling himself liam, and harry repeats it over and over in his head, liam liam liam, like it’s difficult to remember as he pulls out a multicolored sprinkled donut from the case with a pair of tongs, sliding it carefully into a bag for liam.
*
liam isn’t difficult to remember at all. he returns like clockwork most mornings - right in the sweet spot of harry’s dead hours, most normal people asleep or just getting there, only waking up if they have to.
liam becomes a jumble of a new song stuck in the quiet space between them just like it’s stuck in liam’s head, breathing to life whenever harry’s got his back turned towards the coffee machine, whenever he’s leaning over to bag a chocolate bar or glazed buttermilk. liam’ll hold his hands out in front of himself, placating, swearing that he isn’t doing it on purpose whenever harry finds himself humming along, not that harry exactly minds; harry’s mostly distracted by the way liam’s hands look spread out like that - his wide palms and long fingers evenly spaced apart. he’s always got his coat on too, and he’s armed with an endless supply of those same soft smiles that manage to appear genuine, as if harry honestly brings them out of him.
sometimes, liam strolls in with a mate, this bloke shorter than both liam and harry, his voice more raspy, but he’s nice, funny, even when he whispers something furiously to liam while harry’s ringing them up that has liam elbowing the bloke sharply in the stomach.
one night before harry has to wake up for his shift, he dreams that he’s in the shop already but it looks wrong, different, the counter and display case in the center of the room, turned sideways, spread like a surgeon’s table, the bright overhead lights shining down on it and making it hot to the touch. the cash register’s gone, disappeared, and there’s sheets and sheets of uncooked pastries on wax paper in the kitchen, littered over every piece of available surface.
harry feels the need to try a finished product - and he reaches right through the glass, into the display case, selecting a glazed twist out of the assortment.
he wets his mouth in anticipation and brings it up to have a bite, but before he can, his mouth hung open, tongue already out, he suddenly hears liam say, “do you mind? could i have a go?”
harry looks up from the donut to see liam laying on the display case on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. he’s not got a shirt on, and his skin looks shiny, as if it’s glazed too. he’s grinning at harry - a much wider grin than he’d normally offer, all of his teeth showing.
liam pushes himself up onto his hands, his palms flat against the display case, leaning forward like harry’s already said yes, his bare chest and shoulders looming closer, his head angling up so that he has enough leverage to take a bite, his mouth unfolding.
harry watches liam as he chews slowly and swallows, making a drawn out noise, a heartful mmm, as if he’s been starving, hasn’t known food for years, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, his lips pursing slightly, so harry does the only thing he can think of, proffering the donut, chasing liam’s mouth with it, saying, “did you want more?”
“yeah,” liam says slow and sure, opening his eyes that look dark now, dilated. “i’d like that.” he licks his lips.
it makes harry feel dizzy to watch liam’s face, like his head’s weighted and his sinuses are stuffed, as if it’s too much for him to lift up alone, and his gaze drops to the floor, his hand suddenly feeling heavy too, and he’s tipping forward before he realizes it, collapsing into the side of the display case, dropping the donut to the floor, though liam doesn’t seem to mind. the meat of liam’s naked shoulder is right there, nearly under harry’s mouth, and harry realizes that he hadn’t wanted the glazed twist all along, it’s been the wrong choice, what he’d really wanted - what he really wants is this, so he opens his mouth on liam’s shoulder for a taste.
harry’s in the middle of trying to eat liam’s fingers and neck simultaneously when liam’s breathy voice saying, “there’s enough of me to go around, no need to rush, i’ll be here all night,” morphs into a loud series of beeps and harry blinks his eyes open only for the side of his duvet and pillow to come into view, the dry taste of stale air rolling around in his mouth rather different from liam’s sweet skin.
he’s half-hard in his pants, torn between confusion and trying to suss out if he has enough spare time to finish the job. he shuts off his alarm.
*
the next time liam walks into the shop, he’s early - really early. harry’s only let himself in moments ago, he’s still fumbling with the strings of his apron, winding them twice around his middle, about to tie them into a bow in front of his tummy.
liam doesn’t have his coat on or his tie loose around his neck, and his button-down shirt isn’t the same either, a darker gray color, the top few buttons left undone, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, closed pockets at his pecs. he’s got tattoos on his forearms that flash into view when he waves a greeting and waltzes up to the counter with purpose, stopping harry’s startled hello mid-track.
“listen,” liam says. he seems buzzed, bouncing on the toes of his feet, pressing his hands down onto the glass and leaning forward as if to get a better look at harry’s face. “you’re not too busy right now, are you? does it ever fill up around here at this time?”
harry shrugs. “not usually, no,” he says, clearing his throat to work out some of the hoarseness leftover from his sleep.
“great, alright, wicked,” liam says, all in a row like that. “will you come with me - er, i mean,” he says, suddenly losing a bit of steam, his eyebrows beginning to crumple together, though his smile only dims for a moment before it returns, earnest. “there’s - across the street, you know that karaoke place, yeah?”
“yeah,” harry says slowly. he gives liam an encouraging smile, his dimples poking out.
liam says, “well,” and touches his hand to the back of his head, ruffling his own hair. “i’ve sort of finally got a spot in the line up, you should - will you go over there with me?”
harry feels both of his eyebrows raise up. “right now?” he says, glancing over at the clock at the wall, down at his hands still holding his apron’s loose strings, at his grimy unwashed jeans and the queen t-shirt he threw on that’d been sitting on his floor.
“yeah, right now,” liam says. he reaches out with one hand, offering, grinning again.
harry looks at his palm for a moment - it seems warm and dry, his fingers steady, and harry has a sharp flashback to his dream, how those fingers felt sliding around his mouth, along his tongue, scraping at his teeth. he knows what he wants.
“alright,” he says, and removes his apron as quick as he can before taking liam’s hand.
liam leads him out. he only lets go of harry while he locks up and shakes his hands through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, but as soon as harry’s finished and facing liam again, crooking a helpless smile at him, liam laughs like they’re sharing a joke and says, “come on, then.” he takes his hand once more, guiding him across the street.
“you smell good,” liam says, leaning closer for an exaggerated sniff, his arm winding around harry’s waist to steady him as they step up onto the curb. “is that vanilla?”
probably it is, harry thinks. and it’ll be nice, to finally see what the palace is like inside.
*
harry’s been unable to get the robin thicke medley liam had sung from the other night out of his head, recalling over and over the way liam’s voice had lifted so easily up into a falsetto, sliding seamlessly down into his vibrato, and liam’s in the shop now, on a fresh morning, tucked back into his regular coat and tie and white top, staring at the same rows of pastries that’re always there each time he comes in, his expression a picture of deliberation like he hasn’t probably memorized the options by now.
harry suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, refusing to believe that it’s this difficult for him to decide, not that they’re in a rush.
“don’t see anything you’d like?” he asks, giving liam half a smile when he looks up at the sound of harry’s voice.
“oh,” liam says, touching his own neck, sliding his fingers across the angle of his jaw. “it’s not that, i just -”
“right, maybe there’s something in the back,” harry says. “that you haven’t tried yet, yeah?” he holds the eye contact with liam when his gaze snaps up to harry’s face again. “if you want to have a look,” harry says.
liam drops his hand from his face. he looks at harry, then down at the case again before shaking his head once, resolved. “alright, yeah,” he says, “let’s go on, then.”
harry hadn’t had time to fool around with any overstocked supplies this morning, so there isn’t anything in the kitchen that hadn’t been in the display case out front, but it doesn’t stop him from showing liam the supply cabinet, explaining that this is where he keeps the extra flour, if liam wanted him to whip something up quick on the spot, though he might not put the most sincerity behind his words, might not’ve been as convincing as he would’ve liked.
at least, liam doesn’t seem very surprised when harry winds up pressing him against the closed cabinet door instead, murmuring, “or, you could always go for today’s special, i hear it’s delicious,” before he kisses him under the dimmed overhead light, surrounded by the smell of butter and sugar.
the real surprise is the way liam kisses back until they’re breathing heavily and harsh into each other’s mouths, harry’s jaw feeling sore, liam’s hands hot on the back of his neck and in his hair.