Work Text:
1. Samir
Samir objectively knows that he's an adult, but it only really sinks in once he realizes that he's grown to enjoy grocery shopping. Though he's pretty sure it's not the grocery shopping itself—it's the company. The same way that going on deliveries is more fun with Paul Baker, so is going to the grocery store. Carly calls it "quality time." Samir likes the ring of that.
Paul Baker has become the house's resident chef: he doesn't cook for everyone every day, but if you ask him to make something, he will. This has consequently stuck him on weekly grocery duty, because he's the only one in the house that knows what goes in a home-cooked meal.
Samir can't join every time, but he comes enough that they've fallen into a pattern: he reads off the grocery list, and Paul Baker finds the items. Samir used to go down the list line by line, and they'd end up pivoting back to the produce section, like, seven times. But he's gotten pretty good at identifying where products are in the store and grouping chunks of similar items together. These days, they only average about two trips back to the produce section.
This week's run goes quickly, which does not escape Paul Baker's notice. "Done already?" he asks.
"Yep," Samir says, though he scrolls through the list to double check.
"It just feels like we're missing stuff," Paul Baker says. "Like, Anton always wants a pack of kiwis. And I know he ran out of his favorite coffee pods recently."
"My guess is he didn't add anything to the list 'cause he left for his work trip this morning."
Recognition flashes across Paul Baker's face. "Oh, yeah, I totally forgot. How long's he gonna be gone again?"
Samir hums, hand going to his chin. "A week, I think."
"That's a long time."
"Makes sense, though. I'm pretty sure he's going to Germany."
"That's so far away," Paul Baker once again states the obvious. "Why would his job take him out there?"
"Bro, I don't even know what his job is," Samir answers honestly. "Maybe his parent company is based in Europe?" A lot of bullshit jobs seem to have parent companies based in Europe.
Paul Baker's eyes narrow, face creasing with concern. "Do you think they'd ever make him move out there?"
"I hope not, man. But I know he makes bank. And usually when you have a job like that, you kinda gotta do what they say."
Paul Baker's expression grows even more troubled, his brow knitting as he bites his lip. Samir's head cocks to the side. Anton has taken work trips before—at least two while Paul Baker's been living in the house. Sure, they weren't as long, but Samir's not even sure Paul Baker noticed Anton was gone—hell, Samir hadn't noticed for one of them. They're all so in and out of the house, it's easy to lose track of everyone's individual schedules.
Samir claps Paul Baker on the arm. "Come on, let's go check out."
Snapping back to attention, Paul Baker starts pushing the cart.
2. Billie
Billie likes Paul Baker for many reasons. Firstly, he is one of the nicest, kindest men she has ever met—to the point that he keeps her faith in the male species buoyed when other men fail her, like Mr. Teacher and that man from the open couple at the bar. Secondly, he makes delicious food and always has enough to share. Thirdly, he's always eager to involve you in anything he's doing, but doesn't take it personally if you don't want to engage.
This is how Billie learned that you're supposed to let a pan warm up completely before putting any food in it. It's also how she started painting her nails at home: she told him once that she wished she did it more frequently herself—going to a salon is expensive—but she couldn't find the time to learn how to do it well. So, Paul Baker made the time, and now they sit down bi-weekly at the dining room table and do each other's.
Paul Baker has years of practice on her but has never seemed to mind her uneven lines and inconsistent polish thickness. Instead, he offers helpful tips in a kind tone and proudly dons every paint job she gives him. He's made her feel so comfortable being a total screw up that she's started to get pretty good at it, actually. Billie's sure there's some deeper psychology at play, but if anyone can shift her mindset, she's not surprised it's Paul Baker.
He's still much faster and cleaner than her, though, the student not yet surpassing the master. That's why, this week, after he apologizes for fucking up her nail polish for the fourth time, she knows something is up.
"What's on your mind, Paul Baker?"
"Oh, nothing," he says, then accidentally paints her cuticle again. Billie gently pulls her hand away, picking up an orange stick to clean it up. "Sorry," he says again, and Billie would smack him if her nails weren't still wet.
"It's fine, dude," she says, "but I'm not giving you my hand back until you tell me what's up."
Paul Baker sighs, slumping back in his seat. "It's dumb. I'm not sure why it's so distracting. But I guess it's just weird that Anton's not at the table with us … can't be at the table with us."
Billie nods. She thinks she understands: Anton does usually sit with them while doing his fake work, like typing up a quarterly report or playing a Zoom meeting aloud that he's not listening to. Still, she can't help but tease, "You make it sound like he died."
Paul Baker chuckles. "It's just been weird not seeing him for the past few days. I didn't realize how much I'd gotten used to it. I think I'm forgetting what his face looks like."
Billie snorts. "I couldn't if I tried. He's been posting everyday on his Insta story."
Paul Baker's head tilts to the side in sincere confusion.
Billie squints. "Do you not follow him on Insta?"
"What's that?"
"Instagram?"
"Oh. I don't have one."
Of course he doesn't.
Billie carefully unlocks her screen, opens Anton's Instagram, and slides the phone to Paul Baker. He taps something and frowns. "This is saying that it was posted three weeks ago."
Oh, bless his heart. "That's a photo dump. A story is different. They show up on your profile for 24 hours, unless you save them to a Moment." Billie points at the locations of each type of post respectively. "Looks like he's already started a Moment for Germany. It's probably, like, fifty slides long at this point. He must have college friends out there that he's been going out with every night. Then again, it's also Anton, so he's also probably made friends with their friends and has formed an entirely new friend group."
Paul Baker taps into the Moment, squints, then purses his lips. "It moved onto the next slide. I wasn't done looking at that one."
Billie explains the basics of Instagram stories to him: tap left to move backward, tap right to move forward, and hold down on the screen to pause on a frame. Once Paul Baker has gotten the gist, he clicks through the photos silently for a few seconds. After about ten slides, he looks up at Billie with wide, sad eyes. "He's gonna ask to get transferred to Germany."
Billie looks at him like he's grown two heads. She has no idea where this is coming from. "What do you mean?" she asks.
"Look at all these people!" Paul Baker says, tapping through the slides rapidly. "He's gonna realize he's having more fun in Europe than with us and request to get transferred to his work's German branch."
Billie rolls her eyes. "Paul Baker, please. First, I'm pretty sure he works for the Feds, but don't quote me on that. Second, he does this every time he goes anywhere—makes friends with everyone and their grandmother, then never talks to them ever again. You've seen his unread text messages.
"And, sure, the free rent helps, but we're definitely his favorites. He's just our token flighty extrovert. Just like how you're our token fluid puppy boyfriend." Billie reaches up and pinches Paul Baker on the cheek, her nail polish smearing against his skin. "Fuck."
Paul Baker's expression twists. He really does look like a kicked puppy who could use a scratch behind the ears, but Billie refrains given the preceding nail polish incident. Instead, she drops her hand and grabs a cotton ball, soaking it with acetone and rubbing it against Paul Baker's face.
While she cleans him up, Paul Baker stares at her phone screen, still open to Anton's Instagram. When it eventually goes dark with inactivity, Paul Baker blinks and sets the phone down. Like a flipped switched, he cracks a small smile and slides the phone back over to her. "I'm glad he's having fun."
"Me too," Billie says. "And he'll be home to have some fun with us next weekend." She holds out her hand in invitation.
With a nod, Paul Baker takes it to finish painting her nails.
3. Issa
Every day of Issa's life is great, but today is a particularly great one. The kids at work were easy to manage, the bus was on time, and she knows that when she gets home, there will be a pot of curry waiting for her, made by her incredible boyfriend.
The only thing that would make the day better is a good fuck, which she plans on asking for after dinner. Paul Baker is good at everything, but especially sex. She has no doubt that he'll deliver.
A pep in her step, she walks up the porch and opens the door. Her nose is immediately greeted with the smell of simmering curry, and she practically floats into the kitchen. Paul Baker is in front of the stove in his cute little "Kiss the Chef" apron. He's stirring the curry with one hand while staring at his phone in the other.
Issa knows it's not smart to sneak up on someone who is 1. near an open flame and 2. wielding a hot instrument, but she can't help herself. She pads over quietly, the drone of the kitchen vent concealing her footsteps, then wraps her arms around Paul Baker's waist from behind. "Hey, baby," she says, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.
Jumping, Paul Baker looks over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Iss," he says. She gets up on her tiptoes, and he meets her in the middle, placing a sweet peck on her lips. When he pulls back, his eyes dart to his phone, like he forgot he was holding it. At this angle, Issa can't see much, but she's pretty sure a small flicker of alarm flashes across his expression before he places it on the counter.
If Paul Baker had been a different man, Issa would have pressed the matter. But it's Paul Baker—innocent, darling Paul Baker, who has always made her feel secure in their relationship. She has nothing to be suspicious of, so she's not.
"How was your day?" he asks.
"Good! I've got a new group of kids at the dance studio, so they actually listened to me today. Probably because I told them that I would get them kicked out of the class if they didn't, but they'll learn soon enough that I have basically zero authority. How's the curry?"
"Oh, sorry, I started it a bit later than planned, so it still needs another fifteen or so to simmer." He removes the spoon and puts a lid on the pot.
Issa's expression grows impish. "A perfect amount of time for a quickie." She tugs Paul Baker down by the back of the neck for a kiss. It's deeper this time, and Paul Baker makes an adorable sound of surprise before reciprocating.
They stumble towards the living room, her hands already up Paul Baker's shirt. "Iss, wait, we're not supposed to fuck on the couch anymore," he says, breaking the kiss.
"Rules are meant to be broken." She pushes him onto the cushions and straddles him, trapping him in place. "So, do you wanna fuck me or not, Paul Baker?" she asks, pulling a condom out of her pocket.
Paul Baker fucks her. She rides his face until she comes, then bounces on his dick until she comes again. Paul Baker, gentleman that he is, doesn't finish until she's finished.
Today really has been the perfect day.
Issa's still grinning like a loon when the kitchen timer goes off. Paul Baker tries to slide out from under her, but she pushes him back down. "I'll get it," she says, feeling charitable. He shoots her a puzzled look, but she hops off the couch, pulls on her underwear, and skips into the other room before he can say anything.
She takes off the lid of the pot, eyes rolling back as the curry's aroma envelops her. So fucking good. She opens a nearby cabinet and grabs two of their largest plates. She tries to set them down, but they land oddly on the counter. Picking them up, she realizes she accidentally put them on top of Paul Baker's phone.
Again, Issa is not mistrusting. But she is nosy, and Paul Baker is rarely ever on his phone, much less as absorbed in it as he was earlier. She knows she shouldn't unlock it, she knows she shouldn't unlock it, she knows she shouldn't unlock it—
She unlocks it. It's open to Instagram—Anton's Instagram.
Her head cocks to the side. She didn't know Paul Baker had an Instagram; actually, she didn't know Paul Baker even knew what Instagram was.
She clicks over to his profile, and it's completely bare, no posts, no followers, no following. He must have just made it.
"Paul Baker, how could you make an Insta and not tell me?" she yells, because she loves telling on herself.
Paul Baker comes into the room and tosses the condom in the trash. His eyes flick down to his phone, and a hand comes to the back of his neck, a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Sorry," he says, "I still don't really know how to use it, so I haven't followed anyone."
"Well, I am the perfect person to teach you," she says. "I'm following everyone in the house now."
Shooting her a sheepish smile, Paul Baker walks over and wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind. He plants a kiss on the top of her head and says, "Thanks, babe."
+1. Anton
Anton delicately pushes open the door, cringing as the hinges creak despite his efforts. He tiptoes into the foyer, suitcase in hand, and shuts the door just as quietly.
As he's slipping off his shoes, a figure bolts upright on the couch. Anton nearly screams. Then his eyes adjust to the low light, and he frowns.
"Paul Baker, what are you doing on the couch this late?" he whisper-shouts, walking into the living room.
Paul Baker scrubs a hand over his face then blinks a couple times, eyes trying to focus on Anton. "I must have dozed off," he replies, his words rough with sleep. He crosses his arms over the back of the couch and rests his chin on them. "Welcome home," he says, smiling up at Anton.
Anton's heart stutters at the soft, low tone of his voice. "Thanks," he says, not sure what else to reply.
"How was your trip?" Paul Baker asks.
"Good. Got a lot of work stuff done, met up with some college friends, hit so many pubs." Anton smirks. "But you already knew that, Mr. Stalker."
Paul Baker sits up, waving his arms in front of himself defensively. "What? No! I wasn't stalking!"
"You liked, like, every single one of my stories."
Paul Baker's head tilts to the side like a confused puppy's. "Well, why wouldn't I? I like you."
Anton freezes. His heart pounds against his ribs like it's trying to escape. He takes a subtle breath in, forcing his nervous system to settle. He knows Paul Baker doesn't mean it like that. "You're so offline, it's adorable," Anton says, reaching out to ruffle Paul Baker's hair. Paul Baker presses up into Anton's touch, and suddenly Anton regrets everything in his life that's led up to his moment.
He drops his hand. "Anyways, just so you know as you're continuing on your social media journey, sometimes people think that if you like their story, especially multiple days in a row, it means you're interested in them. So I'd be … judicious about what you're liking."
Even in the dark, Anton can see Paul Baker flush. He lets out a soft groan, hands coming to cover his face. "This is why I avoid the Internet. Too many things to know, too many rules to follow." He drops his hands and looks up at Anton. "So, should I stop liking your stories?"
"What? No. You're fine, Paul Baker. I know you don't wanna fuck me, so." Anton cuts himself off as he thinks about the other day in the car. His hand on Paul Baker's jaw. Paul Baker's eyes on his lips. I knew you two were screwing each other's butts.
"Right," Paul Baker says slowly, not quite a question, but not quite a statement.
"Right," Anton replies more firmly, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. They stare at each other for a long moment, the tension thick enough to chew on. Anton breaks eye contact first, looking down at his suitcase. "Well, I'm exhausted. Bed time?"
"Bed time," Paul Baker agrees, leaping up off the couch. "Need help carrying anything?"
Anton shakes his head, and they pad up the stairs together. Paul Baker walks into his and Issa's room, and Anton thinks that's the end of it. His body returns to an appropriate temperature as he heads to his own and changes into his pajamas.
But when he steps out into the hall, Paul Baker is already in the bathroom, raising a toothbrush to his mouth. Anton hovers at the doorway for a beat—he doesn't know why he assumed Paul Baker had already done his night time routine. Paul Baker raises his eyebrows in invitation, and Anton steps over the threshold.
He cleans his face and brushes his teeth in record time. He's just tired and wants to get to bed as soon as possible, he tells himself. He spits out his toothpaste before Paul Baker does—because Paul Baker, good boy he is, always actually brushes his teeth for two minutes—and is about to leave the room when Paul Baker says, "Hey."
Anton slowly turns to face him. "Hey?"
Paul Baker spits out his toothpaste, then looks at Anton. "I missed you, bud," he says, bumping their shoulders together.
Anton doesn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. Paul Baker's sincerity is Anton's flippant, avoidant ass's Kryptonite. It's going to kill him one of these days.
"You could have texted, you know," Anton says. Because despite what Paul Baker said, he hadn't heard a word from him throughout the week.
"You don't reply to your texts."
Paul Baker must be rubbing off on him, because Anton only hesitates a moment before he says, "I would have replied to yours."
Paul Baker's brow lifts, his eyes twinkling in shocked delight. Anton doesn't know why he's so surprised. The people in this house are his people, and Paul Baker lives in the house now. Still, Anton feels himself blush as those eyes stay trained on him like he's God's gift to the world.
Paul Baker holds out his arms. "Can I get a hug?" In his oversized shirt with sleep-mussed hair and those damn puppy dog eyes, he really is trying to kill Anton.
"Of course," Anton says, because he can never seem to deny Paul Baker. Paul Baker steps into his space, wrapping his arms around his back. His embrace is firm but gentle, his forehead dropping to Anton's shoulder. A beat later, Anton follows, inhaling the mint on his breath and the citrus of his body wash.
Anton doesn't miss people or places in the traditional way, too wrapped up in the events of any given day to think too hard about what's not directly in front of him. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't particularly tickled by Paul Baker's Instagram like notifications. And now, wrapped up in his arms, he can definitely say he's happy to be home.
The hug lasts longer than a hug should. But Paul Baker doesn't care, so Anton tries not to care. Tries not to ascribe meaning to it that's not there. Paul Baker has always liked hugs.
But all good things must come to an end. They eventually part, then make their way out into the hallway. "Goodnight, Anton," Paul Baker says.
Anton cracks a small smile. "Goodnight, Paul Baker." He turns to head into his room when Paul Baker suddenly whips around.
"Wait," he says, and Anton raises a brow. "I've been meaning to ask you this forever." He steps towards Anton, and Anton has to force himself to not take a step back. Paul Baker's big, curious eyes stare at him, and Anton swallows, scared for what's about to leave his mouth.
"What do you do for work?"