#that's totally a beret made of tinfoil

[ask-fandomstuck-nightvale]

//this is buster by the way isn’t he a good n sweet child

[yongboxer]

Key Limes | Zhong Chenle

⤑ genre: fluff ; bakery au

⤑ pairing: Chenle x Reader

⤑ summary: It’s the night before Chenle’s birthday, and after the bakery closes, the both of you indulge in the eatery that reminds you of the boy who radiates an odd sense of key limes.

⤑ contains: mild language, cheesy fluff that’s borderline disgusTANG

⤑ word count: 1.8k

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It didn’t take much at all to convince your grandmother to let you stay after hours to make a dessert for Chenle at the bakery shop she’s owned since 1963. That being said, it took absolutely no convincing to ask the boy to stay after, it being the night before his birthday and he’d be having the day off tomorrow. The both of you would spend after school making wages, and you already had an idea of what to make him rather than a typical birthday cake (though there isn’t anything wrong with that. Cake’s phenomenal in itself).

“And you’re absolutely positive ten o’clock isn’t too late to go home?”

“I told you already that she’s waiting till Friday for the birthday meal,” he chuckles, hefting an enormous, ivory tub over to the back counter where you stand by a mixer, swirling the contents of a pie crust inside it before it nearly slams on the counter. “Here.”

You tap the spatula in your hand on the side of the bowl after scraping it down to look at the tub in puzzlement. “What’s that?”

“Sugar,” he says back before hopping up to sit on the ledge of the wide island behind you. His hands ruffle his curls that used to remind you of key lime pie before he returned it back to shade that resembled more of brown sugar. Chenle still wears the red apron caked with flour and dried egg whites, just in case you need a hand in what you’re concocting.

You slow down the speed of the mixer, your forehead crinkling at his reply while eyeing another ivory tub that’s to the left of you as opposed to the one he brought on the right. “But I measured that out a long time—“

The sentence comes to a sudden halt, mainly because you’re retracing your steps on what you’ve done so far to make the graham cracker crust. But judging from the long, painfully slow inhale coming from Chenle behind you, a sudden moment of oh shit came to your mind.

“Y/N, you didn’t.”

You turn around with a frantic heart to see the boy cupping his hands over his mouth and nose, shoulders racking in obvious attempt to hide the obnoxious guffaws that’d be irrupting out of him like a flock of seagulls. It’s mainly from not only feeling sorry for your effort, but also ‘cause there’s a high chance his amusement will piss you off. At least that’s his mindset.

“Dammit,” you hiss, turning the mixer off and digging a spoon into the crust batter. The utensil is then stuck in your mouth and your mouth waters with the urge to gag.

Yep. Salt.

“Dammit!” You yell out again, the spoon clattering to the floor when you nearly throw it across the kitchen. “That’s it. When are we gonna label these blessed things.” You’re not too far into making the beloved key lime pie, but it’s enough to make you frustrated that the crust is now irreversibly salty as hell.

“No, don’t get upset!” Chenle hollers out, a small snort following his protest. From behind, he grabs your upper arms and sits his chin to cradle in the dip of your neck, the breath from his giggles making you tense and the scent of floral honey making heat rise to all high points of your face.

“All of us here’s gotta do it at least twice,” he continues. “I made a whole batch of cinnamon buns like that last week, icing and everything. Served them without even tasting.”

Chenle releases his grasp after you sigh and detach the bowl from the mixer. “Still, that’s pushing us to 10:30.”

“So?” He goes back to his rightful place on the counter, kicking his sick feet back and forth, the bottoms more than likely filthy from the crumbs and grime that needed to be swept after a day of baking goods. “It’s my. . .well, almost my birthday, and I don’t care.”

You snort, dumping the graham mixture pitifully into the large trash can in the corner of the kitchen. “Wasted just like that. I swear.” Utter disappointment, that’s all you feel. The lumps of terracotta plop into the garbage, and from behind you, the sound of clattering and the rolling pin thumping against the counter has you casting a glance over your shoulder.

Chenle’s sleeves are pushed up as his eyebrows form a straight line, beating the graham crackers into nothing but crumbs to dump into a new bowl as opposed to the one you hold in your hands. He makes sure to taste the sugar by dipping a spoon in it, clicking his brows up at you while you’re tempted to flip him the bird.

But dammit, it’s the embodiment of a freakin’ key lime that keeps you from doing it. Just slap out adorable, and though his locks were dyed back to brunet, he still reminded you of the tiny fruit. Sure, it’s odd, but so is Chenle.

This leads the both of you to finish up the key lime pie. In total, it takes about an hour and half, making the two of you run down to the corner store and pick up two bottles of milk and a cream soda that he’s craving. So, with elbows on the table and two forks digging into the glass pie dish, you relish the time spent together alone with Chenle, him telling you stories of past birthdays he’s had and about friends that used to go to his old school. Before the two of you dig into the dessert, you placed a single candle that with teamwork you were able to find in the utensil drawer of the bakery’s kitchen.

“You make me forget I even miss them sometimes, Y/N,” he admits with a mouthful of pie. He swallows before shaking his hand in a waving fashion while back and then backtracking immediately. “Wait wait wait wait, that sounded butthole-ish.”

He doesn’t have to go on in order for you to get his point, but you lick at a dollop or whip cream that’s on your fork so he can continue for his sake. Still, you have to bite back a smile.

“What I meant was that when I do miss them, you at least don’t make me feel lonely like I used to,” Chenle shrugs. “. . .yeah, like that.” He tips back the cream soda bottle hugged in his hand and muffles a belch in the sleeve of his jacket from when you two made the venture outside. The pie’s about three-quarters of the way gone, and you tear off some tinfoil to cover over the top of it so he can take it home.

Yes, you should be grossed out, but the light flush in his cheeks and how he tugs on his beige beret you just find everything so. . .

Cute. Just cute, and it’s unnerving as ever.

You and Chenle had already cleaned up the mess the both of you made before sharing the pie, and the boy had pestered you to let him walk to you home, despite your neighborhoods being on opposite ends of the street.

“Listen, I’m sure you’re fully capable of being the badass I know you are, but let me be a gentlemen, just once?” His voice raises at the end of the sentence. You turn on your heel after making sure the door is locked to the bakery to see him holding his beloved key lime pie leftovers and rocking back and forth on his feet.

Of course you don’t mind him taking the bus and walking down the sidewalks to follow you home, but you can’t let your collected façade down. It’s what leads you to give into his begging (if you can even call it that).

After all, Chenle didn’t feel the same way as you.

Your fingers toy with your keys, keeping your hands busy when the two of you step off the bus and under the stray street lights that led the path into your housing development, your home just near the entrance until you’re just outside the front door. It’s typical November atmosphere, a chill in the air but comfortable enough to walk at an easy pace before you turn to tell Chenle a final happy birthday (considering you’re not sure whether you’d see him the next day. Depends on what his family planned). Just planning ahead, you never know.

“Not gonna lie, a birthday pie and some quiet time was pretty nice,” it’s visible that he’s swinging his hands back and forth in the from pockets of his jacket just at his tummy. “Didn’t think you cared about me enough to do something like that to celebrate.”

“That’s sour,” you pout, amused when Chenle’s little smile falters until you bring a grin of your own to your face. “You’ve thought about that before?”

“I mean,” he stammers, pausing from any verbal diarrhea and tilting his chin down with a huff of a giggle. “Just—Thanks, I guess. Sorry.”

You just give a small nod, Chenle’s delightful quirky vibes lighting a spark that it you only feel when he’s doing his. . . Chenle thing.

But your admiration is short lived when you feel the pie dish squish between the two of you, the boy in front of you’s hand diving to catch the tip of your chin in the grip of his fingertips and pulling you forward to interlock your lips so swift you feel the need to step back and make sure it’s actually happening.

You don’t, instead your eyelids fall shut while your hands find their way to tenderly rest on where his collarbone is hidden behind his coat and taking in the same aroma of buttercups and honey wafting from his clothes and skin. His lips are dry from the incoming winter weather, but still delicate like fragile sugar paper that’s used on various cakes in the shop.

This kiss holds out for several seconds, Chenle carefully tilting your chin up so your head dips back and he can take in the moment as much as possible before he has pull away and face whatever your reaction could be.

And honestly? The poor boy expects the worst.

He suddenly releases your embrace, eyes half-lidded and scanning over your countenanced before stuttering out a quiet, “S-shit.”

Chenle stumbles back, mouth now pried open while your jerk a hand up to your lips and ghost over them with the finger tips of your three fingers. Your tongue peaks out for a moment to bring back the taste of his cream soda and a smile is spilling out from them fact that it wasn’t you to initiate the urgent kiss, but Chenle.

“Good night—“

“Hey!” You grab ahold of his sleeve and even Chenle is shocked he’s still holding the leftover key lime pie.

Both of your arms are linked and stretched out awkwardly before you drop his wrist, letting out a shaky giggle that has Chenle softening at both the sight and sound, your reaction bringing a sense of comfort to his onset of panic.

“This,” you finally manage to get a steady word out. “. . . Is this something you’ve thought about before?”

Chenle looks down at the dessert, his grip crinkling the tinfoil that cuts sharply through the chill air. A precious half-smile grows to his cheeks that remind you of ivory mochi, telling himself to grow a pair and look you in the eye before answering.

“You have no idea.”