Chapter Text
On Saturdays and Sundays from 10-2, Charlie sets up his pokey little stall at the Daffodil Market and does his absolute best to sell his wares. It's not exactly easy and he more often than not spends more space on stall rent than he actually makes back, but it's worth it to him to have the mental break from the corporate grind that is his office job.
For eight hours a week, Charlie gets to pretend he's in a cozy romcom where people flock to the weekend markets for everything. His fantasy is inarguably a bit Gilmore Girls meets Notting Hill, but it's called a fantasy for a reason.
Namely because he doesn't sell much most of the time. Charlie busies himself by laying out his stock. A few classic scents like rosemary and lavender, brown sugar and vanilla, and sandalwood. Then he has his more fun candles. Sticky toffee pudding, Frosted peppermint, and mulled wine. What can he say? He's trying to get a bit festive for the season.
Charlie blows on his fingers to warm them up before taking his seat behind the little table he uses. Even though the market has those big heaters at either side of the tent during winter, it's still frigid.
Usually, he takes the time at the very start of the market to do a little glance over and see what everyone else is selling. To either side of him is a jeweler and a wood burning artist, and across from him there's usually no one but today there's a bakery—
There's a bakery.
Charlie blinks a few times. How did he miss an entire brand new stall? He roves over the goods first. There's the usual breads of course. Sourdough, rye, and something braided and puffy. Every other bakery style stall has those, but what catches Charlie's eye is everything else. Rows of perfect, Christmassy looking fruit tarts, another row of eclairs, a row of croissants beside a row of pain au chocolates, and perfectly cut slices of jam roly-poly. Everything looks absolutely perfect and likewise, very delicious.
His eyes trail down to the little sign affixed to the front of the table where in a rich, delightfully vintage font, reads: Miam!
Charlie expects some middle aged mum who's taken her home baking where it might be appreciated, not some 6'0 something hunk of a man edging very close to bear territory laughing his way back into his stall. He's dressed in a nice, green festive jumper that makes the auburn color of his hair pop in an aggravatingly attractive way.
There's a couple of hot people who tend their stalls here, Charlie's eyed all of them up and down since he's started here. None of them are this man, not by a long shot.
And he happens to meet eyes with Charlie and his fucking smile. It's the kind of smile that could light up a bleeding opera house. His smile starts from one corner of his mouth and slowly blooms to other as he lifts his hand in a friendly wave.
Charlie offers a small wave back, struck completely and utterly dumb.
As a rule, he usually never buys any food from the stalls. For one thing, he doesn't know where exactly they're made and he's wary not only of the ingredients but also the unlisted calorie counts. Guestimating every pastry in the same range often means there just isn't enough room in his allotted calorie budget for something so decadent. That, and he's too afraid of what eating something so sweet and rich could do to his stomach when he's this far away from a public toilet.
Yet here he is, eyeing up this handsome stranger's baked goods as if he might actually— oh no, he's standing. Stop it legs. Stop walking across the walkway, cease. Sit back down, what if a customer comes?
Who is he kidding? There's always people who smell his creations but never any buyers. What's the harm in looking? None. Absolutely none. Besides, it's good to be hospitable and courteous since they share space just… across the aisle is all.
"Hullo," the stranger beats him to it, still smiling at him. No one has ever smiled at Charlie this much, not really. At least— not anyone as hot as this guy is. Up close, it's obvious the breadth of his shoulders comes from something more than kneading and tossing dough, but he's still soft in a pleasant way. "You're selling candles?"
"Oh, yes, but that's not—" Charlie clears his throat, "I didn't come here for that, I came here to uhm," he glances back up at the stranger and for a moment is struck breathless by his eyes. They're not quite brown, but not quite hazel either. Instead they take on this almost reddish, sienna-like quality, especially under his stall's fairy lights. "I uhm, I. Pastries?"
"Yeah, anything strike your fancy?"
Wetting his bottom lip, Charlie actually looks at everything up close. This is what he hates about baked goods, they all look so fucking delicious and tantalizing, "What uh… what would you recommend to someone who doesn't do sweets very often?"
"Well, I'd probably recommend the cranberry and orange tart then. There's a bit of extra zest from the lime so they trend a bit more tart than they do sweet," the man says, putting on a pair of clear gloves to take one out before Charlie can protest. There's no wedding ring on his finger. How though? How hasn't someone snapped up this absolute beefcake— emphasis on the cake because he's so fucking sweet— of a man. "Not so sweet but not super savory either. I'm not much of a fan of the more savory pastries and such. Don't get me wrong, there's a time and place but they're just not for me. I'm shit at making them."
"I doubt that, uhm. What are you doing?"
He glances up at Charlie from where he's stooped over the table, cutting the tart into neat, perfect little quarters, "Er, cutting you a sample?"
"Oh— please, you don't have to do that. I'm not even— I don't really eat—"
"I was going to cut up each pastry for samples anyway since it's my first day an' all. Have to build a customer base somehow and besides— wait, did you say you don't eat?"
Heat rushes to Charlie's cheeks, warming him despite the frost in the air. When Charlie exhales, a puff of his breath clouds in front of his face, "It's complicated."
"That's alright. You don't have to eat it now if you don't want to, but it's already cut. Maybe you could use it as inspiration for some of your work."
"Really I…" Yet Charlie's taking the little quarter being set in his palm, he's sniffing it. It smells sweet and as the man discussed, tart and tangy. A shortbread crust with little specks of vanilla in it. "This is very kind of you."
"It's really nothing. I doubt I'll sell much anyway—"
"Hey, don't be so self deprecating. The bakeries and that tend to sell really well, especially during the holidays and your stuff actually looks consistent, so…"
"Consistent?" The man giggles, "Why thank you. What uh… what kinds of candles do you make?"
Charlie glances over his shoulder at his sad little table. He learned early on not to bring too much stock with him because it's a pain to haul so much back home with him. Honestly, he has better luck with his Etsy shop than he does the in-person market but nothing beats the face to face interaction he gets here. Even those passing little moments of eye contact fill his social well to the brim so he can actually get through his work day without feeling like some sad little cog in the capitalist regime.
"I make all sorts, I guess. Soy wax, it's vegan and safe for animals so… Some of them are basic, but there's nothing wrong with a classic and I've been working on sculpting. My uh— I have a mulled wine candle that I made little wax cinnamon sticks. I can show you just uhm—"
"I can stop by in an hour, would that be easier?"
"Uhm… yeah, yeah, that would be great. Thanks for the tart, I'll…" Charlie forces a smile because he can't just say look at it instead of taste it because my brain won't let me eat like a normal fucking person.
Geoff would be disappointed, which is why Charlie hasn't been making any appointments. At first he thought he could handle this hiccup on it's own but it's become a full blown relapse and at this point he's too tired to even try recovery again. So, he'll settle for setting this little quarter of a tart on the corner of his stall table to look at and sniff all day because that's totally normal.
The man reaches out when Charlie turns to walk back to his stall, his warm hand wrapping around the entirety of his forearm, "I didn't get your name."
A thrill dances from the man's palm right to Charlie's heart, "It's uhm, it's Charlie. What's… what's yours?"
"Charlie," the man tests Charlie's name on his tongue like it's something delectable. And maybe it's the slight accent in his voice or just the cold, but when he says Charlie's name, it sounds like Shharlie. Charlie can't even bear to correct him because it's the first time anyone here has ever asked for his name in person, nevertheless said it back to him. "I'm Nick."
"Hi, Nick."
Nick smiles that lovely, light up the room, lopsided smile again, "Hi, Charlie."