Work Text:
i.
Paul Baker has never been a super online person. It’s not for any grand, moral reason - he’s just sort of never seen the appeal of social media.
Paul Baker tends to favour in person interactions, is all - he likes getting to know people in real life - and when that’s not possible, he likes to actually call people.
He and Blair Baker have a standing Tuesday morning call where they fill each other in on their lives and what’s been going on, and on Sunday evenings, the extended Baker family have a weekly Zoom call, a tradition started during COVID and that’s lived on ever since.
Issa had been insistent about setting him up an Instagram account when they had been together - something about how she couldn’t possibly have a boyfriend who was so chronically offline she couldn’t even tag him in her regular photo dumps - but the account was barely used. He had a profile picture, but he’d never actually posted anything himself.
Paul Baker followed everyone in the house, and Julia Fox - who had a scarily big social media following, maybe she really was a celebrity - and the team account for the Toronto Maple Leafs, because he was a long-suffering fan, but that was it, and he didn’t even really check it all that often.
Until now, at least.
Billie’s shriek was delighted, the noise drawing Paul Baker’s attention, the two of them slumped on the couch, contentedly reading in silence. It was kind of their thing - Paul Baker liked to have A Thing with each of his roommates.
“Paul Baker,” she gasped, waving her phone him. “I can’t believe Anton is soft-launching you.”
Paul Baker can’t hide the smile on his face that appears at the mere mention of Anton’s name. He was in love - it was allowed. He wasn’t embarrassed about it.
“I don’t - what’s a soft launch?” Paul Baker asked, and he could ask Billie these sort of questions - she would judge him a little less than Issa would for not knowing what it was.
Billie rolled her eyes, which was thankfully the extent of her judgement, shuffling closer to him. “A soft launch,” she began. “Is when you like, post these cryptic hints about you being in a relationship so that the people who follow you can gossip about it.”
Paul Baker still felt a bit confused. “But - why?”
“So people talk, and get excited!” Billie said, as if it were entirely obvious. “It’s like, a rite of passage for modern-day relationships, Paul Baker, and Anton is soft-launching you as we speak.”
Paul Baker squinted at Billie’s phone screen, her finger holding the story in place. Paul Baker knew that much, that stories were the kind of posts that disappeared after twenty-four hours - he wasn’t a total dinosaur.
It was a picture Anton had taken earlier that day, when the two of them were having lunch in the park by Anton’s office.
Paul Baker tended to meet Anton for lunch once a week, now, on whatever day he was off work, and he’d come bearing bagels and two coffees today.
The picture was simple, an innocent snapshot of their lunch - but right in the corner, Paul Baker could see his own sneakers, one busted up converse shoe hooked over Anton’s neatly polished work shoes.
“It’s a soft launch because your face isn’t in it, but it’s obvious you’re someone Anton is dating,” Billie explained, quick as she tapped the screen, a heart appearing. “So now, everyone who follows Anton is going to see that he’s dating someone seriously enough to do a soft launch. That’s big, for Anton - you know how locked down he is about his social media.”
Paul Baker nodded. Anton took his social media presence seriously - as the only one of them with a serious business office job, he knew best what was and what wasn’t acceptable to corporate America.
Anton’s very private account was a collection of landscapes, and tastefully faceless pictures, and the rare picture of him, with his friends, sultry poses saved for their group-chat, the ones posted to Anton’s Instagram feed the kind you wouldn’t mind sending your mom.
“Should I like it too?” Paul Baker asked, feeling confused.
“No,” Billie shook her head, as though Paul Baker had asked the stupidest question of all time. Maybe he had. “You have to let the soft launch strategy play out, Paul Baker - let Anton cook with it. Okay?”
Okay.
Sure.
ii.
According to the Merriam-Webster online dictionary, as a noun, soft launch refers to hints offered on social media about being in a relationship (‘I thought a soft launch was called for’).
It was a helpful definition, but it didn’t help Paul Baker entirely understand what a soft launch strategy might be.
(According to the website ‘The History of English’, letting someone cook refers to allowing someone to plot, strategise, or hone their craft. Paul Baker thought he knew that one, but he wanted to be sure).
He checked Anton’s Instagram every single day, now, which Paul Baker knew was a bad habit to get into, but he was worried about missing something.
The whole soft launch process was new to him.
Billie had showed him how to turn notifications on for Anton, and so when Paul Baker’s phone buzzed, he knew exactly what it was.
Anton had posted - again.
It had been almost a week, and Anton hadn’t posted anything about him - which was normal, according to Samir - but he had posted something now.
Paul Baker had needed to leave early, that morning, for the opening shift at Vladi’s, and because he was a caring boyfriend, he’d made Anton’s usual morning coffee, carefully setting the thermos down on Anton’s bedside table for him to find when he woke up.
Billie had feigned being sick, when she’d heard about this particular habit of Paul Baker’s, which was a sure sign it was like, unbearably cute.
Paul Baker also tended to leave a note with the coffee.
Sue him, okay - he liked to be romantic.
The picture on Anton’s story was caption-less, Paul Baker’s hastily signed name deliberately obscured by the thermos, the rest of the writing clear.
‘Sorry to miss you waking up this morning.’
Very PG, compared to some of the other notes Paul Baker had left his boyfriend. Anton had laughed until he cried at the tiny drawing of Paul Baker naked that he’d left for him to find a few weeks ago - Paul Baker wasn’t sure he’d ever top that one without getting particularly creative.
Paul Baker couldn’t help but grin as a text message appeared in their house group-chat.
samir: you two are so in love it honestly disgusts me
The familiar noise of the bell over the door announcing a customer drew Paul Baker’s attention, and he slipped his phone into his pocket.
They were kind of disgusting.
He loved it.
iii.
The thing with this whole, soft launch strategy, Paul Baker was discovering, is that there was no pattern to it - no rhyme or reason he could figure out at least.
The whole purpose of it seemed to be all about dropping strange, cryptic hints that you were dating someone, without giving any real information about the person you were dating.
Which was why, Paul Baker assumed, Anton had just posted a selfie to his close friends story (of which there was close to 150 members, all of whom Anton did sincerely consider to be his close friends) of him working from home, wearing a sweater of Paul Baker’s.
He knew it was his sweater, because it had a tacky slogan on the front, one Paul Baker had found in a thrift shop and cropped himself - he was trying to teach Samir how to sew, at the moment, it was a good life skill, and one Paul Baker was glad his grandmother had taught him.
It was the sort of sweater Anton would never buy, and anyone who knew him, knew that.
Paul Baker tended to widen the necks of his sweaters, too, and so this one was slipping down Anton’s shoulder, exposing his collarbone, making Paul Baker’s mouth go dry.
His boyfriend was so fucking hot.
The caption was some offhanded comment about what a shame it was to have to work on such a sunny afternoon, but Paul Baker couldn’t pretend he was paying much attention to the words.
If he could get back to the house in the next ten minutes, it would be time for Anton’s lunchbreak - and Paul Baker liked to pride himself on his ability to fit in some quick, dirty, and downright fantastic sex during Anton’s unpaid 45 minute lunchbreak.
…
If he ran, he could make it home in eight.
iv.
Paul Baker kind of liked to play along, with the whole soft launch of it all.
He didn’t fully understand the appeal, or the purpose, but it seemed to make Anton happy, and making Anton happy was one of his favourite past-times.
Hence, the flowers.
Paul Baker had been on the morning shift at Vladi’s, which he normally didn’t mind, but he hated on a Sunday morning, because Sunday mornings were one of those rare days when he got to laze in bed with Anton, the two of them burrowed under the covers, ignoring the world outside until - inevitably - Billie, or Issa, or Samir (or all three, more often than not) burst in and demanded they be social.
The point was -
He’d been on the early shift, at Vladi’s, and when he was trudging home, Paul Baker had walked past their neighbourhood florist, and he’d had what had felt like a stroke of genius.
The florist closed at 3 on a Sunday, and at 2:45, there was a lonely bunch of flowers still waiting to be sold.
They were bright, and outrageous - like Anton himself, the brightest, most outrageous person he’d ever loved - and Paul Baker loved the chaotic mix of purples, and oranges, and blues.
He was buying them, before he could second guess himself, exchanging some small talk with Rita behind the counter - who had a son who lived in Toronto, now, and was gay married (her words, not his) and had four kids and loved the thought that Paul Baker was buying flowers for his own gay husband (her words, again), the early summer sunshine warm as Paul Baker walked home.
Issa and Billie had been out, the night before, so there was no chance of them being out of bed yet, Paul Baker knew, toeing his sneakers off at the front door, because Samir’s newly instated house rule was that they were going to be a shoes-off household.
Samir could be lingering, but he was nowhere to be seen as Paul Baker headed for the kitchen, Anton leaning against the counter, lost in his book.
The coffee pot was slowly dripping, behind him, and Paul Baker was so overcome with love that if his hands weren’t full of flowers, he might have proposed to Anton all over again at the mere thought of how thoughtful his boyfriend was, making him coffee to come home to after an early shift - not that their wedding didn’t really have a sincere proposal attached, which was a thought to file away for later.
“Hi, my love,” Anton greeted, eyes widening as he spotted the flowers.
“For you,” Paul Baker grinned, holding the flowers out.
“Oh, Paul Baker - they’re beautiful!” Anton sounded utterly delighted, fingertips gentle as they coasted over the petals. He squealed happily, patting the pockets of his sweatpants for his phone. “I’ve never had anyone buy me flowers before.”
Paul Baker stood obediently as Anton took a photo of the flowers - and him, holding them - before finally getting himself a well-earned kiss from his boyfriend, Anton careful not to crush the flowers between them.
“I don’t think we even own a vase,” Anton admitted, scratching his fingers gently through Paul Baker’s messy curls.
“We have that insanely tall glass that Billie stole from that crazy Belgian beer bar we went to a few weeks ago,” Paul Baker suggested, making a mental note to invest in a vase, if he was to keep up this newfound habit of buying his boyfriend flowers.
“You’re beautiful and clever, Paul Baker,” Anton grinned, kissing him once more for good measure before he began rooting in their kitchen cupboards for said glass.
It’s not like Paul Baker had bought the flowers solely with the intention of aiding Anton’s so-called soft called strategy, but it’s hard not to grin later that evening, toothbrush in hand, as he realises Anton’s posted on his stories.
It’s a cropped version of the photo Anton had taken in the kitchen, Paul Baker’s face out of frame. All you could see was the flowers, and one of Paul Baker’s hands, rings recognisable to anyone who knew him; an intriguing mystery to anyone who didn’t.
Maybe Paul Baker could see the appeal of this whole, soft launch thing.
v.
It’s a Saturday, when Paul Baker accidentally fucks it up. He doesn’t intend to - he would never intend to fuck up anything with Anton - but it happens before he even realises it.
They’re at the farmers market, because Issa is on a kick about organic food and has made them all come at eight am on a Saturday morning to buy their groceries, ranting excitedly about farm to table being the cornerstone of their household diet from now on.
Paul Baker is pretty content to let her at it, Anton’s hand in his as Paul Baker diligently takes the fruit and vegetables in thick brown paper bags from Issa, the neatly wrapped cheeses from Billie and Samir, the tote-bag on his shoulder laden down with the groceries he’s most likely going to have to do all the cooking with.
“Ooh, sourdough!” Paul Baker can’t help his excitement, because he’s twenty-six years old, and fresh sourdough at the farmers market is like, kind of his dream.
He’s already fantasising about making tomato soup with the veggies Issa had bought, and a fancy cheese toastie on the side, when he realises Anton is taking a photo of him, sourdough in hand.
“No, go on,” Anton smirks, looking the kind of affectionate that Paul Baker wants to kiss off his face. “You look cute, right now.”
Paul Baker doesn’t disagree.
He’s wearing those navy blue shorts that Anton says make his ass look delectable, and he swears it’s not performative, but the tote bag is one he got at the Guggenheim when Issa dragged him to an exhibition there when Margaux got the flu the previous week.
He pays for the bread, cradling it carefully as he makes his way back to Anton. “Show me?” he asks sweetly, because he’s curious now.
It’s a good picture.
Paul Baker’s back is turned to Anton, so you can’t see his face. He’s leaning over the table to ask the baker a question, the distinct green leafy head of the carrots Issa had insisted they needed sticking out of the top of his tote bag.
It was like - domestic, somehow.
“I do look cute,” Paul Baker agrees, suddenly glad he made the effort to fix the back of his hair that morning.
The curly girl method was a lot of work, okay, and sometimes he didn’t have the mental motivation to consider what the back of his head looked like at eight am on a Saturday morning; but, the curls looked good.
Anton hummed, tapping at his screen. “I’m going to tag you,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the Instagram app. “Can I tag you?”
As it turns out, Paul Baker’s silence is the wrong answer, and Anton hurriedly clicks out of the app, shaking his head.
“It was stupid, sorry,” Anton said, all in a rush, before Paul Baker could even get a word in edgeways. “I know you’re not into like, social media, and you want to protect your peace and all that - I won’t post it. It’s fine.”
“Ant, I -” Paul Baker began, trying his best to salvage what had otherwise been a sincerely perfect morning.
“Oh, sorry - Issa is calling me!” Anton said, as though Issa wasn’t thoroughly distracted by whoever was trying to up-sell her on some unnecessarily expensive looking milk in beautiful glass bottles, entirely unaware of the crisis erupting between the two of them, mere metres away from her.
Well.
Fuck.
+ i.
“I need your help,” Paul Baker announced, quietly shutting the door of Billie and Issa’s bedroom closed behind him.
If he closed it too loudly, Anton would notice, and the sound of a closing door was like a bat signal to his boyfriend; a closed door meant gossip, to Anton, and Paul Baker couldn’t risk Anton bursting in through the door in the midst of his ongoing crisis.
“I have Viagra,” Issa said solemnly. “Well, it’s off-brand - but I’m willing to let you have it, Paul Baker, because there is no longer a penis in my life as like, a regular fixture, and it’s useless to me.”
Paul Baker pulled a face. “I don’t need Viagra, Iss,” he hissed, because his penis was in perfect working order, thank you very much. Anton was a very inspiring partner in terms of getting him hard as a rock.
“Did you kill someone? I’m great with blood,” Billie said, and Paul Baker was going to spend a bit of time unpacking that one later, but he didn’t have the time to now.
“No, no, it’s just - Anton’s been doing his whole, soft launch thing,” Paul Baker explained, the girls both nodding.
“And Billie said to let him cook, but I think I left him overcook, because now Anton thinks I don’t want to put our relationship on social media, when honestly I don’t really care and I just don’t understand social media, and now he doesn’t want to hard launch me, and I am so fucking confused.”
Issa’s smile was bright, as she stood. “Paul Baker, breathe,” she reassured, trying to get him to do some sort of chaotic breathing exercise that feels like it’s more likely to send him into the depths of a panic attack than it is likely to calm him down, there and then. “There’s an easy solution to all of this.”
“There is?” Paul Baker could cry with relief. He didn’t want to fuck things up with Anton this early on.
“Of course,” Issa shrugged, looking to Billie for confirmation. “You just need to hard launch Anton.”
“Yes!” Billie agreed, clapping her hands with excitement. “You need to prove to him that you’re all in with him - social media wise. He knows you’re all in otherwise, don’t get weird and stressed about it.”
“Social media and reality are entirely separate things, Paul Baker,” Issa confirmed, which was an insane thing to say, if you asked him, and a good reason to not want to get into social media in any sort of way.
“How do I do that?” Paul Baker asked, because he was willing to try anything now.
Issa shrugged, as if it were obvious. It probably was, to everyone who wasn’t Paul Baker. “You post a picture of you and Anton on Instagram.”
“With a cute caption,” Billie added, Issa nodding her agreement.
“I don’t know how to post on Instagram,” Paul Baker admitted, which was sort of the source of the problem.
He’d hidden in the downstairs bathroom, phone in hand, opened the app, and had gotten confused as anything, and then he’d come to Issa and Billie for help. Easy.
“You are ridiculous, Paul Baker,” Issa rolled her eyes, Billie snatching Paul Baker’s phone out of his hand. “Do you have a favourite picture of you and Anton?”
Paul Baker had lots of favourites, was the thing. Anton liked to take pictures, and so did Paul Baker, and in the three months they had been in an official relationship, they had taken dozens of selfies, and pictures together.
He could definitely chose one favourite, though.
Paul Baker nodded, taking his phone back from Billie. “Yes - this one,” he said, handing her back the phone.
It was a picture that Billie herself had taken, when the five of them had been out for dinner for Samir’s birthday. It was a nicer restaurant than they tended to go to, with bougie chandeliers and actual silverware.
Billie had demanded they take a picture once dessert had come out. Paul Baker already had an arm around Anton, and Anton had easily leaned into the embrace for the sake of the phone, a genuine smile on his face.
They looked happy. Really, sincerely happy - the kind of happy that Paul had seen in films, had read about in books. Comfortable, and familiar, a soft expression on Paul Baker’s face that looked like the definition of being in love.
Issa rested a hand on her heart as she looked at the phone screen. “It’s perfect, Paul Baker,” she said, Billie nodding her agreement.
“What do you want the caption to be?” Billie asked.
“I - what should it be?”
Billie shook her head. “It’s got to be a Paul Baker original, PB - how do you want to tell the world that you’re madly in love?”
Paul Baker was quiet, for a second. “My love,” he said, definitive. It was the best way he could think to sum it up. “And a heart emoji. The yellow one.”
“No, the red - the red heart is more romantic,” Issa disagreed, and Paul Baker didn’t care enough about emoji’s to fight about it.
“I’m tagging Anton,” Billie advised, quick as she typed up Paul Baker’s - admittedly short - caption and hit post. “Sorry, do seriously you have 300 followers, PB? You’ve never even posted!”
Paul Baker shrugged. “I went to a big high school in Canada,” he said, giving her a grateful smile. “Thanks, guys.”
Issa winked, the expression exaggerated. “You’re welcome, Paul Baker - now go and make up with your man.”
“But don’t be too loud, my headphones are out of battery!” Billie called after him, and Paul Baker couldn’t help but laugh as he left their room, phone already vibrating with notifications.
He didn’t look. There was only one reaction he actually cared about, and it was the reaction of one Anton Evans - who was sitting on the edge of their bed, phone in hand.
“You beat me to the hard launch?” Anton raised an eyebrow, tone accusatory.
“You thought I didn’t want to be public about our relationship,” Paul Baker said, a little breathless from having run up the stairs. He needed to start running seriously again. “So I figured I needed to hard launch you, and make you understand - it’s not that I don’t want to be public about our relationship, Anton. I just sort of forget that social media matters, to other people, because it doesn’t matter to me.”
He paused, shuffling across the room to sit next to Anton on the edge of their bed.
“But you matter to me, Anton - more than anyone I’ve ever known,” Paul Baker twisted his fingers with Anton’s. “If it matters to you, it matters to me. I want the whole world to know that I love you.”
Anton pretended to be unaffected, but there was a mirth in his eyes that made sure Paul Baker knew better.
“I can’t believe you posted a picture of me in my glasses for your thousands of followers to see,” he huffed, leaning into Paul Baker’s embrace.
“I think you’re cute in your glasses,” Paul Baker hummed, not bothering to correct the number. It was three hundred and eight, and Paul Baker knew all of them - he was very sensible about who he allowed to follow his limited social media presence. He just had a lot of friends.
“I love you,” Anton said, and hearing that was never, ever going to get old.
Paul Baker used his free hand to trace the outline of a heart on the bare skin of Anton’s forearm.
“I love you,” he returned. They were quiet, for a minute, the silence comfortable. “What’s the hard launch picture you were going to choose, anyway?”
Anton rolled his eyes, angling his phone toward Paul Baker. The picture was familiar, from the first night out they had been on together as a couple. It was in the beer garden of one of their favourite bars, and it had been Samir, behind the lens this time, Paul Baker’s smile wide and his eyes closed, Anton leaning against him.
“You’re wearing your glasses here too,” Paul Baker accused, feigning offence.
Anton hummed, sounding altogether very satisfied. “Yeah, well - my boyfriend thinks I’m cute when I wear my glasses. Haven’t you heard?”
antonevans my biggest love, @paulbaker