It's Getting Cold These Days [Larry Stylinson AU]

Four

During closing hours, the music always winded up. From a melodic hum shaped to entice, it built up, twisted to a quicker cadence set to gently hurry costumers away. Now that everyone had already left, it echoed, probably vexing the neighbours. Harry turned the florid sign on the front door to CLOSED. Nick jammed out behind the counter.

"Come on, pick a tune, any tune," he said, hopping up next to the till. Eclectic pop blasted from the speakers. His quiffed hair had begun to sag.

Harry sank down in one of the booths. Brushing his hair back, he peered at the motion outside. People blessed the snowfall, hurried back to their families and shared the hopes of a white Christmas. Cars skidded all over the streets and horns honked in the crisp evening as frustrated voice shrilled and sleet soaked bystanders.

The empty cup on his table disappeared in the corner of his eye. He glanced up to catch Nick on his way back to the kitchen. The music had lulled to a folky mix.

"You look cold," Nick said upon returning, cloth and detergent in hand.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm always cold."

Chemical aromas rose to his nostrils as Nick cleaned up. Lemon grass and sanitary hospital merged in toxicity. He nosed into his hoodie and slanted his head into his palm. He couldn't smell Liam on it anymore.

"We could go over to mine for a bit," Nick said, keeping his gaze down. "There's good heating and I've got a pack of cigarettes. Yours ran out, so I figured..."

When Harry didn't reply, he looked up. He nibbled on his lip to hold back speech, mapping out Harry's mellow eyes in the golden lighting, how the glow highlighted his pink lips.

Long lashes fluttered against Harry's cheek as he picked his head up.

"Cigarettes would be good," he said. "Thanks."

Nick nodded and held his gaze for a few seconds before switching tables. He shed his apron on a table in the middle. A bounce graced his steps, like they were back in the pub in clouds of liquor, free of thought in the crowd.

Harry ached for relief. Dusting off his own apron, he sought solitary in the kitchen while Nick finished up. He leaned against a floured table top to breathe. The freshness of the room soothed him, even when it had all cooled off. He reminisced the crack of the first baguette in the morning, his breakfast espresso and the rings the cup left behind, the winter sunshine setting everything ablaze despite its elusive warmth.

Chills gnawed at his fingertips when they sank into residual dough on the worktop. New messes lurked in the shadows where moonlight couldn't eat through the city's bright veil. He would have to get up earlier to make the shop presentable.

The music cut off outside the door. Soon, Nick entered with light steps. Harry closed his eyes, hanging in the moment until a careful touch descended on his hand.

"Ready for some heating?" Nick said. He cupped Harry's hand and scrubbed off some of the icy dough. "You gotta feed your cat or something? We could head to your place."

Harry shook his head. He turned around, easing a hand up Nick's arm, the feathery touch that brought him to his knees. "Not my place."

They didn't talk during their walk. Small rocks skipped over the ground, muffled by snow and traffic. Abstinence hammered in Harry's body. It showed itself in grinding teeth and curling fingers, matched with a vibe that even had Nick quiet. Not once did their hands brush.

Toeing off his shoes at once inside the flat, Harry's feet sank into the cream-coloured carpet. Heat breathed in his face. He hummed as it crept through the holes in his jeans and patted down his goose bumps. Nick pressed the cigarette pack into his hand and draped a plaid over his shoulders. Fumbling for his age-damaged lighter, Harry headed outside.