Work Text:
The air is cool and crisp against Laurent’s cheek as he stands at the curb. He checks his watch impatiently, the hands pointed in a way that tells him he’s twenty minutes behind schedule, and if Damen doesn’t show up anytime soon—
“Laurent!” Damen calls, poking his head through the open window of his van as he pulls up to the curb. The vehicle comes to a slow stop in front of Laurent, and Damen greets him with a chipper Good morning!
“You’re late,” Laurent says. If he’s a little shorter than he usually is, then Laurent thinks he can be forgiven.
“Sorry,” Damen says, but he doesn’t sound too apologetic. In fact, he sounds almost proud, appearing very much like the cat who got the cream. Flashing Laurent a bright smile, he announces, “I got you something special.”
When all Laurent does is raise his brow, Damen’s smile widens. “Come on,” he says.
Laurent’s agitation dissipates at Damen’s smile, try as he might to hold onto it. It’s annoying.
Damen pushes the door to the driver’s seat open and steps out, rocking on his heels as he stretches briefly. Laurent decidedly does not look at the way the Ios Produce linen apron Damen wears strains and is pulled taut against his body as he does so.
Laurent follows as Damen moves to the back of the van, pulling the doors wide open. He turns to Laurent with a flourish. “Look,” Damen says, then gestures to something in the van. When Laurent looks inside, there, among the cartons of eggs and bags of flour, is a shallow crate of what looks like blocks of butter.
“You got me butter?” Laurent looks back at Damen, unimpressed.
“A shipment of this fancy french butter came in the other day. Figured I’d bring you some, as a gift.”
“Wait, Damen,” Laurent starts, not bothering to tamp down his disbelief, “did you steal that?”
“Cut me some slack,” Damen complains, but mirth dances in his tone. “Asked mom if I could. Once I mentioned your name, she told me to take as much as I thought you’d like.”
There’s a lot to unpack there. Laurent chooses, instead, to focus on the butter.
If he squints, he can just barely make out the logo on the wrappers. It is a fancy butter. Laurent recognizes it as the brand his mother used to keep in the refrigerator for special occasions when they still lived in France, fashioned into rounds then distributed during dinner parties to be spread over warm bread.
“I’ve had this brand before,” he tells Damen, taking one block.
“Oh?” From anyone else, it would sound non-committal, but Damen manages to sound like there’s nothing else in the world he’d like to hear about more than whatever Laurent has to tell him.
“Yeah,” Laurent says. He doesn’t know what else to say. “It’s a good butter.”
Damen beams. “Glad I made the right decision, then.”
Laurent tries to ignore the giddiness that swells in his chest.
It’s just butter, Laurent, he thinks to himself. Then, another, more indulgent part of himself whispers back, Butter he thought you’d like.
What a day, to be pondering romantic intentions over butter.
“Earth to Laurent,” Damen says. He taps his finger gently against Laurent’s temple. “What are you thinking about?”
Laurent swats Damen’s finger away, silently tuning out the traitorous voices in his head. “Get to work,” he says, trying to put on as perfunctory a tone as possible.
Damen only snickers. “Fine, don’t tell me.” Then, “Am I forgiven, at least?”
Laurent rolls his eyes, then reaches for the crate of butter.
*
Laurent is brewing coffee in the bakery kitchen when the buzz of his phone startles him. He chances a glance at the clock in the kitchen, then frowns. No one ever texts him at this time.
When he pulls it out of his pocket, he finds a text from Damen waiting for him.
Damen (Ios Produce) (4:28 AM): Here
Huh.
Laurent wastes no time on confusion as he leaves the french press on the counter, hurriedly making his way outside to the front of the bakery. Sure enough, Damen’s usual Ios Produce van is parked curbside, and leaning against the backdoors, Damen himself.
His side profile is rather nice.
“This isn’t your usual time,” Laurent says, by way of greeting.
“Good morning to you, too, Laurent,” Damen says, the corner of his lips quirking upwards in amusement. “I haven’t slept yet.”
That makes Laurent pause. “You mean, since yesterday?”
Damen nods.
“And they let you work?”
“I insisted,” Damen says, pushing himself upright and turning to open the van. He yawns, then scrubs at his face. “Alright, let’s do it,” he says, grunting as he hefts bags of flour onto his shoulders.
They work mostly in silence, moving back and forth between the van and the kitchen. When the last of the orders have been transferred and they’re back outside, Laurent asks Damen, “Do you have to do all the deliveries?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Damen smiles, sleepy and gentle. “You know why.”
Laurent is winded by the response, the both of them falling into a meaningful silence. It’s broken in a moment only by Damen yawning something fierce. The sight of it tugs faintly at Laurent, and before he knows it, he’s already made up his mind to act.
“Wait here,” Laurent says. Without checking to see if Damen even heard him, he enters the bakery, heading straight for coffee he was brewing in the kitchen.
It doesn’t have to mean anything, Laurent reasons as he pulls a mug out. While he pours the coffee into it, It’s my civic duty to make sure no one gets into any road accidents.
The image of Damen heaving bakery ingredients to and from the kitchen despite the obvious exhaustion weighing him down springs, clear like daylight, into Laurent’s mind.
Staring down at the steaming mug, he thinks to himself, Who are you kidding?
He takes the mug and carefully carries it outside. Sure enough, Damen is standing right where Laurent left him.
“Here.” Before he can think too much about it, he’s thrusting it in Damen’s direction, the coffee sloshing precariously against the rim. Damen blinks down at the mug in shock. His hands curl themselves around it as he takes it from Laurent mindlessly.
“Is this coffee?”
Laurent nods. The surprise on Damen’s face morphs into a besotted expression that has Laurent’s face warming in embarrassment.
“To keep you awake,” Laurent explains, a little uselessly. “On the road.”
“Yeah?” Damen brings the mug up to his face, inhaling the aroma deeply. The tired lines of his face disappear in the wake of something brighter.
“Thanks, Laurent,” he says. Then, “Do I get to keep the mug?”
That’s when Laurent realizes that, like a dolt, he had poured the coffee into a mug instead of their usual to-go cup.
“Oh,” Laurent begins, feeling a little out of his depth, “let me—”
“Can I hang around?” Damen asks, suddenly. The look on his face is determined.
“What,” is all Laurent says in reply.
“You know, while I finish this?” He gestures to the mug.
“I’ve got to start on the bread,” Laurent says.
“I know,” Damen says. “I just want to be around—you know.”
Hesitant as he is to admit it, Laurent thinks he does.
“Don’t you have other deliveries to make?”
Damen’s expression falters. “I mean, yeah.” He sighs. “If you don’t want me to—”
Laurent cuts Damen off in a rush. “No, it’s—” It’s what, Laurent? he thinks to himself, at a loss. “You can stay.” Then, because Laurent feels like he has to keep talking, “I have to get started on the breads but, if you don’t mind—”
“I don’t mind.” Damen’s enthusiasm returns at full force.
“Okay,” Laurent says. “Come on in, then.”
*
Laurent looks up just as the door to the bakery front opens, Vannes head popping through the small opening into the kitchen.
“Laurent, someone’s asking for you,” she informs him.
“Is it Auguste?” Laurent asks. He’s sure it isn’t, because Auguste knows to just walk through the backdoor if he’s looking for Laurent, but he can’t think of anyone else who could be asking for him.
“No,” Vannes replies, and her eyes shine with interest in a way that Laurent just knows means trouble. “He promises it’ll be quick.”
With a sigh, Laurent abandons the dough he was rolling on the counter. He swipes his hands across his apron, ridding them of as much flour as he can. When he steps out of the kitchen, it’s to come face to face with Damen.
“Hi,” Damen greets, his smile blinding.
This is the first time they’ve seen each other after Damen makes his delivery. Laurent is momentarily struck silent by the difference light makes as he looks at Damen. Against the sunlight filtering in through the windows, Damen’s good looks are undeniable.
Breathless, all Laurent can say back is, “Hi.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Damen says. “Figured I’d come by and thank you for the other day.”
“Oh.” Had Damen always been so broad?
“Yeah,” Damen continues. “Mom ended up making me take today off.”
The reminder of Damen’s absence this morning shakes Laurent out of his stupor. He’d been a little confused when someone else stepped out of the Ios Produce van that morning, and there had been a bud of disappointment he was unable to shake off.
“I was wondering about that,” Laurent admits, quietly.
“You were?” Damen’s smile turns pleased.
You’re part of my mornings, now, Laurent thinks.
From beside him, Vannes clears her throat. “I’m Vannes,” she says.
Damen spares her a friendly smile, but his attention is still clearly on Laurent. “Damen.”
“Yes, Damen, well,” she says, subtly nudging Laurent. He ignores her. “As nice as this is, you’re sort of holding up the line.”
Damen starts at the reminder, glancing back at the line that’s seemed to form behind him. “Shit, sorry.” He moves out of the way, nodding his head sheepishly to the customer who was behind him. “Guess I should go,” he says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the exit.
“Wait,” Laurent calls out, suddenly.
“Yeah?” Damen looks at Laurent, eager.
Laurent doesn’t know why he called out to Damen, just knows that he doesn’t want Damen to leave. He grasps at the first thing he can think of. “Have you eaten?”
“Oh, uh”—Damen frowns in thought—“not since breakfast.”
“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
“No?”
Laurent nods. Wordlessly, he grabs a pair of tongs and a to-go bag. He immediately goes for pain au chocolat, picking one up and sliding it into the bag. He holds it out to Damen over the counter.
“On the house,” he says. Embarrassment rushes hot through his veins, but he determinedly meets Damen’s eyes.
Damen, to his credit, takes the bag with little fanfare. He eyes it curiously. “What is it?”
“Pain au chocolat,” says Laurent. Then, softly, “It’s my favorite.”
All Damen says is, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When he looks back up at Laurent, his eyes are searching, but not unkind. Laurent, against his will, flushes under Damen’s gaze.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Damen says.
Something settles in Laurent’s chest. “Okay,” replies Laurent, quiet.
“Thanks again.” Damen gestures to the paper bag in his hand.
They watch each other as Damen takes a couple of steps backwards, before he turns on his heel and steps out of the bakery.
The line of Damen’s shoulders are just as broad from behind.
Vannes’s voice cuts through Laurent’s thoughts.
“It’s my favourite?” she asks disbelievingly. Her eyes are wide with glee.
“Shut up,” Laurent grits out, running a harried hand through his hair.
“Laurent,” gasps Vannes, and Laurent doesn’t think he’s ever heard her this delighted before, “you’re blushing.”
“Shouldn’t you be watching the counter,” Laurent hisses. Still flustered and reeling from the encounter, he turns and escapes to the kitchen.
Vannes’s cackles are loud and clear even through the closed door.
*
One Sunday, Laurent receives a text from Damen:
Damen (Ios Produce) (9:45 AM): Are you opening today?
He frowns down at the notification. The bakery doesn’t open on Sundays—Damen knows this. Laurent unlocks his phone to reply,
Laurent (9:46 AM): No.
Damen responds almost immediately.
Damen (Ios Produce) (9:46 AM): Cool
Damen (Ios Produce) (9:46 AM): Meet me there in an hour
What?
Laurent (9:47 AM): ?
Laurent waits restlessly for fifteen minutes before he realizes that he isn’t going to get a reply. With a final glance at his phone screen, he resigns himself to the odd turn his day has taken, and starts getting ready to meet Damen.
Damen perks up just as Laurent turns the corner, watching him as Laurent walks the few final paces to the bakery front.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Damen says, voice affecting a deliberately surprised quality.
“You asked me to,” Laurent deadpans.
“Did I?” A cheeky smile tugs at Damen’s lips, his eyes laser focused on Laurent. “I guess I did.”
Laurent looks away.
The car Damen is propped up against is one Laurent has never seen before, and the sight of it jarrs him slightly. It’s a far cry from the van Damen usually drives when he makes deliveries.
“Hey,” Damen calls, beckoning Laurent’s attention. When Laurent turns his eyes back onto Damen, it’s to find the cheeky smile on his face from earlier replaced with something a little softer. His head is dipped, and the angle puts him directly in Laurent’s line of vision. “Thanks for coming.” His tone is earnest, sweeter than it has any right to be.
Laurent clears his throat before he replies, trying to mask the instability he feels. “Well,” he says, “what am I here for?”
“Brought something,” Damen says, and he sounds excited. “Apples!”
Laurent doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly, Damen is brandishing a basket teeming with apples, green and perfect and shiny.
He looks at Damen. “You asked to meet me for... Apples?”
His hand itches, wanting to reach out and take one. They’re very nice apples.
“Yep, straight from my mom’s garden,” Damen says, gesturing to the basket. “She dropped these off at my place the other day.”
Oh. “Damen, I can’t just take something your mother gave you,” Laurent says, feeling a little put upon. Still, something in him is thrilled that Damen thought of him.
“Ah, but I’m not giving them to you,” Damen counters. Laurent blinks up at Damen, confused at where this conversation is headed. “I need your help.”
“My help,” Laurent repeats warily.
“See,” Damen starts, leaning back against his car, “I don’t care much for eating apples as they are. I like apple pie better.”
“Okay?”
“Problem is, I don’t know how to make apple pie. So, I was thinking you could teach me how to make one.”
“You want me to teach you how to make apple pie.” Laurent must be dreaming.
“Exactly.”
Incredulously, Laurent asks, “And it had to be today?”
“Yes,” Damen says, insistent. But then, sounding less sure of himself, “Unless today is a bad day?”
“You really should’ve asked me that before practically ordering me to meet you.”
“Well.” Damen rubs at the back of his neck. “I was worried the apples would go bad?”
Laurent stares at Damen, trying to figure him out. Couldn’t Damen have asked his mom, then? Or anybody else, for that matter?
Yes, the voice in his head whispers, but he asked you.
“Laurent?”
This can’t be good for Laurent’s health. He glances at his watch. They would be cooped up in the bakery kitchen for a couple of hours, at the very least.
Isn’t that the point? the voice in his head asks.
Fine, Laurent bites back at the voice. He steels himself, willing the warmth stirring inside him to settle, then says to Damen, “Come on in, then. Let’s make apple pie.”
“You know, this is way more than we need for one pie.”
“Just means we’ll need to make more pies.”
Laurent looks at the apples, then Damen, and releases a short puff of laughter. “Okay.”
Laurent frowns down at where Damen is working the pie dough.
“You’re being too rough with it,” he points out.
“You can,” Damen starts, skeptical, “you can be too rough with it?”
Laurent shakes his head. He finishes slicing up the apple he was working on, placing it in a bowl with the rest of the slices before putting the knife down and moving to Damen. “Let me show you.”
Damen hovers over him as Laurent stands over the bowl. Laurent hip checks him irritably, ignoring the way their proximity makes something in his chest stutter. “Damen.”
Damen laughs, but he doesn’t do anything. “Sorry, sorry.”
This close, Laurent feels Damen’s presence in volumes, and thinks, Warm.
“Good?”
Laurent takes a bite. The crust is tough, the woven top Damen attempted entirely too bulky and thick, but there’s something about it that makes Laurent feel good.
“Good.”
“Yeah?” Damen says, pleased. He takes a bite of his own slice, and the expression on his face melts into something that turns Laurent’s insides all fuzzy.
They spend a couple of minutes in silence just eating across each other, when Damen breaks the silence. “It’s getting dark.”
Laurent glances out the kitchen window. Sure enough, the sun is setting, the sky taking on a darker, dreamier hue. “It is,” Laurent says.
Damen falls silent again, but his eyes stay on Laurent the entire time. Under Damen’s attention, Laurent turns nervous, fidget-y. He’s about to say something, do something just to get Damen’s laser focus off of him when—
“Have dinner with me.”
The thoughts in Laurent’s head quiet as he registers what he just heard.
“Dinner,” Laurent says, “Like a—”
“A date.” Damen’s gaze on him is intense. He walks around the table, stepping so close to Laurent that Laurent has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes, as Damen says, “Go out with me, Laurent.”
He thinks of the pie. Of crisp mornings and special gifts, that dumb van, of warmth, and can think of nothing else to say but, “Okay.”
*
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Damen asks.
Laurent fixes Damen with a skeptical look. “Like what?”
“A kiss for the road?” Damen offers. The expression on his face is playful, a little suggestive, almost deliberately charming.
Laurent rolls his eyes, but there’s no denying the way his stomach flutters at the request.
“Don’t you have deliveries to make,” he says, but its heat is lost as he puts a hand on Damen’s shoulder and leans up, pressing his lips to the corner of Damen’s mouth.
“Be safe,” he murmurs.
“One more,” Damen requests, “just to make sure.”
In the silence of the morning, dawn barely breaking, Laurent laughs.