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Jamie takes a deep breath and checks that his hair is roguishly disheveled before he enters the unassuming storefront of the Patchy Pig. The inside is as close to organized chaos as he has ever seen. It’s an appealing kind of jumble, packed like the owner needs twice as much space instead of laziness. Jamie trails his fingers along the glass case displaying house-made patches and a few examples of custom one that are “display only, reproduced with permission from the commissioner.” Most of them are reminiscent of American tattoo style with bold black lines and a limited color pallet. He wants to commission one, but doesn’t know what to ask for.
The place doesn’t smell musty, which was what Jamie was expecting when he walked in the first time. It has a bit of a spicy, wholesome smell that reminds him of a natural food store. The first time he came in, it was to get the patches on his leather jacket attached proper instead of just glued on. When he picked up his jacket, it hadn’t smelled of the store, but there was a more mellow, homely scent attached. Flowery and soft with a hint of vanilla and honey… that’s what the massive proprietor of the store smells like, and Jamie craves it.
Jamie straightens up to his full height and rings the service bell.
“Coming,” echoes from the back of the store. It’s deep and wonderful. It makes Jamie’s toes curl and his heart beats a little faster. “Figured it was you,” Mr. Piggy says as he comes around a towering stack of bolts of material. He has the shirt Jamie dropped off yesterday in his hand, but Jamie’s focus is on the chest hair peeking out at him from the deep V of Mr. Piggy’s shirt, and the bulging muscles that stretch the short sleeves but don’t strain them. It fits him perfectly and has an appealing swirl of pinks and soft greens that conform to and accentuate the man’s curves and bulges, the shirt pays homage to them instead of hiding them. Jamie wants nothing more than to run his hands all over the muscles of his arms and the soft swell of his belly, but the last thing he wants is to get kicked out of the shop and never be able to put on a shirt that smells like the man’s wonderful ambrosia again.
“G’day!” Jamie chirps.
Mr. Piggy reaches him in a few strides and then steps even closer. Jamie sucks in a sharp breath, tasting the sweet nectar of Piggy's scent and staring up at him. Mr. Piggy’s gray eyes are impassive through his glasses, framed in delicate silver and accented with flourishes that Jamie hasn’t noticed before. He’s never been this close—
“Thought so,” Mr. Piggy says.
“What?” Jamie asks, trying for a confused smile instead of an infatuated one. He’s so close and he’s talking to Jamie instead of just handing him his shirt and waving him off... Then, he looks down and sees that Mr. Piggy is holding the shirt up to his chest. It only reaches half way down his torso and says “Daddy’s Little Princess” on the front.
“This for your kid? Seems a bit short on you,” Mr. Piggy says. His eyes slowly shift from one side to the other, and he holds the shirt closer, his knuckles brushing against Jamie’s collar bones. “And the shoulders would never fit.”
Jamie can’t speak for several seconds. It stretches to half a minute as he stares up at Mr. Piggy and feels words fight in the center of his chest to get out. When he finally does make a sound to respond to the dubiously raised eyebrow Mr. Piggy has leveled at him, it’s a high, grating laugh that lasts a longer than humanly possible and makes his entire body flush hot with embarrassment.
“I… uh… yeah. I mean— no, this’s my shirt. Yep.” Jamie brings his hands up to clutch the shirt to his chest.
“Do you know you’re paying more for the repairs than the shirt?” Piggy asks, moving to the register and punching a few buttons to ring the repairs up. A few stains had been removed and shoulder had a rip. It’s a fiver, all told.
“Dunno what you’re talking about. This’s my favorite shirt. Bought it brand new and just wore it ‘til—“ Piggy holds up the two dollar thrift store tag he must have removed from the shirt. He doesn’t bother looking up from the register.
Jamie clears his throat and stops wagging the shirt at Mr. Piggy. His ears burn at being caught and he quickly pulls out his wallet to hand over five dollars. He can never come back here. He might even have to move across state lines. Fuck.
Piggy puts the money in the register and Jamie is out the door before he can be handed a receipt.
When Jamie gets home, he curls up with the shirt pressed against his face and tries not to think about how fucking ridiculous he feels. The tempered sweetness of the smell soothes his anxiety and makes him feel less like his life is completely over. Piggy has to be skeeved out by him now. There’s no way he’ll be comfortable with Jamie coming back. He fucked up. He’s never going to be able to enact the elaborate plan he had to finally get Piggy’s name (again, he didn’t hear him when he first introduced himself because he’s just so damn gorgeous), ask for his number, marry him, adopt three kids and a dog… or a pig if he’d rather. Maybe date him somewhere in the middle…
Jamie’s phone rings. He sighs and picks it up, ready to tell his boss to fuck off—
“Hey.” A deep bass greets him and he feels like all of the air has been punched out of his chest.
“H-hey…” he breathes.
“You have my personal number now.”
“I do.” Jamie’s surprised anything comes out.
“Save your money and use it.”
There’s probably something witty he can say. Some flirtatious line he can use. “Sure,” he says.
Then, Mr. Piggy hangs up and Jamie presses his face into the shirt, muffling his gleeful cackles in the sweet, sweet scent.