Chapter Text
“What took you so long?” Tristan teased, “You almost missed your boyfriend!”
Arthur scowled as he folded and discarded a now-soaked newspaper in a nearby bin. The makeshift paper crown unfortunately had not done a great job of keeping his hair, and most of the rest of him, from becoming equally as drenched. Arthur felt he’d like to hop into the trash bin, as well, as this day undoubtedly had it out for him. Tristan was right, though; at least he’d get to see the man today.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” he retorted, “And I got here as quickly as I can. Have you looked outside lately?” He hung his soaking jacket on the coat rack by the door, scowling again as dripping water puddled on the floor beneath. He technically wasn’t late, arriving just two minutes before his shift at the quaint bakery was scheduled to start. And he wasn’t going to “miss” any “boyfriend.“
He knew exactly which patron Tristan had referred to, and they most certainly were not in a relationship. Hell, they’d barely even spoken, aside from a few times that Arthur had to man the register, offering a short and professional, “Thank you.” as he handed over the gentleman’s regular order. That isn’t to say that Arthur would be totally opposed to getting to know more about the sharp-dressed man who visited their small pâtisserie, Royal Icing, twice each week.
He placed the same order on each visit. A dozen miniature strawberry mille-feuille, boxed to-go, every time, twice per week. Once in a while, the man would also order an espresso, which he’d finish in one quick gulp before taking his leave. Not an entirely couth performance, but Arthur couldn’t help but be strangely captivated each time he watched the man down the hot drink without even a second thought. He’s probably a very busy man, with no time to laze about and wait for his drink to cool, Arthur thought. What a disappointing way to enjoy coffee.
He assumed from the man’s dress that he was a professional in his field, like many of the upscale pâtisserie’s patrons were. They’d stop by on their way to or from their busy, important jobs at whatever nearby high-rise office building they considered their home away from home. There were numerous other bakeries in the area, a neighborhood affluent enough to warrant more than one place to pick up fancy pastries and the like. Royal Icing certainly stayed busy enough.
Arthur was very fortunate to have trained under the watchful eye of a renowned maître pâtissier, Lancelot du Lac. Sir Lancelot often worked in the employ of a nearby five-star hotel, and he trusted his pupil Arthur to operate the bakery in his absence. Arthur thankfully had a bit of help from the other members of the small bakery’s team; Gawain, Bedivere, and Tristan were all more than competent and honestly a pleasure to work with. Even Tristan. Sometimes.
Rubbing a pastry towel through his wet hair, Arthur unceremoniously tossed his wet t-shirt and the towel in the nearby laundry bin and changed into his crisp (and dry) white coat and apron. He knew he’d be uncomfortable for a bit until his pants would dry, as well, but what could he do. What a lovely way to end his work week.
It would be only a few minutes before that sharply-dressed gentleman would walk through their doors. Gawain was on early baking duty this morning, allowing Arthur the rare opportunity to sleep in a bit before heading out to the café. If he had been the one starting the baking this morning, he thought, he’d likely have arrived early enough to have avoided the day’s delightful downpour. That figures, he thought, giving his head one last shake with the doubtful hope of even a single strand of his hair becoming dry.
He briefly wondered if the man would show today, the storm being more than persuasive enough to discourage any level-headed patron from stopping by. Royal Icing’s pastries are good, Arthur thought, but they probably aren’t “part the flooded avenues” good. Arthur’s brow furrowed as he squinted in a feeble attempt to somehow detect the man’s presence through the wall of rain nearly barricading the bakery’s twin doors. He stopped after just a moment, realizing there may be a faint desperation in what he was doing.
Perhaps he had been slightly worthy of Tristan’s teasing. Jerk. They weren’t boyfriends, he sighed. Not even close. Hell, he didn’t even know the man’s name. He wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea, he thought, getting to know the man . And if such a relationship were to develop…? Yeah, right, he laughed. Arthur was painfully shy and privileged with many faults that would likely be quite apparent, and probably off-putting, to someone of the man’s stature and influence. At least, he assumed so.
On a typical Tuesday or Friday, the man would arrive promptly at 9:15 am on the dot. Same two days, same time, each and every week. In fact, Arthur couldn’t recall a week that had passed without a visit from his mysterious gentleman. It was comforting, in a way. The bakery had many “regulars” aside from the man, quite a few of which Arthur knew by name. That was more familiarity than he had with the man, unfortunately, which was by his own fault. He preferred to hide himself amidst his work each time the door’s bell would ring and the gentleman would step through. He would always steal a glance, though. Or two. Maybe three.
It turned out that today was a Friday no different from another, despite the rain’s continued assault of the generally quiet streets. As expected (and, perhaps, hoped), the door’s bell rang, and the man arrived. As he entered, he folded his umbrella, gave it a quick shake and rested it in the stand near the door. That must be why he makes the big bucks, Arthur thought, he’s smart enough to bring an umbrella out when it rains. Or maybe it’s because of his good looks. He was dashingly handsome, after all. Or maybe it’s because he’s good at his job, you ding dong. Arthur cringed at his absurd line of thought. He didn’t even know what the man did for a living. If he were, perhaps, a model, Arthur’s assessment wouldn’t be entirely wrong. He rolled his eyes and tried to shift the focus back to his work.
The man approached the counter and smiled at Tristan, who was manning the register this morning. Arthur noticed that the man was looking particularly handsome today. Not that he didn’t look particularly handsome every day, because, Lord, did he. Arthur again tried to keep his mind on the dough he was scoring, but he couldn’t help but peek over the barrier that divided the front and back of the bakery and relish in the sight. God, he could lose himself in the man’s eyes alone. And likely cut himself, too, if he didn’t stop staring and started paying attention to his work.
He didn’t think he had really been paying more attention to the man than any other customer who happened to be pleasing to the eyes. Certainly not enough attention to warrant Tristan’s accusation that there may be any meaningful attraction to the man. It’s not like Arthur talked about the man. Much. Sure, he’d occasionally comment on what the man was wearing on any given day, or speculate out loud on what the man did for a living. Other than looking gorgeous, of course.
Today was no exception; the gentleman was a stunning sight. His crisp, well-fitted, and likely very expensive suit was complimented by his proclivity toward keeping it dry. Arthur shifted in his still-wet trousers, again cursing himself for his poor preparation for today’s dreadful weather. The man’s perfectly tailored attire fit his lithe frame in a way that somehow exuded an air of importance. Authority, perhaps, Arthur mused. Maybe he’s the boss. He quickly dismissed that speculation on the premise that someone in such a high position would likely have an assistant to handle all of his pastry-related errands. Still, though. There’s definitely something about this man, Arthur thought.
The suit and a smile weren’t the only stunning features the man wore. Every single facet of him was just as well-tailored as his clothing. Arthur let his eyes wander once more from the vastly less interesting dough. He was confident his glances were subtle; after all, he’d probably die if he noticed the man saw him staring. Then the afternoon’s pastries would never get done. They already might not make it to the oven on time if he didn’t stop his gawping.
But, oh, was there so much to take in. Some people will say that the “suit makes the man,” but, in the case of the mysterious gentleman, the suit was definitely second to his astonishingly good looks. He doesn’t need the suit at all, Arthur thought. Realizing the implication, he blushed.
The man’s gilded blond hair gleamed with the lacquer of an orange liqueur sauce, and he held an enticing gaze with eyes redder than the freshest berries adorning his pastry of choice. Even his fair skin looked like it had been poured from a fresh pot of a rich crème anglaise. He looked positively delicious.
Each of the days the man stopped by, bedecked in a stunning designer suit, it took every ounce of Arthur’s self-control to pull his eyes away and focus on his work. And even that usually wasn’t enough. Arthur really took no shame in it, as he had no doubt that all eyes would shift to the man anytime he entered a room. How could they not?
A familiar voice awoke Arthur from his idle and perhaps somewhat lecherous daydreaming, “Good morning, sir, your usual?” Tristan asked the gentleman, as he opened the glass the case to prepare the man’s regular order. “Yes, please.” the man replied, sliding a fancy black metal card out of an equally as impressive billfold. The man smiled politely once more as Tristan placed the small pastries into a windowed box. Man, he has a nice smile, thought Arthur. Perhaps he did have a crush on the gentleman. Just a small one, though.
The man thanked Tristan once more, accepting the carton of delicacies and turning to head to the door. Real nice from behind, too, Arthur thought, feeling instantly ashamed but not too ashamed not to watch the handsome man exit the bakery. The bell jingled as the door slid shut and Arthur exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
“He’s gone, you can come out now,” Tristan goaded with a laugh. Arthur glared at him through the divider.
“Very funny,” Arthur snorted, “Unlike some of us, I’m actually doing work.”
“Oh yeah?” Tristan laughed again. “Lance paying you to make goo-goo eyes at the customers now?” Arthur rolled his eyes and brought the pan of (finally) prepared pastries to the oven.
“It’s obvious you’ve got a thing for the guy,” Tristan sighed. “Why don’t you, oh, I don’t know… talk to him? Introduce yourself, maybe? If it weren’t for that bell on the door, I swear you’d jump headfirst into the flour bin if he came by and caught you unaware.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, this is a professional place of business,” Arthur snipped. “The man obviously just wants to come by twice a week, get his pastries, and be on his way. This isn’t a nightclub; people don’t come to a bakery to pick up dudes.”
“And why not? It totally would work for you!” Tristan could barely control his laughter.
Arthur sighed once more, but he had to admit to himself that Tristan was probably right. He certainly wasn’t lacking in the looks department, and could probably at least score a first date with any patron of his choosing. I’m charming, too, dammit, Arthur thought with a slight pout. If only he wasn’t so shy. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, or what he did for a living. Perhaps he was completely out of Arthur’s league. Arthur wasn’t even sure he had a league, or who exactly would play in it.
If the man wanted to get to know Arthur, he would have introduced himself, right? Arthur had waited on the man a few times, packing his regular order with a quick and cordial hello and goodbye. On any of those occasions the man could have introduced himself if he wanted Arthur to know who he was or to share details about him. That never happened, so he continued to be, “the gorgeous guy who orders the mille-feuille” and that was that.
Arthur checked his watch and rolled his eyes once more. Tristan had finally given his teasing a rest and was cleaning countertops and making sure the display cases were fully stocked for the day. The handsome gentleman was often their first customer of the day on those Tuesdays and Fridays. Arthur always made sure his preferred pastries were prepared fresh and early on those mornings, even in his absence, and today was no exception.
He sometimes wondered where the man was bringing the delicacies he so diligently picked up from Royal Icing each week. To work, he supposed. Maybe the office workers took turns bringing pastries, donuts and the like, and it was the man’s responsibility on those two days. Maybe he’s not as high-ranking as I thought, Arthur mused, if he has to bring breakfast by twice a week. You’re ridiculous, Arthur, he told himself, sighing as he checked the ovens, removing and placing pans of freshly baked pastries on racks to cool. He unfortunately would have to put the gorgeous man out of his mind if he were to get through the rest of his day. Though, certainly just a few minutes more of daydreaming wouldn’t hurt.