Work Text:
Ding!
“Hello and welcome to The Rolling Scone!” Harry calls automatically upon hearing the chime of the bakery door opening. “How can I help you?” He asks without looking up, sliding a napkin into his book so he doesn’t lose his place. Rainy afternoons tend to be slow and he really didn’t feel like doing any cleaning, to be quite honest. His coworker, Niall, has already washed all the dishes and went home early.
“I’m sorry, just give me a minute to…take it all in,” a clear, high voice tells him, laced with both amusement and skeptical judgment.
Harry rolls his eyes. Customers mocking him was funny in the beginning, but he’s grown rather tired of it after nearly two years. He’ll be damned if there’s a better dessert in the city than his Keith Moon Pies.
“I can suggest something if you’d like,” Harry offers, ever polite. The customer is always right, after all. And-oh.
This customer is cute. Rain glistens in his shaggy caramel hair and darkens his tan trench coat, unbuttoned to reveal a white dress shirt and blue suspenders that bring out the bright blue of his eyes. His thin lips form a smirk as he scans the rows of pastries and desserts, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet as he does so.
“I, uh…did you come up with all of these?” The customer asks, meeting Harry’s eyes with a friendly smile. His skin is golden despite it being the rainiest March England’s seen in years, and his small teeth are slightly crooked and utterly adorable.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Harry tells him proudly. “Some of my best work, these names.”
“It’s creative, I’ll give you that,” he laughs. “So tell me, what exactly is a Fleetwood Snack bar?”
“Oh! It’s one of my favorites,” Harry exclaims, grabbing one out of the case with wax paper so the customer can get a better look. “It’s like a healthy granola bar with almonds and dried cranberries and carob. It’s vegan, too!”
The customer wrinkles his button nose and Harry laughs. Christ, he’s cute.
“I take it you’re not interested?”
“Sorry mate, but healthy eating isn’t my thing,” he answers, looking a bit sheepish. Harry smiles and returns the snack to the case.
“It’s alright,” he says. “We have plenty of unhealthy options too, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I think I’ll just have a scone,” the boy answers slowly. Boy? Man? His outfit gives him the appearance of adulthood, but his messy hair and the energy he’s giving off suggest youth. “Seems like a safe bet,” he continues, breaking Harry out of his reverie.
“Would you like some Jagger Jam to go with it?” Harry asks, taking a scone out and sliding it onto the plate.
“Might as well,” he sighs. “Wish I actually liked the Rolling Stones though.”
Harry’s jaw drops. “You don’t like the Rolling Stones?” He gasps, mentally taking back every nice thought he’s had about this cute boy with the hideous taste in music.
“You’re not going to take my scone back, are you?” The customer asks with a lopsided smile and teasing eyes.
“And just when I thought we could be friends,” Harry sighs forlornly, exaggeratingly sighing and slumping his shoulders so the man opposite him knows he’s joking.
“I’m Louis,” the customer volunteers when Harry passes him his treat.
“Harry,” he says with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything, besides an obvious lesson in music history.”
“You don’t mind if I sit here for a bit, do you?” Louis asks as Harry rings him up. “It’s just raining really hard outside and I don’t particularly fancy drowning this afternoon.”
“Not at all,” Harry says, handing him his change. “We don’t close for another hour, so take your time.”
“Thank you, Harry,” Louis says. He takes a seat in one of the oversized armchairs near the window and flips through one of the magazines resting on the nearby table.
Harry returns to his book but flicks his eyes toward Louis every few seconds. He can’t help it. Louis picks up his scone and studies it, eyebrows furrowed adorably, before he takes a dainty bite into it. He chews with a look of surprise on his face, before he spreads the Jagger Jam on the rest of the scone and eats it in large, gulping bites.
Rain is still pouring down outside and with Harry’s iPod piping softly through the speakers, it’s quite cozy inside the little bakery, just the two of them. Harry’s abandoned the pretense of reading and decides to make conversation. It’s not every day a cute stranger stumbles into his bakery. Louis looks up as Harry approaches and smiles invitingly, gesturing towards the empty chair across from him.
As soon as Harry sits, however, Louis’ phone rings shrilly, cutting the air with its loud tone. Louis looks at Harry apologetically as he answers, Harry grabbing his empty plate and bringing it back to the kitchen to give Louis some privacy.
When he washed the dish and puts it back on the cart, he returns to the front of the bakery to see Louis gathering his things as he talks into the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder.
Struck by recklessness (and the music playing overhead), Harry pulls the napkin out of it and scribbles something on it. He hands it to Louis as Louis makes his way out the door and Louis grins, before reading it over and looking at Harry with a puzzled expression.
“Look it up,” Harry instructs him quietly, so as not to interrupt his conversation.
Louis looks like he’s about to say something before the voice on the other end gets loud enough for even Harry to hear. He jumps and hurries out the door, waving at Harry as he leaves.
Harry sighs and resigns himself to wiping down tables. It will be a dreary end to the day for him.
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.
&&
It’s four days before Louis returns to the Rolling Scone. He’s waiting in line when Harry spots him, bobbing his head to whatever is playing through his headphones. Harry wishes he could stop and talk, he wants to more than anything, but the bakery’s been busy for hours. Harry’s been alternating between serving customers and furiously frosting cupcakes in the kitchen, ridiculously short-staffed with just Niall, his front of the house assistant, Zayn, having called out sick this morning.
Louis is paying for a Cobain cake when Harry bustles out of the kitchen, a tray of Bowie brownies in his arms. Louis sees him and brightens, waving to Harry as Harry lifts a hand in greeting before loading the brownies into the display case.
Later, after the rush has ended and he and Niall are sipping tea and leaning against the counter, backs and feet aching, Niall will pass him a napkin and say it’s from that short bloke who was here earlier.
Harry unfolds it and grins as he reads the sloppy scrawl on it.
Just call me Lucifer (Nice try, baker boy).
&&
“I see you’ve been working on something new,” a sharp voice teases as Harry jumps from where he’s standing outside the bakery, passing out free samples of their new Lennon squares.
“Hello, Lucifer,” Harry greets happily, extending the tray in Louis’ direction. “Would you like one?” Louis is dressed down today in a pair of skinny jeans and an Adidas hoodie, but Harry is more concerned with the small child clinging to his hand.
“Not too fond of lemon, I’m afraid,” Louis answers. “But Ernest here is a big fan!”
“Hello, Ernest,” Harry says brightly as Louis hitches the little blond boy onto his hip. He smiles and hands the toddler a square before looking at Louis with the question clear on his face.
“Ernie is my little brother,” Louis explains, cringing as Ernest gets sticky lemon all over his hands and face. “He’s visiting me for the weekend for some much needed brother bonding time!” He says that last bit with a little cheer, bouncing Ernest on his hip and making him giggle. Harry’s heart is about to melt onto the sidewalk.
“Is he your only sibling?” Harry asks.
“Mate, I’ve got five sisters,” Louis tells him with a laugh. “Ernie here is my only chance of passing on my years of manly wisdom.
Harry chuckles and bends down so he’s on Ernest’s eye level. “What do you think, Ernest? Is Louis wise like an owl?”
“Louis’s not an owl!” Ernest cries, looking at Louis with concern.
“Really? I think he looks like one,” Harry replies seriously. “Are you positively sure he can’t fly?”
Ernest ponders this for a moment, face scrunched in consideration, before he shakes his head no.
“That’s a shame,” Harry says. “Why else would he have those feathers on his head?”
“That’s his hair!” Ernest squeals, reaching up to tug on a lock of Louis’ hair with a sticky-sweet hand. Harry hides a giggle behind his palm as Louis grimaces, his hair sticking together with lemon and sugar.
“Alright, buddy, I think that’s enough of the lemon square (“Lennon square,” Harry mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare),” Louis tells Ernest, carefully removing it from his hand and tossing it in the nearby bin.
“There’s a washroom inside if you’d like to clean his hands and your hair,” Harry tells Louis, noting the relief that passes over Louis’ face.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Louis thanks him, setting Ernest down and leading him inside. Harry passes out a few samples while they’re inside, chatting amiably with the passerby but trying to discourage lingering for when Louis comes back outside.
“Well, we’re off to the park,” Louis announces when they step back outside. “See you around, Harry.”
“Hope so,” Harry replies, grinning flirtatiously. Louis blushes and reaffirms his grip on Ernest’s hand.
“Say thank you to Harry, Ernest,” Louis instructs him.
“It was lovely to meet you, Ernest,” Harry says sincerely after Ernest thanks him. “Have fun at the park!”
‘We will!” Ernest chimes in his high-pitched squeal, and Harry can actually feel his face soften. He’s always adored children. They walk off and Harry stands outside until the remaining Lennon squares are gone. When he reaches into his coat pocket, he sees a half-folded napkin tucked into the pocket.
He’s got the sweetness of a honey bee, wild honey. He got it on and stung me good, yes siree!
“Niall, he wrote me Beach Boy lyrics!” Harry cries as he locks the door, flopping into the closest chair and resting his head in his folded arms on the table.
“I know, Harry. You’ve only told me about a million times,” Niall says drily from behind the counter. “Now will you come help me with this so we can go home?”
Harry groans before getting to his feet. “He’s just so perfect, Niall. And I don’t even know his last name!
“You really don’t even need the first to suck his dick,” Niall tells Harry, earning himself a smack with the rag tucked in Harry’s back pocket.
“I don’t want to suck his dick!” Harry exclaims, prompting Niall to raise his eyebrows in doubt.
“Ok, well I do,” Harry admits. “But I really want to buy a house with him and fill it with dogs and babies and vintage records. Is that too much?”
“You know what?” Niall asks rhetorically. “I think it’s just the perfect amount of insane, Haz. Maybe that’s what you can write on one of your little napkins next time he comes in.”
“You’re fired,” Harry deadpans.
“Nah, you love me too much,” Niall tease. Harry glares at him.
“In all honesty, Haz, he basically admitted he likes you. Just ask him out next time. It’s not that hard,” Niall tells him, shrugging as he swipes a brownie from the diplay case and popping it in his mouth.
“That better have been stale,” Harry threatens, fixing Niall with a stern look. He simply ignores him and returns to restacking coffee cups.
Harry once saw Niall eat an entire Take it Easy Cheesy cake over the course of one day. It still makes him a little sick to think about.
“I’m kind of dumb though, aren’t I?” Harry asks, his mind filling with doubt. “I created a bakery based off song titles and I have back problems like an old man and I haven’t listened to anything from this decade in a very long time.”
“Hey,” Niall tells him. “You’re not dumb. And Louis would never think that, either. He likes you for being a little weird. It’s not like he doesn’t know how you are. This entire bakery is like stepping inside of your brain.”
That’s a good point. The Rolling Scone is open and airy but covered with band posters and fairy lights decorating the walls. There are plenty of desserts, sure, but a fairly sizable selection of healthy alternatives as well. Harry spent a lot of time and effort developing his dream bakery. He’s still pretty in love with it.
“I take it back,” Harry announces. “You’re not fired.”
“Good,” Niall responds, heaving the heavy bag of dirty cups and used napkins in his direction. “Take this out then so we can go home.”
&&
Louis is back two days later, childless and dressed in smart clothing again.
“Hello, baker boy,” he greets Harry in his lilting voice. “You’ve got flour in you hair.”
“Occupational hazard,” Harry admits, pushing a headband onto his forehead to sweep the curls that fell out of his bun off his face.
“So, I was thinking,” Louis begins, gratefully accepting the cup of tea Harry pushes his way, “that, as much as I respect your food-based puns and enjoy seeing you with flour in you hair, we should really see each other in a less whimsical setting.”
“Ok,” Harry answers hastily, before he even realizes what he’s agreeing to.
“Yeah?” Louis asks, smile stretching over his handsome face. “How about Friday night?”
Harry mentally checks his calendar, which takes all of two seconds as there’s nothing he wouldn’t cancel to go on a date with Louis.
“Friday night’s perfect,” Harry tells him.
Louis blushes and they stammer out a few sentences about a time and place before he goes to leave. Harry hands him a white bag with a few scones (two Micks and a Keith) and a note on the back.
Call on me, darling with his phone number penned underneath.
&&
Louis takes Harry to a small Italian restaurant just a few blocks over from the bakery. He holds the door open and pulls Harry’s chair out for him, which he will later admit is because he was on his best behavior. His hair is quiffed off his face, showing off his sculpted cheekbones, and he’s wearing black skinny jeans with the ankles cuffed and a white t-shirt underneath a black blazer.
Harry spent three hours the night before trying on outfits, finally landing on black jeans tucked into brown Chelsea boots and a loose white button-down. He contemplated tying his hair back before realizing Louis saw him with his hair up every time and decided to wash it in the morning and hope for the best. After closing the bakery, he changed and freshened up in the toilet before Louis met him there.
They talk about everything, from families to childhoods to random quirks (Louis never wears socks and Harry talks to the cupcakes while he frosts them) with ease, teasing each other good-naturedly and lightly knocking feet and knees under the table.
Harry shares the history of his bakery, that he dropped out of uni after discovering he just wasn’t cut out for academics and spent all of his savings (with the help of bank loans and generous parents) to open the Rolling Scone, which everyone thought was a stupid idea but is doing quite well, its uniqueness earning Harry a reputation for creativity and write ups in multiple newspapers and magazines.
Louis tells Harry he’s 27, two years older than Harry, and works as a production assistant at a record label, but would like to become a scout for new talent and eventually own his own production company.
“I can’t believe you actually hate the Rolling Stones,” Harry sighs as they finish their pasta.
“They’re just…not good?” Louis responds, raising his pitch at the end as though it’s a question. “Actually, yeah. They’re just not good,” he repeats more firmly.
“You’re so wrong,” Harry argues. “You’re actually so wrong that I’m pretty sure it’s a new record for wrongness. I should call Guinness.”
“You’re a weirdo,” Louis laughs, “And I have to admit, they have grown on me a bit in the past few weeks.”
“I’m not as weird as you!” Harry argues. “You literally hate one of the most famous and well-loved bands of all time.”
“I hate Led Zeppelin too, do you want to move onto that one?” Louis asks, raising a single eyebrow.
Harry shakes his head mournfully. “No Led Zeppoles for you, then.”
Louis bursts out laughing before clapping a hand over his mouth. “Led Zeppoles?” He cries. “That is so amazing!”
Harry laughs too as tears well in Louis’ eyes from trying to choke back his laughter. “It was one of my better names,” he titters, before he and Louis both absolutely lose it.
By the time they leave the restaurant, Harry and Louis’ stomach’s hurt from laughing so hard.
“I feel like I just did a hundred crunches,” Louis complains, rubbing a hand over his abdomen.
“Guess I can skip the gym tomorrow,” Harry agrees, laughing again when Louis mutters something about hippie health freaks and wincing when it twinges in his stomach.
As Louis walks Harry back to the bakery, he reaches out and brushes Harry’s hand, smiling at the ground when Harry laces their fingers together.
“This is where I leave you,” Louis announces when they reach the bakery, swinging their clasped hands a bit. Harry wants to invite him back to his apartment, a quick drive away, but he doesn’t want to seem to forward and being a bakery owner means waking up early every day of the week.
“Swing by tomorrow?” Harry asks, reluctant to let go of the smaller hand that fits in his like it was made just for him.
“Tomorrow,” Louis agrees, breath hitching as Harry steps closer, the toes of their shoes pressed together. They meet in the middle, kissing soft and sweet, before Louis takes a step back and bites his bottom lip.
“Good night, babe,” he says, gently tugging a lock of Harry’s hair before turning to walk to his car.
“Dream sweet dreams for me!” Harry calls out after him, smiling when Louis yells, “I know that’s the Beatles” over his shoulder.
Harry walks in the opposite direction to his own car, whistling the whole time.
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing way you feel.
&&
“Hello, sweetheart,” Louis chirps as he hops onto the counter, catching Harry’s wrists when he starts smacking him (“That’s a health code violation, Lou, honestly”) and bringing them up to meet his mouth.
“You’re a menace,” Harry breathes, after Louis has pulled him down and kissed him senseless, ignoring the possibility of customers walking in at any moment. Niall escaped to the kitchen the moment he saw them, telling them that they’re “fucking disgusting.”
Louis and Harry have a routine after a month of dating. Louis heads to the bakery after work, where he violates health codes and generally wreaks havoc for the final hour before closing. He helps Harry and Niall clean while Harry blasts The Rolling Stones in a vain attempt to change Louis’ mind. Louis is in charge of wiping down tables and stacking chairs and nothing else, after he threw powdered sugar in Harry’s hair and got himself banned from the kitchen because “That equipment’s expensive Louis, I can’t afford to take the risk.”
Niall leaves and the two pack up the pastries and desserts too old to serve the next day, which they pick at while they dance around the bakery with the mop and broom and trade kisses over the counter. When Harry returns home he finds little notes slipped into his back pocket, like the ones he leaves under Louis’ windshield wiper or tucked in his waistband.
It’s six weeks of closing the bakery and classic music before Louis follows Harry to his flat, where Harry cooks Louis dinner.
“Wining and dining me properly, aren’t you Styles?” Louis teases over fajitas and wine. They follow it up with Etta Jameson coffee topped with brown sugar and homemade whipped cream that Harry gets all over his mouth and Louis thoroughly removes for him.
They spend hours exploring each other’s bodies under the sheets on Harry’s bed, breathing in quiet moans and gasps before falling asleep tangled up in each other. When Harry wakes up at 4 a.m. to go to work, Louis groans and rolls over to his stomach, burying his head in the pillow. Harry drops a kiss to his bare shoulder before he leaves.
When Harry returns home that night, alone because Louis has to work late, there’s a note for him left on his pillow.
I want to kiss you in the pouring rain, I say I loved you from the first time I saw you.
&&
“You cheated!” Is the first thing Harry yells when Louis walks through the door the next afternoon.
“I most certainly did not!” Louis yells back. “What are you talking about?"
“These aren’t classic rock lyrics,” Harry says accusingly, waving the note Louis left on his pillow in the air. “These are from an indie band!”
“Ah, but what indie band?” Louis retorts.
“Jukebox the Ghost,” Harry answers quickly.
“Did you google them?” Louis asks with a cocked eyebrow.
“No,” Harry says automatically.
“Yes,” he says immediately after, looking guilty as he does. For someone who claims to hate hipsters and all they stand for, Louis loves indie bands, filling Harry’s playlists with Two Door Cinema Club and Tame Impala that mix with Harry’s old-school taste.
“It’s only fair, love, we trade classic rock lyrics all the time,” Louis says.
“I know,” Harry agrees softly. “But it was our tradition.”
“Oh, Harry,” Louis sighs, walking behind the counter to wrap Harry in his arms. “It’s still our tradition, I just changed the genre a little.
“Well…alright,” Harry acquiesces, pecking Louis on the lips. “I was just being silly.”
“You were,” Louis agrees, studying Harry’s face, waiting for the response he’s hoping Harry will give him.
“And I love you too.”
&&
Harry names their first dog Ruby Tuesday, which Louis agrees to so Harry doesn’t name her Lou Reed.
“You can’t have a dog and a boyfriend named Lou, Harry, that’s completely ridiculous,” Louis had argued, pouting like a toddler when Harry just laughed at him.
She’s a sweet little border collie, endlessly needy and craving affection, much like her father. Louis can’t remember the last time he’s sat down without a warm boy or a wriggling puppy climbing into his lap.
Harry wants to adopt a cat and name him Morrison, after Jim. Louis agrees because the more names Harry uses on their pets, the less he’ll have to use on their children.
When Louis gets on one knee on the floor of the Rolling Scone, Harry cries as he says “Yes!” over and over, kissing Louis wherever he can reach before all of their parents and siblings and Niall and Zayn and Louis’ best friend Liam parade out of the kitchen, armed with congratulations and champagne.
Later that night, when they’re lying in bed and Harry’s drawing patterns on Louis’ bare back, Ruby and Morrison asleep at their feet, Louis will tell him to look at the engraving inside of the ring.
God only knows what I’d be without you.