fic; the great british bake off. (harry/nick)
harry's too involved in his own great british bake off and nick's sure it's ruining his physique.
2k. pg-13.
this one goes out to erin for being incredible and challenging me to write this as a happy fic as a passing comment a few days ago and i dont think she thought i would actually do it but now i have and it's the first happy fic i've written in a long time so i'm quite pleased with myself.
all mistakes are my own.
Harry’s baking again.
A long while ago he used to shake and sweat and vomit when he was stressed or nervous until one day Nick took him by the shoulders, gave him his best stern look (which wasn’t all that fantastic because Nick’s never been good at looking anything other than a bit silly at best), and told him that this sort of behaviour was absolutely ridiculous because you are a popstar you have to deal with it and kindly suggested that he find some other sort of release. Because vomiting is gross and should only be done under the influence of alcohol and it can’t be too healthy on such a regular basis either.
Harry’d looked at him then and said what in that stupid slow way like old people with bad hearing aids do when you speak at them and they don’t quite catch what you’ve said and Nick had rolled his eyes and said go bake something, I don’t know, you’re good at cooking aren’t you?
That afternoon Harry made the most aggressive chocolate cake in the history of the world and if Nick didn’t know any better he’d think Harry had beat it together with his own fists. It did taste fabulous however and Nick didn’t object to eating one piece, and then two more, and then a smaller fourth piece later that night after Harry had gone to bed.
Over the next few months Harry made more cakes than Nick thought humanly possible, but it didn’t bother him one bit because they were delicious and Fincham was permanently jealous of the cupcakes and muffins and slices of cream filled everythings provided with love by Nick’s personal baker, but it gradually slowed as Harry’s last first singles were released and they’d won a fair amount of awards and the stress of it all disappeared because it had become fairly obvious that the whole band thing was a success so far.
But he’s baking again.
Ever since the build up to the new album he’s been baking and baking and Nick can’t complain about the cakes themselves because hell, Harry’s a brilliant cook, but aside from the continual supply of baked goods and the fact that Nick’s put on a couple of pounds, he’s really beginning to properly worry.
Nick arrives home from work at around half eleven, having first hung around to annoy Fearne for a little while, and then stopped at the shop around the corner to buy milk and more eggs, because after Harry ran out at his own place he moved temporarily into Nicks (whether it occurred to him that he could buy his own eggs for his own house, Nick doesn’t know) and has continued with his own personal Great British Bake Off. It isn’t a problem exactly, and it’s not like it’s the first time or an out of the ordinary thing for Harry to have uninvited, extended stays at Nick’s place, but it’s putting a price rise on the groceries as the most Nick’s ever cooked is the infamous spinach pie but Harry’s insisted on cooking everything from scratch since showing up a week ago.
As expected, Harry’s in the kitchen, slaving over what appears to be some sort of pie. The whole house smells of food and again, that’s not a bad thing, but Harry looks stressed and Nick can see his hands shaking as he attempts to line some sort of pan with pastry.
“Have you considered trying out for Celebrity Bake Off? Reckon you’d probably go quite well, what with all this practice and everything.” Nick says casually as he enters the room. Harry stops fiddling with the pastry momentarily to glance up at Nick. Usually he’d laugh at that, but whatever’s got to him today must be bad because instead of laughing he frowns.
“Might have to as a backup career,” he says, voice monotone, face deadpan, and Nick knows it’s really bad.
“Maybe,” Nick chuckles in a lame attempt to stop with the whole drainer situation, “But even if the popstar thing doesn’t work out, I don’t know if I can have you cooking all this all the time. You’re making me fat you know, young Harold.”
Harry turns to Nick and looks him once up and down. “You’re not getting fat, Grimmy.”
“But I am!” Nick shrieks. “I had legs that women were jealous of, Styles. Women! And look what you’ve done to them! Ruined forever!”
Nick’s trying his hardest to be uplifting but there’s still a look in Harry’s eyes that suggest his problems are more important than the state of Nick’s legs. Sensing that no amount of joking around will pull Harry out of the mood he’s in, Nick changes game plan. It’s not something he does very often, if ever if he can avoid it, because being direct and straight to the point about anything serious is a long way out of his comfort zone.
“Well if you’re not going to laugh at my spectacular jokes, out with it then. Why the pie this time?”
Harry wipes his hands on a tea towel and leans back against the kitchen bench. “It’s not a pie. It’s a lemon tart. And anyway, s’nothing....you’ll think it’s stupid.”
Nick sighs and crosses the room, speaking softly as he throws a lazy arm around the boy’s shoulder. “It very might well be, Harold, but is it more stupid than making six tarts a day?”
Nick watches as the corner of Harry’s mouth turns up ever so slightly and it makes him smile too, as though his overall mission to make Styles smile has been a success, however short lived.
“The album,” he says, and Nick doesn’t quite understand what the album has to do with the pie that Harry’s been making until he elaborates. “It’s not going to do as well as the last, I don’t think.”
And it is stupid, Nick thinks, that the same person that oozes confidence almost every second of the day, whether it’s meeting someone on the street, or someone in the business, or the bloody Queen, he’s still one hundred percent put together and for goodness sake, he’s better at being an adult that Nick’s ever been. He’s better at everything.
Except that he falls apart behind the scenes when he’s tired of trying to hold himself together.
“Harry,” Nick says his name slowly, and seriously for once, minus all of the silly nicknames and intonation. “It’s going to do great, you’ll see. Hasn’t it broken a record already or something?”
Harry sighs. “Presales.”
“Well there you go then,” Nick says as-a-matter-of-factly, but Harry still won’t look at him and it’s uncomfortably silent.
“It’s still not...” Harry says softly, staring at his feet.
Nick removes his arm from Harry’s shoulder and shifts himself to face the boy, a hand on the edge of the bench on either side of him, pinning him in place as to prevent him from trying to run away. “Not what?”
“Not good enough,” Harry replies, the cracks in his voice beginning to show.
Nick lifts a hand, and takes Harry by the chin, lifting his face so that their eyes meet. Harry’s are all glassy and sad and it sends an immediate ache to the pit of Nick’s stomach, because while he’s seen Harry sad and grumpy and angry before, he’s never seen him cry except for that one time he watched their show on the telly, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to see that in real life, face to face like this, because it might just kill him.
“Are you sure,” Nick says, voice laced with caution as to not tip Harry over the edge, “That we’re talking about the album here?”
Nick knows within a second that he’s right and almost regrets it because Harry’s eyes shut and he’s taking in deep breaths and holding them for as long as he can because he’s just so fragile and Nick knows that he’d need proper therapy if he ever happened to delve too deep into his own insecurities.
He’s going to cry, Nick thinks. He’s going to cry right here and it’s probably going to kill you if you don’t do something to stop him.
Harry’s breathing is becoming dangerously fast in some sort of pathetic attempt to not fall apart at the thought of not being good enough for anybody and in what can only be described as a moment of sheer panic, Nick feels his own hands reach up to grasp the sides of Harry’s face. An alert goes off in his mind, a strange internal monologue screeching Grimshaw, you only had to stop him from crying, not kiss him? Are you even aware of what you’re doing right now, you enormous twat?
But he is aware, and suddenly Harry’s lips are on his own and it’s the most intense moment of his entire existence, because for a second that seems to stretch on into eternity, Harry doesn’t respond. If anything, his breathing stops all together and he’s frozen against Nick.
Nick pulls back ever so slightly, enough just to whisper into Harry’s mouth.
“Sorry.”
“Shh,” is Harry’s response, and then he’s kissing Nick back, like actually kissing and Nick can’t believe it because up until five minutes ago he hadn’t even really considered it as a viable option in their relationship (well that’s a lie-- of course he’d considered it, possibly about a thousand times over, but it was easier to pretend like he hadn’t to save himself more misery just in case Harry didn’t feel the same way) but now it’s happening, like this is actually happening and Harry’s biting on his lower lip and just oh.
And while Nick’s imagined this moment more times than he’s proud of, he is now being made very aware that he’s never quite done it justice, because Harry’s hands are creeping up his back underneath his shirt and this is more than insane.
Nick presses Harry into the bench, placing a hand on the counter top to steady himself except that it’s not the counter top and--
“Eurgh!”
The sound that comes out of Nick’s mouth as he jumps backwards is one of absolute disgust and Harry’s stupidly green eyes are wide and panicked as though he thinks he’s done something wrong and it isn’t until Nick looks down at his own left hand and Harry’s eyes follow that the situation is fully understood and Harry bursts into some sort of mental, uncontrollable cackle.
There’s a yellowish mixture encasing Nick’s hand up to his wrist and it’s dripping onto the floor as Harry doubles over in giggles, clutching his stomach and attempting to say “The filling.”
Because the half made tart is still sitting on the counter behind Harry except that now the bowl full of lemon and sugar and whatever else goes into those things is tipped on its side and the mixture is oozing out over the bench top.
“Your stupid pie!” Nick screeches.
“Tart!” Harry breathes back through his laughter and then the both of them are giggling like eleven year old girls and the whole situation is just ridiculous.
Nick lunges forward before Harry can dodge him and smears the lemony substance across Harry’s cheek and into his hair and Harry lets out an embarrassingly un-manly squeal before grabbing Nick by the wrist and over-the-top seductively taking it upon himself to lick all of the stupid tart filling from his fingers.
“Jesus, Harry,” Nick says through his own laughter, and Harry winks. “Don’t think I’m licking that off your face, though.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to?” Harry asks, and for a moment he really does want to, like stupidly unbelievably, but he manages to restrain himself enough to ask something of an important question.
“Nope. But do tell me, Styles, are you still stressed?”
Harry seems to contemplate the question for a moment, before a mischievous grin crosses his face and he says “Nope, I think that’s done the trick.”
“Of course it did,” Nick says confidently. “I’ve been told by many a person that my kisses are life changing.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Maybe so. If that’s an option for stress relief from this point forward I might not even have to bake any more.”
Nick grins, because from this point forward it seems logical that it be the only option.
He doesn’t even think he’ll miss the cakes.
2k. pg-13.
this one goes out to erin for being incredible and challenging me to write this as a happy fic as a passing comment a few days ago and i dont think she thought i would actually do it but now i have and it's the first happy fic i've written in a long time so i'm quite pleased with myself.
all mistakes are my own.
Harry’s baking again.
A long while ago he used to shake and sweat and vomit when he was stressed or nervous until one day Nick took him by the shoulders, gave him his best stern look (which wasn’t all that fantastic because Nick’s never been good at looking anything other than a bit silly at best), and told him that this sort of behaviour was absolutely ridiculous because you are a popstar you have to deal with it and kindly suggested that he find some other sort of release. Because vomiting is gross and should only be done under the influence of alcohol and it can’t be too healthy on such a regular basis either.
Harry’d looked at him then and said what in that stupid slow way like old people with bad hearing aids do when you speak at them and they don’t quite catch what you’ve said and Nick had rolled his eyes and said go bake something, I don’t know, you’re good at cooking aren’t you?
That afternoon Harry made the most aggressive chocolate cake in the history of the world and if Nick didn’t know any better he’d think Harry had beat it together with his own fists. It did taste fabulous however and Nick didn’t object to eating one piece, and then two more, and then a smaller fourth piece later that night after Harry had gone to bed.
Over the next few months Harry made more cakes than Nick thought humanly possible, but it didn’t bother him one bit because they were delicious and Fincham was permanently jealous of the cupcakes and muffins and slices of cream filled everythings provided with love by Nick’s personal baker, but it gradually slowed as Harry’s last first singles were released and they’d won a fair amount of awards and the stress of it all disappeared because it had become fairly obvious that the whole band thing was a success so far.
But he’s baking again.
Ever since the build up to the new album he’s been baking and baking and Nick can’t complain about the cakes themselves because hell, Harry’s a brilliant cook, but aside from the continual supply of baked goods and the fact that Nick’s put on a couple of pounds, he’s really beginning to properly worry.
Nick arrives home from work at around half eleven, having first hung around to annoy Fearne for a little while, and then stopped at the shop around the corner to buy milk and more eggs, because after Harry ran out at his own place he moved temporarily into Nicks (whether it occurred to him that he could buy his own eggs for his own house, Nick doesn’t know) and has continued with his own personal Great British Bake Off. It isn’t a problem exactly, and it’s not like it’s the first time or an out of the ordinary thing for Harry to have uninvited, extended stays at Nick’s place, but it’s putting a price rise on the groceries as the most Nick’s ever cooked is the infamous spinach pie but Harry’s insisted on cooking everything from scratch since showing up a week ago.
As expected, Harry’s in the kitchen, slaving over what appears to be some sort of pie. The whole house smells of food and again, that’s not a bad thing, but Harry looks stressed and Nick can see his hands shaking as he attempts to line some sort of pan with pastry.
“Have you considered trying out for Celebrity Bake Off? Reckon you’d probably go quite well, what with all this practice and everything.” Nick says casually as he enters the room. Harry stops fiddling with the pastry momentarily to glance up at Nick. Usually he’d laugh at that, but whatever’s got to him today must be bad because instead of laughing he frowns.
“Might have to as a backup career,” he says, voice monotone, face deadpan, and Nick knows it’s really bad.
“Maybe,” Nick chuckles in a lame attempt to stop with the whole drainer situation, “But even if the popstar thing doesn’t work out, I don’t know if I can have you cooking all this all the time. You’re making me fat you know, young Harold.”
Harry turns to Nick and looks him once up and down. “You’re not getting fat, Grimmy.”
“But I am!” Nick shrieks. “I had legs that women were jealous of, Styles. Women! And look what you’ve done to them! Ruined forever!”
Nick’s trying his hardest to be uplifting but there’s still a look in Harry’s eyes that suggest his problems are more important than the state of Nick’s legs. Sensing that no amount of joking around will pull Harry out of the mood he’s in, Nick changes game plan. It’s not something he does very often, if ever if he can avoid it, because being direct and straight to the point about anything serious is a long way out of his comfort zone.
“Well if you’re not going to laugh at my spectacular jokes, out with it then. Why the pie this time?”
Harry wipes his hands on a tea towel and leans back against the kitchen bench. “It’s not a pie. It’s a lemon tart. And anyway, s’nothing....you’ll think it’s stupid.”
Nick sighs and crosses the room, speaking softly as he throws a lazy arm around the boy’s shoulder. “It very might well be, Harold, but is it more stupid than making six tarts a day?”
Nick watches as the corner of Harry’s mouth turns up ever so slightly and it makes him smile too, as though his overall mission to make Styles smile has been a success, however short lived.
“The album,” he says, and Nick doesn’t quite understand what the album has to do with the pie that Harry’s been making until he elaborates. “It’s not going to do as well as the last, I don’t think.”
And it is stupid, Nick thinks, that the same person that oozes confidence almost every second of the day, whether it’s meeting someone on the street, or someone in the business, or the bloody Queen, he’s still one hundred percent put together and for goodness sake, he’s better at being an adult that Nick’s ever been. He’s better at everything.
Except that he falls apart behind the scenes when he’s tired of trying to hold himself together.
“Harry,” Nick says his name slowly, and seriously for once, minus all of the silly nicknames and intonation. “It’s going to do great, you’ll see. Hasn’t it broken a record already or something?”
Harry sighs. “Presales.”
“Well there you go then,” Nick says as-a-matter-of-factly, but Harry still won’t look at him and it’s uncomfortably silent.
“It’s still not...” Harry says softly, staring at his feet.
Nick removes his arm from Harry’s shoulder and shifts himself to face the boy, a hand on the edge of the bench on either side of him, pinning him in place as to prevent him from trying to run away. “Not what?”
“Not good enough,” Harry replies, the cracks in his voice beginning to show.
Nick lifts a hand, and takes Harry by the chin, lifting his face so that their eyes meet. Harry’s are all glassy and sad and it sends an immediate ache to the pit of Nick’s stomach, because while he’s seen Harry sad and grumpy and angry before, he’s never seen him cry except for that one time he watched their show on the telly, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to see that in real life, face to face like this, because it might just kill him.
“Are you sure,” Nick says, voice laced with caution as to not tip Harry over the edge, “That we’re talking about the album here?”
Nick knows within a second that he’s right and almost regrets it because Harry’s eyes shut and he’s taking in deep breaths and holding them for as long as he can because he’s just so fragile and Nick knows that he’d need proper therapy if he ever happened to delve too deep into his own insecurities.
He’s going to cry, Nick thinks. He’s going to cry right here and it’s probably going to kill you if you don’t do something to stop him.
Harry’s breathing is becoming dangerously fast in some sort of pathetic attempt to not fall apart at the thought of not being good enough for anybody and in what can only be described as a moment of sheer panic, Nick feels his own hands reach up to grasp the sides of Harry’s face. An alert goes off in his mind, a strange internal monologue screeching Grimshaw, you only had to stop him from crying, not kiss him? Are you even aware of what you’re doing right now, you enormous twat?
But he is aware, and suddenly Harry’s lips are on his own and it’s the most intense moment of his entire existence, because for a second that seems to stretch on into eternity, Harry doesn’t respond. If anything, his breathing stops all together and he’s frozen against Nick.
Nick pulls back ever so slightly, enough just to whisper into Harry’s mouth.
“Sorry.”
“Shh,” is Harry’s response, and then he’s kissing Nick back, like actually kissing and Nick can’t believe it because up until five minutes ago he hadn’t even really considered it as a viable option in their relationship (well that’s a lie-- of course he’d considered it, possibly about a thousand times over, but it was easier to pretend like he hadn’t to save himself more misery just in case Harry didn’t feel the same way) but now it’s happening, like this is actually happening and Harry’s biting on his lower lip and just oh.
And while Nick’s imagined this moment more times than he’s proud of, he is now being made very aware that he’s never quite done it justice, because Harry’s hands are creeping up his back underneath his shirt and this is more than insane.
Nick presses Harry into the bench, placing a hand on the counter top to steady himself except that it’s not the counter top and--
“Eurgh!”
The sound that comes out of Nick’s mouth as he jumps backwards is one of absolute disgust and Harry’s stupidly green eyes are wide and panicked as though he thinks he’s done something wrong and it isn’t until Nick looks down at his own left hand and Harry’s eyes follow that the situation is fully understood and Harry bursts into some sort of mental, uncontrollable cackle.
There’s a yellowish mixture encasing Nick’s hand up to his wrist and it’s dripping onto the floor as Harry doubles over in giggles, clutching his stomach and attempting to say “The filling.”
Because the half made tart is still sitting on the counter behind Harry except that now the bowl full of lemon and sugar and whatever else goes into those things is tipped on its side and the mixture is oozing out over the bench top.
“Your stupid pie!” Nick screeches.
“Tart!” Harry breathes back through his laughter and then the both of them are giggling like eleven year old girls and the whole situation is just ridiculous.
Nick lunges forward before Harry can dodge him and smears the lemony substance across Harry’s cheek and into his hair and Harry lets out an embarrassingly un-manly squeal before grabbing Nick by the wrist and over-the-top seductively taking it upon himself to lick all of the stupid tart filling from his fingers.
“Jesus, Harry,” Nick says through his own laughter, and Harry winks. “Don’t think I’m licking that off your face, though.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to?” Harry asks, and for a moment he really does want to, like stupidly unbelievably, but he manages to restrain himself enough to ask something of an important question.
“Nope. But do tell me, Styles, are you still stressed?”
Harry seems to contemplate the question for a moment, before a mischievous grin crosses his face and he says “Nope, I think that’s done the trick.”
“Of course it did,” Nick says confidently. “I’ve been told by many a person that my kisses are life changing.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Maybe so. If that’s an option for stress relief from this point forward I might not even have to bake any more.”
Nick grins, because from this point forward it seems logical that it be the only option.
He doesn’t even think he’ll miss the cakes.