the color yellow // l.s.

1.

october, 1975.

Extraordinary. A word he could never seem to spell right, but wanted to be so badly.

Harry often found himself staring into mirrors, much like he is now, and thinking, "is this it?"

He sighs, tucks a long strand of hair behind his ear, and leaves the bathroom to get back to work. The bakery doesn't usually have anyone after lunchtime, so he decides to take a seat behind the counter and flip through a Rolling Stone magazine he'd found. It was last month's issue, but he doesn't care, because the Eagles were on the cover, and he loves the Eagles.

He purses his lips and flips through the magazine a little more, and then sighs again. He wants to be amazing enough to end up on a magazine like this.

"Um," someone mutters.

Harry looks up at the man that somehow walked into the bakery without him knowing. Usually the bell above the door snaps him out of his daydreams, but this time it didn't. He stands hastily, which makes the magazine fall from his lap and to the floor. He ignores it and gives the man in front of him a shy smile.

"Welcome to Styles' Bakery, how may I help you?"

The guy moves over to the display of pastries and fresh bread. Harry watches silently, feeling awkward with his hands behind his back as he waited for this guy to order something.

"Do you have coffee?" He suddenly asks. He was still looking at the pastry display.

Harry moves behind the display and bends down to be eye-level with him. The guy doesn't notice him for a second, but then his eyes find Harry's and he stands up.

"Uh," Harry starts, squinting his eyes in thought. "Well. I've made coffee for myself. We don't sell it. But if you want some, guess I can pour you a cup."

"Oh," he says, then scratches the back of his head. "Only if it's good."

Harry starts biting on his lower lip, suddenly self-conscious about the coffee he'd made, but then the guy releases a really loud laugh that eases his nerves. So, he smiles, walks to the back room where the coffeemaker was, and pours the stranger a cup. Stupidly, though, he didn't ask how he took it, so he had to make multiple trips back and forth with coffee questions because he kept forgetting what to ask. One sugar? Two? Wait, do you want milk in it? Oh, and creamer, right?  Then the guy finally said he just took it black, after replying with a "no" after every question.

"Right. Black coffee," Harry says as he hands him a mug carefully over the counter.

"Got today's paper?"

Harry nods and scrambles around to find where his dad had read it earlier in the morning. He grabs it and gives it to him to read. The guy with the blue eyes thanks him and stares at it while taking a seat at one of the few tables they had in the bakery.

Harry messes with his thumbs, fiddles with the back of his apron, and finds it awkward that they were in this dreadful silence. So, Harry turns around to the table behind him and puts a record on. Harry usually listens to it when he cleans up. He turns it down so that it would only be background music, but the record instantly calms him. He sits back down and clears his throat, trying not to look at the blue-eyed boy. Harry picks up the magazine he'd dropped earlier and tries to read it over again.

Of course, that only worked for a second, because the loud sips the guy would take would distract him. It was really loud.

"What's your name?" Harry asks as he placed his elbow on the counter, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. "Haven't seen you here before."