Chapter Text
Most customers at 10AM on tuesdays are students needing a coffee rush to then burst off to class, or elders, the unattractively old kind that come in to look at biscuits and then leave.
They’re not usually Harry’s age. With a tank top and a snapback. And hot.
”Hey,” says the guy, voice so high and lovely and by god, it’s like all air is sucked out of Harry right at that moment and he’s sure everyone can see. See how he’s just about another good piercing blue-eyed look away from deflating against the cash register like an untied balloon. ”Can I have an iced large?”
Well, fuck.
He’s seen him before, obviously, he has, but that’s kind of the whole thing because it’s been when he’s been working rush hours and only handling the beverages in ultra speed - and not the customers and the cash register - peeking over the counter to see an achingly handsome stranger with that complimentary pang of extreme turned-on-ness, only worsened by a solid 83% or so when he’d notice how he was looking right back at him from the other end of the counter.
However. He’s never seen him in full HD. He’s never got to smell his cologne.
He thought they were doomed to never ever get the opportunity to talk, and now here Harry is fumbling with the buttons on the cash register because he’s suddenly too warm and flustered to work. Honestly, can he call the manager because of a malfunction in his brain due to customer sexiness? Or is that just plain idiotic?
Harry wants to: scream. That’s all that’s for certain, in this economy, and in his utter, complete, sexual distress.
See, Harry’s used to talking to customers. He’s used to flirting, almost quite good at it, even.
But now.
Ah, now, it’s the scruff, maybe. The bad boy scruff and the tattoos and the skateboard under his arm and the cigarette behind his ear, making him absolutely unable to even think. Maybe.
Or maybe it’s how soft his lips look, the amble curves of his waist half-assedly concealed with that baggy top, and how his voice is like sweet and scratchy hard candy; it’s honestly hard to tell, but he definitely wants it dripping over himself, or something.
Also. Large. Wow okay wonder what else is large.
Harry hums, nods. Even though this guy is currently making his life extremely stressful - couldn’t even specify his order for what type of drink he even wants (he can’t believe he’s done this) - Harry is clearly the professional here. If he wants it straight up black, so be it, but let’s use the professional lingo first. ”Straight?”
The guy’s fishing up his wallet, long fringe falling into his eyes until he pushes it back with his yellow-tinted aviator sunglasses. ”Nah, mate. Gay.”
Wh-
What.
”What?” Harry utters, because he genuinely can’t think he heard him right, or he didn’t say to him what he thought he just did. The guy looks up from under his eyelashes, and why the hell are even his eyelashes lovely? Why. Are. They. ”God, um, I mean straight black,” Harry corrects, stumbling over his words. ”Large iced black coffee? Oh.”
The most unacceptable thing happens then. He smirks. ”Right.” He takes his card out, leans his hand on the counter. ”Good to know though, innit? And I’ll have it with a dash of milk, if that’s alright, thanks.” He cocks an eyebrow. ”Do I insert my card?”
Fuck off.
Harry gestures wildly to the cash register. He has to leave. ”What’s the name then?” he asks (clearly not blushing), already turning away (on legs he hopes to god won’t betray him now).
”Go with Tommo,” the guy announces as he pays the sum, which is clearly not a real first name and Harry’s suddenly furious because he won’t be able to Facebook-stalk him. Who does that? Who is this absolutely gorgeous dickhead? He’s going to have to tell Liam all about it when he gets home. In fact, he might just never shut up about it ever again.
He hums once more, albeit maybe just a bit more pressed-sounding, then escapes to the coffee machine and makes the guy a cup of black on the rocks with a little splash of whole milk (Harry wants to banter with him how it’s better without, like he does when he sees moderately cute boys with very good bodies who seem to generally care about their good health, but he doesn’t think he can speak right now without failing miserably because nothing about this man happens to be moderate).
He grabs the black marker pen and writes Tommo in perfectly cursive letters.
When he puts it away on the bar, the one for pick-ups of orders, he scans the room for a messy-haired punk with heavily tattooed forearms and is about to call the name out when he realises, he’s already there. He’s already right there, leaning against a wall like three feet from Harry, and he feels his eyes grow large as saucers.
He’s still smirking, and it’s not fair. He walks up, grabs his coffee, making deep eye contact with Harry the whole time and murmurs ”Have a good day” before he swirls around, leaves the coffee shop and Harry’s just looking at that bum of his and how it moves in those ripped skinnies when he walks, how perfectly deliciously bubble-butt round it goes when he bends over once outside to untie a black, curly-haired dog from the bike stand, which happily struts off with its sexy owner now skateboarding down the pavement holding a cup with Harry’s handwriting on it.
Harry’s stuck in here in a sweaty work outfit with his long hair tied up in a lazy, messy bun, and none of this is fair.
It’s very hard to concentrate for the rest of the day.
(His thoughts kind of keep wandering back to kitten lips and doggy style.)
He lands face-first on the sofa and almost knees Liam straight in the dick.
But wait, straight and oh my god suddenly he’s reminded himself of it again, when will this suffering end? He groans exasperatedly, just as Liam yelps loudly at how he suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
”Watch it!” he squeals, sinking his hips into the sofa so deep it’s like he has a hidden superpower for it. Liam Payne, The Incredible Crotch-Protect Boy. Hm, yeah, he can picture that. ”The hell is wrong with you then?”
Liam was just sat peacefully browsing TV channels in their lounge/kitchen/apartment entrance, bless him, but still. Harry groans again, face pressed into a cushion. He’d be kicking his legs like a child having a tantrum too but they’re still in Liam’s lap, still dangerous™ and Liam might just file a lawsuit against him if he doesn’t displace his body right this second. Harry’s not in the mood for that.
So he rolls over onto his back, feet sliding off the sofa and landing on the floor with a thud. His upper body stays strewn over the other half of the sofa like a thrown-away ragdoll.
Liam blinks at him. ”Rough day?”
Harry throws his arm dramatically over his eyes. ”Kind of.”
Liam turns the volume on the TV down, probably looking concerned like he does. He pats the spot beside him. ”If you’re going to be a good boy you can sit with the adults.”
Harry wants to be the good boy for a bad boy. Wow there’s so much he wants to do.
He sighs as he crawls back up the sofa, sinks down next to Liam and stares blankly at the TV. Who even watches sports? Okay, admittedly, football players have the best asses in the world, but what kind of joy could you get from ice hockey? Barbarians in sweaty clothes like 20 times their size. Harry is so very tired.
”There was just…” He stalls, unsure of how to continue. What even was today? Or rather, what even was those 5 minutes tops when his bones felt like actual liquid? ”A cute boy, whatever.”
In his peripheral vision, Liam’s furrowing his brow. ”Was he very cute?”
Harry would like to glare at him. ”No, he was not very cute, Liam, and this is why I’m having a crisis.”
Liam stills, then hums in understandment. Which is sweet. No but it really is. Get you a straight friend who cares about your non-straight shenanigans, ladies and gentlemen; Harry owes him the world sometimes just for sticking around.
Harry stuck around this past month of Liam wallowing because of his girlfriend’s breakup with him, anyway. Not that they were officially together, and like, she kind of made it clear she wanted to focus on uni and not dating, what with the whole, she was completely focused on uni and not who she was dating-thing, and Liam just kept on waiting for her to text him back. For hours. Days. He thinks it might have gotten to 2 weeks before he got the hint.
Liam’s just a puppy too pure for this world like that.
And now Liam’s thinking deep and hard, Harry can tell. He’s wisened up to make very good decisions in these trying times.
He eventually softens. ”You wanna grab dinner?” he asks kindly, and Harry honestly almost forgets his struggles. ”Bury your sorrow in a pad thai?”
It’s not actually sorrow, is the thing; mostly sexual frustration, although maybe this is indeed buried in the sorrow that this handsome guy he’s spoken to literally once isn’t his and he can’t possibly know when he’ll see him again and this makes him absolutely mad.
He should probably let it go.
He probably won’t.
”Can we order home?” Harry asks, pulling his knees up and burrowing into Liam’s side.
Liam’s already reaching for his phone and Harry smiles into his shoulder. He loves his wise puppy. Very, very much.
Wednesday hasn’t brought much other excitement than seeing a dove cutely peck pastry crumbs outside the open door to the shop, and the little girl that came and asked Harry if he wanted her lollipop because she had two and she didn’t need two because she didn’t want to risk the tooth trolls moving in and she really liked his long hair and the inked mermaid on his arm.
Harry’s busy cherishing its cherry goodness when a much familiar sexy-as-all-hell lad appears outside the window to tie down a fluffy, black dog to the bike rack.
He pops the lolly out of his mouth with comically large eyes.
Because the only thing that could beat a low-scooping tank top is obviously to wear no shirt at all; obviously.
It’s only logical, he tells himself, frantically, watching the tattoos shift with his muscles flexing. The sun’s hot, the wind is still; it’s bloody summer and all, and he’s seen girls in crop tops and bikini tops and skirts so short he’s already counted a dozen female buttcheeks too many.
(This guy could rock some booty shorts. He should. Harry could lend him his, they might just fit without ripping.)
He almost chokes on air or maybe some cherry goodness fluid when he’s suddenly in front of him again, skimming the menu up top. Look at those eyelashes. Look at that jaw. The Greek Gods are quaking and so is Harry imagining tracing his fingers along the sharp edge of it, the slightly rounded slope just below his ear.
He just, kind of, wants to discover everything that contrasts, and everything that goes together so well. His slight definition of abs and the cutely pudgy tummy, the flamboyance in his body language despite how hard his exterior seems.
Tommo looks down again, finds Harry’s gaze with some sort of sudden realisation that comes with a complimentary sick satisfaction. Sick, because now Harry can’t even pretend like he didn’t remember him and Harry’s presence in his day didn’t matter; it did. It so did. He mattered. He’s thought about him.
Harry tucks his lollipop into his cheek and tries to not let it show how he’s at least four times as ecstatic to see this guy again as well.
”Hey,” the guys greets with huge, sparkling eyes, and it’s already too much and Harry needs a cute-boy vacation.
”Hey, you,” he answers back, tucks hair behind his ear because he is a mess. But he can’t help but preen under the attention. It’s like, his favourite thing in the world. ”We meet again.”
Now the guy is stood repressing a most smug smile. He seems thrown off track by his own emotional response, which is so fucking rude to Harry’s already existing lust for him, how dare he be adorable? ”You come here often, Coffee Boy?”
And now, pick-up lines. Not fair. Foul play, where’s the judge? He’s tripped him and now Harry has fallen for him, ugh what the hell.
He shrugs a shoulder. ”Every day this week,” he answers just a little bit awkwardly, picks at his chipped, still sparkly nail varnish. ”Come in again tomorrow for more of our fine refreshments.”
An almost impressed nod comes his way. ”Ay up. Good lad.”
He speaks in such a thick accent Harry can’t even begin to try and place. Something northern, something sweet. Something he might have associated with things like chavs being lads and making a mess, but with him, he just loves it. Loves it with endearment, and with like, something else, clearly.
He kind of just needs some more of it for an unknown amount of time into the future, speaking it in most unknown circumstances. (Harry’s kind of very into being topped, though - just a side note, nothing at all to do with how he wants to be bossed around by said northern accent.)
”Alright then,” the guy continues, and Harry readies himself to actually get work done like he’s supposed to. He’s a working class hero if he’s ever seen one. ”I’ll have one of them chicken sandwiches to go, please.”
Harry jabs it into the register, nodding, plays absently with the lolly in his mouth. He has to be polite unfortunately, because this is just a regular customer and Harry isn’t sure if their policy excludes the sodding attractive ones, no matter how much he’d like to impolitely jump-attack him and wrap his legs around his middle. Like, that’s probably unprofessional.
Probably. Maybe.
It’s just that, his stubble has such a bad boy vibe today, and it’s also just that, if he would be consensually up for it he could really go with that stubble rubbing the sensitive inside of his thighs right about now. Or like, not. Whatever. Psh, Harry’s calm, course he is.
”That would be all?”
He opens his wallet, something skull-themed reading The Misfits. ”A coffee like yesterday.”
Harry stupidly doesn’t have to ask; he remembers the order. That’s not normal. That’s just embarrassing. ”Course.”
He stays there as Harry turns to manage the coffee machine, saunters slowly behind him to catch up to the bar by the time he’s done. Harry hears every step. ”So I’ve been thinking,” he ponders suddenly, and Harry spikes his ears, ”would you tell me your professional opinion on something?”
Harry doesn’t share much of his personal opinions and such. He likes keeping a mysterious distance to avoid being boxed into something he’s not.
”Yeah,” he answers immediately, then curses himself inwardly. ”I mean, maybe. Maybe.” Fucking shit gosh darn it oh my god. ”What’s your concern?”
He puts the cup out for the guy, reaches for a sandwich in the glass cupboard when he speaks. ”Does size really matter?”
He almost hits his head on the ceiling of said cupboard.
When he levels him again, he has to actually consciously remind himself what environment he’s in, what’s socially acceptable and not (such as, you don’t wildly start begging to kiss a stranger in the middle of a work shift, okay, you just don’t) and also to not squeeze the sandwich to death in his hand.
”In wedding rings,” he answers, scandalised.
The guy barks a laugh. His face softens as he raises his cup in the air like a cheers, but that doesn’t help Harry in the slightest. ”I meant these,” he says, and Harry is about to fucking choke to death on his lollipop. ”Is getting a large worth it?”
”Oh,” Harry answers miserably.
”Could have been an analytical one, there, or a good sale opportunity.” Harry gives him the sandwich and notices meanwhile how his eyes flick to his sparkly nail varnish. ”But good answer. You pass.”
Harry brings his hands back and sees his gaze follow all until he flicks his eyes back up at his. This is when he, to his horror, realises he’s been staring at his face again. ”Pass what?” he blurts out in a breath, furrow between his brows, and he’s met with a smirk.
”Aw, lighten up, Coffee Boy,” he muses, but whatever else he was meant to say gets interrupted by another customer walking up to the cash register.
Harry’s still absolutely miserable when he trails his eyes back for him once he’s walked back to where he’s meant to be, but the bell chimes over the door and out he goes. Shirtless and tan. Big butt and all.
What an absolute tease.
”Can I have a skinny latte?” the new, admittedly handsome guy behind the counter asks, and Harry hums through a sigh, eyes on the machine.
”Dairy or soy?”
”Just regular milk, thanks.”
He looks out the window and somehow meets the mysterious Tommo’s eyes, piercingly blue, and he hitches on his breath just a little. ”I could recommend it without,” Harry murmurs ritually, following his gaze, ”’cause it’s like, good for you, and… you know.” His neck might snap off, so he looks back ahead, then trail down his body cheekily. ”You look like you care for your body. Very good build there, mister.”
He’s met with a charming, toothy grin, and he should be celebrating he might get a cute future-one-night-stand’s number today, but instead he feels nothing much for it except for wishing it was someone else he was able to act so sly and confident with.
Sigh. Bigass fucking sigh.
Liam comes home with a new tattoo, which is kind of cool. But other than that.
”I hate my life.”
Liam frowns at him in the hallway, barely done toeing his sneakers off. ”Okay.”
Harry throws his arms out helplessly, legs in the air where he’s lying. ”The guy came in again, and I’m just like. I can’t even talk, Liam, I can’t even breathe.”
Liam carefully rolls his sleeve up to not brush against the plastic on his hand, moving to the fridge to look for edible things. ”My condolences?” The light when he opens the door washes a sheen over the entire kitchen area, and Harry groans all the way from the sofa. ”Don’t appreciate the eye-candy anymore?”
”I want to eat the candy,” Harry japs and tosses a pillow in the air. ”But I can’t, because I can’t like, fuckin’, function.”
Liam rustles with the cutlery before he sits down in the sofa next to Harry’s legs with a yoghurt. ”It’ll pass,” he tells him sagely. ”I’m sure, man. It’s just nerves. If it’s meant to happen it will. You know this.” He opens the wrapper and digs his spoon in. ”You don’t want to hear about what just happened to me at the studio then?”
Harry does. He’s just being a baby.
He groans.
”Sit up or I’ll dump this yoghurt on you.”
Well, Liam’s always one to know how to motivate Harry.
He sits up and scowls. ”Tell me. Tell me or I’ll eat the yoghurt.”
”You wouldn’t, it’s not low-fat,” Liam says matter-of-factly, and Harry wrinkles his nose making Liam laugh heartily. ”But listen! So, I think I’m there for a bulky old guy, right. Some biker, I was sure, yeah? Since it’s not in a posh place or anything.”
”Darling,” Harry drawls, ”don’t judge a book by its cover.”
”I’m not done, listen here. Turns out I was blessed by angels, because this guy was about our age I’d say, and so bloody cool too. I swear we talked the entire time through, like about Batman and all. And look at this! It’s so good!”
Harry inspects his tattoo under the plastic and gooey bled ink, beautifully shaded and dark. ”That actually is.” It’s a very good rose to be completely fair. ”Wow. How beautiful.”
Liam proper beams. ”Thanks, bro.”
”Really love this one. Now, the important question is,” Harry points to him, ”did you get his number?”
And if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d maybe think Liam was blushing. ”No. I mean, not yet, why?”
Liam likes girls, so it doesn’t matter. Platonic love is very much real. ”You should hang out, right? If you have a lot in common.” He pauses to admire the tattoo again. ”Damn, I want one too now.”
Liam smiles widely. ”It’d be a friendship bracelet for life,” he says, and feeds Harry a spoonful of yoghurt.
Harry is in fact a baby and so he accepts it tongue-first, almost never getting it in because Liam starts giggling too hard. Liam makes jokes about his landing-board tongue for the next ten minutes or so as they watch TV together and Harry regrets allowing such unhealthy, sugary things to be in the house at all.
Harry slams the door way too loud for a deserted locker room at 9AM. His face scrunches up and he takes just a brief moment of silence for 1) his ears and 2) his bed left all alone and cold and empty at home.
And then another moment for himself, plain and simple.
”Awfully chipper today!” Niall says when she’s suddenly behind him and he nearly jumps out of his skin, or at least the gross trainers he now wears for fear of breaking his feet having to stand all day (okay so another moment of silence for his gold boots put away in the locker).
Niall is the very cheerful (very loud) and very lesbian (very… proud) co-worker of Harry’s, who comes in wearing loose tank tops and a bandana tied around her short hair to change into the absolute dull and off-white atrocity which is their work outfit. She’s also ultimately the only person who understands Harry. She’s like his Irish fairy godmother.
She jabs a finger in his side to tickle him and he squirms with a giggle. ”Dog ate your homework, laddie?”
A boy ate his heart. ”No.” Uh, stole. Definitely stole, he stole his heart. ”Just like, thinking about…” He pauses and narrows his eyes, ”politics.”
He turns around to her and is faced with a frown. ”Politics?”
So he waves her off. ”I was trying to sound intellectual. Isn’t that a smart thing? To be spontaneously pondering?”
”Not 5 minutes before work it isn’t, you absolute nutter,” she chokes out through giggles and slaps his arm for no apparent reason. She’s so violent. ”Consider the philosophy of the bean instead.”
”Philosophy,” he echoes, back to narrowing his eyes. ”The bean.”
”That’s more like it.” She turns and nearly slaps him in the face with her tiny blonde ponytail. ”Turn that frown upside down and get out here.”
There goes another moment of silence for his sanity. Time to hate his life for 5 hours.
”On the go somewhere?”
The guy is standing with a backpack on when he meets Harry’s eyes with a grin. ”Hello to you too,” he replies, and Harry just cannot stop himself from smiling. Knots in his stomach dissolve into fluttering butterflies. Ugh. ”Can I have my regular, please?”
He’s got pins stuck to his backpack, a rainbow one Harry sees quite clearly, and some he can’t make out. One is a crossed out nazi symbol, which is always a plus. Love when hot guys don’t support the Holocaust and that. Kind of a deal-breaker.
Harry nods, presses some buttons on the machine and then tilts his head. ”That’s a sandwich included now?”
He chuckles, takes out his wallet like they’re so used to this now. Like this is just, customary, ordinary, but Harry’s still exploding from the inside out because he's just that gorgeous, ordinarily. ”You pay this close attention to all customers?”
He pays the sum as Harry takes a paper-wrapped sandwich out of the glass counter for him. ”I don’t,” he says honestly, and like, that really wasn’t as subtle as it sounded in his head at all.
Neither is the smirk smeared on his entire face, and when he looks up it’s nothing but mirrored and he sees it with a pang of arousal. Oh no.
He puts the sandwich down, the guy cocks an eyebrow, but then they just kind of like. Smirk silently at each other for a moment. A moment which feels entirely too hot, hell and flames - are the ceiling fans off? Is this white noise just in Harry’s head?
Oh no.
Then the guy shrugs. ”Well. Got a busy schedule,” he replies easily, ”you know how it is.”
It’s just that, Harry doesn’t. He works here parttime and the other part of his time is spent in his shared apartment watching TV or reading old books or lying with his head hanging off the sofa to scroll through his phone. Sometimes he goes out with Liam, mostly not. Liam has dating life, after all, and Harry has…
Well. Harry has a job.
Harry has… a collection of LP records, a gym membership he barely uses anymore, and some utilities for baking. He owns most the apartment’s cutlery and his wardrobe is quite the impressive thing when he’s not forced to sweat in an apron for hours on end. Harry also has no concept of the words ’busy schedule’ when put together.
”Sure,” he says. ”I totally have a life.”
His eyes are definitely seeing right through him. ”You Netflix and chill, mostly?”
”Without the hidden meaning,” Harry explains with a chuckle, seesawing his hand in the air. He swears he has actual life-aspirations, really. ”Just chill with my roommate. Do you?” he adds through a lopsided smile.
”If only I was so lucky.” He grins before he narrows his eyes at him. ”Roommate, eh? You sure it’s without the hidden meaning?”
”He’s straight,” Harry explains casually, and, whoops.
That said more than what he intended, really. A suddenly dramatic switch from his what-you-see-is-what-you-get mentality.
What a triumph; two gays chilling 0 feet apart, and did we establish they’re both gay? They’re gay. One of them is also really hot and also really gay.
”Unfortunate,” the the really hot gay guy says, then smirks as he straightens (ha) himself back out. ”Well,” he continues with a sigh, scratching his scruff, ”don’t have a roommate but a much loving bi co-worker to tend to. So as far as today’s festivities go, I’ve got me my shift down at the shop, then I’m picking out a gift for the little siblings’ birthday. Me youngest two, they’re turning four years now already, just dunno what the fuck kids these days want. An iPad? I’m not getting them a fuckin’ iPad, not when there’s them cool footie games you play by twisting rods. You know the ones?”
Harry has close to no idea what he’s talking about and it’s half due to the accent (half due to their current proximity making him a little hot and bothered) but he takes a wild guess as he gestures wildly with his free hand to try and explain how he means it himself. ”Those ones with the tiny plastic players, and they like, kick the ball around when you turn on them?”
He clicks his fingers. ”Yeah! That’s the one. They’re getting one of them now, no doubt... If I can only make it before they close.”
He stops deadpan.
”Okay so yeah I can actually hear myself and I sound like such a spoiled brat right now,” he realises suddenly.
It startles a laugh out of Harry, and he covers his mouth with his hand, surprised by the genuinity. But it just spurs a shit-eating grin out of this guy. This guy.
”Yeah yeah, I’m just here like, gossiping with Barbra how my manicure went or summat, like the lady fucked up my cuticle or whatever and, now I’m late to me facial.” Harry’s snickering when the guy pauses the fake-posh bantering to look up at him. It’s a from-under-his-eyelashes type look, sure to leave no survivors, and Harry might just feel it in his whole body as he stops whatever he’s doing abruptly. ”Unless you’re offering.”
He almost drops to the ground. Almost.
That was so- so unexpected that he’s stunned. He’s shocked. Actually, scratch that. Little Harry is suddenly about to fucking combust.
He could use a relaxing spa treatment himself, these days. Uh. Not the other kind of facial.
(No yeah definitely that kind too.)
He leans his hands for mental and emotional support on the bar in front of — this fiend, this hellish entity, an evil ghoul in the disguise of a little punk rock angel with endless puns to drive him mad.
He tries very hard to make his voice not break just because it obviously totally would in moments like these when he’s trying to not make a fool out of himself. ”Sorry?”
”Just messing, hun,” the guy grins, which first of all, oh my lord. Second of all, that just means don’t be so uptight, which Harry gets to hear a lot. It’s just hard when there’s miles and miles of sun-kissed skin just inches from him he’s not allowed to touch. It’s hard when he keeps saying things that makes him laugh like nothing’s wrong in the world one minute and the next makes his skin prickly like he’s got pins and needles all over. ”None of that. Not a beauty-care type.”
Harry lets out a breath that could as well be interpreted as a chuckle, but he’s kind of still too stunned to fully commit to it. ”Course not.”
”You seem like the one who’s eager to get one, anyway,” he comments, so casual Harry doesn’t even know which one of them it is that has the dirty mind; he says it as easily as if he’s talking about fucking laundry as he glances at Harry’s lips while Harry thinks frantically about blowing him, so.
Is he mocking Harry’s immense need for said beauty cares, like a slight read on his particularly feminine style choices, his face which he knows is perfectly glowy because he makes it so or perhaps his long, lovingly deep-conditioned hair…
Or is he— is he-? Oh, wow.
”Because of these?” Harry questions, flaunting his currently rose-gold speckled nails. He can’t not know. He will not sleep if he doesn’t know. ”Or, why you say that, darling?”
He smiles at him. Doesn’t budge. ”You’re pretty,” he murmurs out of the blue, and he calmly grabs the sandwich. ”Thanks so much.”
”Welcome,” Harry murmurs when he lowers his hands again and yes he’s blushing, yes he’s almost bloody trembling as he turns around to make him his coffee.
Because, if the flirting wasn’t obvious before, it most definitely is now. It’s absolutely outrageously, blatantly obvious, he just referenced blowjobs and Harry wants to give a blowjob, he’s completely cool about it and Harry is just absolutely scandalised.
When he grabs the pen he hesitates. He remembers his name, will most definitely write it down without asking him again, but.
His body is working too fast for his mind to catch up with any of the rationality he’s got left in his body.
He doesn’t have to actually call out for him today either, and when he hands the cup to him it’s with Tommo The Tease written over it. ”Watch it,” he murmurs, both leaned in close together, ”it’s hot.”
They meet eyes then. Because that little ”like you” doesn’t quite leave Harry’s lips, though he’s sure he can read it written on his face. Harry likes being mysterious, enigmatic, but right now he thinks his face might just have an entire erotic novel written across it.
His eyes drift to his chest, the swirly tattoo and almost-abs below that, the perfectly pudgy tummy.
And whoops, now they’ve drifted too far, retreat quickly.
”Nice tattoos,” he murmurs, realises they’re both still holding the cup and he takes his hand back, stuffs it below the counter somewhere but thankfully not in like, his pants, though this is clearly a place that needs immediate care and attention.
Their hands touched, though. It was on purpose. They both did it on purpose.
”Nice name tag,” says Tommo The Tease, sounding most smug, ”Harry.”
And he tips his sunglasses down, takes his chicken sandwich and leaves.
Fuck this guy.
No but actually, can this guy fuck Harry? Against the wall in the backroom on his lunch break? Is that honestly too much to ask?
He needs to start doing some deep-breathing exercises if he’s going to keep holding his breath like this whenever he’s in even within a mile’s ratio from him. Going to have to start planning excuses to his boss in his head too, if he’s going to keep doing his job this badly.
Oh, and he’s definitely not still staring at his butt when he bends down to untie the dog this time around, nope. (Harry would be just as excited and wagging his tail if he had one. The fuck.)
When 10AM on thursday has long since passed in radio science from a certain admirer, and it’s turning into the after-midday-rush when people are coming in for lunch or after classes, Harry starts planning what to put in his will because he’s definitely not going to live to see the end of this shift.
Niall is taking the orders while he sorts the beverages, handwriting going gradually worse and worse the more cinnamon lattes and caramel frappuccinos he has to sign. He’s definitely mixed up a few names too, like maybe Amanda just happens to be called Sam today, and that Josh definitely looks like he should have been named Greg; his parents should rather thank Harry for correcting it, maybe give him some extra tip because God knows he deserves it.
He needs to text Liam. Jesus christ. He needs to just sit down in the locker room and fight for reception to send him cat memes and look at cute pictures of Ryan Gosling or anything else to take his mind off this stress and the immense disappointment that no one came and dispersed it like he was kind of expecting him to.
God, he’s being such a baby. He is actually twenty-fucking-two. (I don’t know about you, but he might be feeling like, actual, two.)
He’s kind of worried too, if he’s honest. Without a word from a certain-someone he kind of fears that he scared him off, maybe even for good. How can he know? He can’t. He doesn’t even know his name. Doesn’t know where he works or where he lives or how old he is. He can’t exactly ask around for a hottie with a big, curly dog and a big, juicy ass who has terrible taste in food.
Or can he? Can he honestly?
Would anyone know who he meant right off the bat?
He’s working on autopilot and bawling his eyes out on the inside when a familiar voice catches his attention.
”One of these,” he says, ever so casually polite, ”and an iced coffee. Your friend knows how I want it.”
He stills, but really doesn’t have to turn around to know. He’s been fantasizing endlessly about that voice for the past days.
He was almost starting to think Tommo The Handsome Stranger might have just been a figment of his imagination.
He makes his coffee fast as to get a second to spare with him, fumbles with the pen as he walks up to the counter where he’s already standing.
”You’re a fan of chicken,” Harry points out about the wrapped chicken sandwich he’s holding in his hand, still scribbling on the cup.
It feels weird. Like electricity. He kind of can’t meet his eye, half from nerves, half from how much he knows it’ll give a pang in his tummy with the memory from yesterday. When they touched hands and he murmured sweetly. Can’t get much better than that.
And all at the same time, he’s growing way too comfortable, he realises. He suddenly feels like he can be smug and banter and maybe that isn’t very healthy, because now they’ve almost established a friendship status, and now it almost feels like attachment. Although, maybe this is only to be expected after someone confides their sexuality to you within the first five sentences or so of your initial conversation... who knows.
”Hello to you too, Harry,” he answers in that lovely thick accent, and Harry just has to smile, all tension suddenly but a memory on his face. ”I am, yeah, thanks for noticing. Protein and all that.”
”Strong boy.”
”You bet.” He’s grinning now, leaning a hand on the counter so his tank top scoops even lower on those delicious collarbones. ”Make me a good chicken dish of me own actually.”
Harry puts his drink down for him and caps the pen. ”Do tell,” he chirps, genuinely interested. Genuinely just wants to hear him talk for hours.
The queue is long, but so is the list of conversations he wants to have with this enigma of a man. Guess once which option wins. He missed him.
”Easy stuff,” Tommo The Modest deflects. ”Wrap it in some parma ham, stuff it with mozzarella - the words the recipe uses, of course - and into the oven. Winner.”
”Sounds complicated,” says Harry, fights an urge to lean his face in his hands and just watch him dreamily. (If no one was here he would. If no one was here he’d probably already have pulled his pants down and leaned himself over the counter too, though. Jesus.) ”I’m impressed.”
”Didn’t take it I’d be so talented in the culinary arts?”
Harry shrugs in a meh-gesture, putting a leg out towards the machine as a promise to himself that’s the direction he’s going, once he’s done rewarding himself bigtime. ”Took you for a, like, heat-up-some-ravioli type of guy.”
He laughs heartily. ”Right, yeah, shit you got me. Only dish I can make other than heating up canned and frozen foods, if I’m honest.” He pulls his cup towards himself, looks down at it where his fingers wrap around the chilled plastic. ”But I’d say I’m pretty talented at it, yeah. Skilled in that area, if you know what I mean.” He winks - Harry swears he winks at him. ”Let’s just say I know how to wrap a cock.”
Oh!
Fun.
Harry almost slips and falls and dies, or maybe we could skip the foreplay and jump right to the scandalous climax of him deceased on the floor from a heart attack. ”Yeah?”
Oh my goodness gracious Harry really should be writing a will today. But right now he’s just busy feeling his whole body throb with the mental image of those tattooed hands wrapping around his dick and he’s hoping really bad it doesn’t show in any way outwardly.
Except he’s pretty sure it does, pretty sure he’s got an erotic novel - proper, sinful, explicit smut - written over his face, his heart is on his sleeve, and it’s humping air by a pole for this bloody man alone.
He leans in so close Harry can smell his dizzying cologne. ”I noticed the name change yesterday,” he randomly acknowledges, and Harry watched his lips move. ”I appreciate the creativity, if I’m honest. Sounds a bit like a stripper. But then, I guess it’s only fair you get my real name too, right? I found yours too easily, didn’t I?”
Please.
Harry hums as a prompt, feels his bones having turned into actual pink jelly. Pink like the colour of this infatuation. Pink like the clouds he’d be walking on if he got to find out.
The guy looks into his eyes for a second longer than he needs to, maybe longer than he intends. ”Too bad I don’t play fair,” he murmurs, so low and husky only Harry can hear. He could as well be whispering dirty secrets into his hair. He nods to the side. ”I think you’ve got work to do, my love.”
Harry’s still staring at his lips so he nudges his arm, and it’s like electricity through his body. Did he just feel that? Did Harry make it up?
Is he really just a figment of his darkest imagination?
His voice is but a whisper when he adds, with somehow equal infatuation drowning his blue eyes: ”I hope I’ll see you later.”
He’s gone without another word with his coffee and his sandwich in his hands and Harry suddenly has Niall yelling in his ear about how he’s got three large vanilla frappes and an Americano queuing up and what the hell is his problem.
Deep sigh.
At least the man of his dreams left with Harry’s phone number written on his cup.