Work Text:
Charlie pushes open the door to the shop hesitantly. From the outside it's unassuming, a plain shopfront with a small sign that says "Chocolates," which could indicate either snobbery or just a shameful failure of creativity. Once he steps inside, though, he's reluctantly impressed – there's no annoying dingly bell on the door, no vomit-inducing welcome mat that says "Welcome to Chocolate Heaven," no bright fluorescent lights buzzing in his ears. Instead there are a few shelves filled with bagged and boxed standards (chocolate-covered espresso beans and the like), and then a long, glass display counter with neat rows of solid chocolates, truffles, and baked goods. Off to one side of the room are two small tables with chairs.
"I don't sell Maltesers, so you might as well bugger off," says a snippy voice. Charlie jerks his gaze up from the tantalizing view of the display case to find a man with floppy hair standing in the doorway that obviously leads to the back room. He's young-looking, wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt that hangs awkwardly off his shoulders, and he has a pointy nose that Charlie immediately takes exception to.
"Christ," Charlie says, "customer service really is a dying fucking art."
The man's cheeks go pink, but he doesn't appear to be inclined to back down. "Well excuse me for not wanting to waste time justifying my stock choices to some slacker who will no doubt think two pounds is highway robbery for a truffle, nevermind how much time it's taken me to perfect."
"Wait," Charlie says, "you made these?" He looks the man up and down, then gives him his most obnoxious smirk. "I thought you were just a wage slave, given that shirt."
The man starts to sputter, but Charlie ignores it, pointing at a batch labeled 'dark chocolate truffle.' They're lovely and round, with a neat swirl of white chocolate on top. "Let me try one of those," Charlie says. "And if they're as good as you say, I'll buy a box." The man narrows his eyebrows, but he pulls open the door of the display case and, using a small square of waxed paper, pulls out one of the truffles.
"They are that good," he says, holding the truffle out over the counter for Charlie to take.
Charlie picks it up between thumb and forefinger, noting that the chocolate is at room temperature, as it should be. He lifts it to his nose to smell the aroma. It's nice – dark and a little waxy. He takes a bite, slashing through the thin shell to the ganache beneath and – oh.
Shit, this is fucking amazing. He can taste the perfectly-balanced bitterness on his tongue, can feel it melting, thick and smooth across his tongue. Mmm, god. Somewhere along the way he's closed his eyes the better to savor the sensation, and when he opens them again the man's mouth has fallen open.
He must not get many people in here who know the right way to eat the good stuff.
"Okay, I'll take a box," Charlie says, licking his lips. "A big one. God, you can be as much of a dick as you like as long as you don't stop making these."
"Ah," the man says. "Right. Right." He looks a bit flustered, and Charlie notices that when he turns away and reaches for one of the boxes he fumbles it. Charlie pops the second half of the truffle into his mouth and closes his eyes again, blocking out everything except the taste and the texture and the way it makes him salivate.
"All, er, dark chocolate?" the man says hesitantly. Charlie opens his eyes, but this time the man is looking firmly down at the display case.
"Actually, give me a selection," he says. "Whatever you'd recommend, though I'm less a fan of nuts."
"Nuts just take up space where chocolate ought to be," the man says, with a sly little smile as he neatly fills up the box, two by two. Charlie thinks idly that it changes his whole face, and that his pointy nose doesn't seem nearly as offensive when he's smiling. Not that I have any room to talk, mind you.
"Definitely," he says. He licks the last of the dark chocolate residue from his fingers regretfully, then reaches for his credit card. The man rings him up.
"Thank you, Mr., erm, Brooker," he says, handing him his card back and his receipt, followed by the chocolate box in a nondescript bag. Charlie grimaces – he hates when customer service types call him by name, and it's especially painful because the man clearly feels as awkward about it as Charlie does. Probably read somewhere that it will increase his return business. Marketing bollocks.
"Cheers," Charlie says, and then, feeling weirdly like he ought to be reassuring, "Nice shop, this. Even if your service does suck elephant dick. Erm, hope you'll stick around." Oh my god, stop talking now, he tells himself, and quickly makes his escape.
-----
It's been a long time since Charlie's had chocolate this good, and even though he tries to ration himself he doesn't last a week before going back to the shop. This time the man he'd met is clearing some plates from one of the tables, but he looks up when the door opens, and when he sees Charlie he offers a sincere, if weary, smile.
"Oh, thank fuck," he says. "Someone who actually wants chocolate without 'Cadbury' stamped on it."
Charlie laughs. "Do you get that a lot?" he says, stepping up to the display case as the man piles the plates onto the counter.
"You would not believe how often. The next person who asks if I sell Aero bars is going to get conched and tempered." It's not a particularly convincing threat, and Charlie has to stifle a giggle at the look of petulant anger on the man's face. "Not that they'll even know what that means," the man says.
"Probably not," Charlie agrees. "Heathens."
The man grins, then seems to catch himself and sobers. "Er, what can I get for you?"
Charlie feels abruptly awkward. The return to the businessman/customer relationship seems cold. You pathetic loser, he thinks. He probably just wants to make his fucking money and get rid of you as quickly as possible. Which is normal.
"Same as last Thursday," he says. "That was a nice assortment. I think you put in--"
"I remember," the man says, and then he flushes, ducking his head. "Was there anything in particular you liked more than the others? Anything you hated?" He reaches for a box, folding the top flap back carefully.
"If I say I didn't like something are you going to poison me to death?" Charlie teases before he can stop himself. Idiot. Why are you even trying to-- But the guy is laughing, and it's so unrestrained and delightful that Charlie's stomach gives a little flip. Oh, he thinks, and then, Oh, fuck me.
"I tend to save poisoning for the really serious offenses," the man says. "Like people who buy Quality Street."
Charlie snorts.
"In all seriousness," the man says, "I am pathetic and a bit anal, so if you really didn't like something, I'd quite like to know."
Charlie says, tentatively, "Well, the raspberry seemed a bit overly sweet to me," and before he can even finish the sentence the man is nodding, and saying something about fruit sugars. This segues into a discussion on fillings, and Charlie doesn't end up leaving until half an hour later, when a group of cackling, middle-aged women come in and start demanding brownies.
Once he's outside and the door has shut behind him, Charlie looks down at the neatly-boxed truffles and thinks, I do not have a crush on the pissy chocolate guy. I do not.
-----
It takes him three weeks of regular visits to get up the nerve to ask.
"So, do you have a name? I can't just keep calling you 'that pissy guy from the chocolate store,' you know." Charlie's leaning up against the display case, trying not to watch the man's slim fingers as he fills up Charlie's weekly box of chocolate rapture. Oh, god, well done. Now he'll think I've been talking about him or something.
"Er," the man says, setting the box on the counter and folding the lid closed. "It's David. David Mitchell."
David, Charlie thinks. Good name. Easy to moan when you're having sex. Oh, fuck, I did not just think that.
After a brief but epic struggle not to blush, he says, "I'm Charlie Brooker."
"I know," David says, and then smacks himself in the face when Charlie starts to laugh. "Can we pretend I didn't say that? I promise you, I am at least aware of how the basic social niceties go."
It takes a moment for Charlie to be able to control his cackle. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe if you bribed me with a cappuccino truffle, I could be persuaded."
"Actually," David says, looking up at Charlie through his eyelashes in a way that's really quite breathtaking, "I can do one better. I've, er, I've been experimenting with something, and I wondered if you'd like to try it, give me your feedback?"
"Arsenic ganache?" Charlie jokes, but he feels his cheeks go warm with pleasure. Don't be a dick, Brooker. It's not... he doesn't like you. Nobody likes you. "Yeah," he says, "I'd love to try it, whatever it is. I mean, no guarantee I'll be helpful, you know. I'm not a chef, just a guy who likes chocolate and talking out of my arse."
"That is pretty much my intended audience," David says wryly. He steps into the back and comes out with a small box that he slips into the bag with Charlie's usual order, then reaches over the counter to take Charlie's credit card, ducking his head. "Thanks, erm, Brooker," he says, handing it back. "Come back next week and tell me what you think of them?"
Ugh, fuck that, Charlie thinks. "Oh, Christ, it's Charlie, all right?" he snaps. "Don't get all formal on me now. God, it's like you're mentally trapped in the 1930s."
"Well excuse me for trying to retain some professionalism," David says, his awkwardness falling away as he gives Charlie a defiant look. "I thought you were rather keen on that sort of thing, given the way you bitched about my service."
"I'm keen on people not assuming I'm a tasteless oik before I've even said anything, that's all," Charlie shoots back.
"Yes," David says, eyes sparkling, "they should probably wait until you open your mouth and remove all doubt." He hands the bag over the counter.
"I'd be more impressed with that insult if you hadn't stolen it so obviously from Mark Twain," Charlie says, making for the door.
"Genius borrows nobly," David says. "And you can quote me."
-----
The experiment turns out to be four variations on a blue cheese truffle, which is weird, but weirdly good. Charlie likes the one labeled "Recipe 4" best because it's the least sweet, the most subtle, and okay, maybe it's creepy and maybe it takes up more time than he can afford to spend, given the upcoming Screenwipe deadlines, but he turns up at the shop the following week with a page's worth of notes. David seems delighted by how much thought he's put in, so Charlie offers to try any other experiments that David comes up with.
That day his usual order costs 20% less, and when he asks, David just says, "taste tester's discount" with a little smile that stays in Charlie's mind for the rest of the day.
They fall into a routine – Charlie stops by every Wednesday afternoon for his selection of truffles, and every other week or so David gives him a box of something strange and – usually – delicious. After the blue cheese it's paprika and chili powder, which is fantastic, and then lavender, which is fine but boring. Charlie starts to learn a little bit more about David, unconnected pieces of information that emerge through their banter – that his parents had been wary of his plans to go into business, that he loves Christmas but doesn't understand music, that he's always ready to mock Charlie for having hair that sticks up in the front. He learns other things, too – that David's pointy nose is now weirdly charming, that he scrunches up his face when he laughs, that he looks good in dark colors.
One week Charlie almost doesn't get there – Screenwipe filming had gone long, and he'd fucked up the last take so many times that everyone wanted to beat him violently about the head, himself included, and he has a fucking mountain of work waiting at home – but as he's leaving the studio he thinks, Fuck it, I need my fix, and goes anyway.
"You look like shit," is the first thing David says to him.
"Cheers," Charlie says, swiping a hand over his face. "Would you like to impart some actually useful information, or just keep on repeating what I say every time I look in the mirror?"
"That's not—" David says, flustered. "I didn't mean--"
"Oh, stop," Charlie says, feeling even wearier. "I'm just being a wanky arsehole because I have eight million deadlines approaching and an unfortunate lack of time to sleep any time this century. Don't take it personally."
David snorts, but he relaxes a little. "You're one of those typical over-committed twats, aren't you?" he says.
"Says the man who doesn't even have a counter monkey for his own store," Charlie shoots back.
"Maybe I just love interacting with the public," David says, which is so implausible that it makes Charlie laugh.
"I really do have to get going," he says reluctantly. David moves to box up Charlie's usual truffle selection. "Anything for me to test this week?" Charlie says.
David blinks. "I'll, er, put a little something in the bag for you," he says, and ducks into the back. When he comes out he hands over the bag and takes Charlie's credit card, swiping it quickly. "See you next week, okay?" he says.
"Yeah," Charlie says. "See you. If I survive."
When Charlie gets home he finds that instead of his usual box of tester chocolates he's got a substantial bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans, and a note: "If you need a late-night caffeine hit. On the house, no commentary required. --David"
-----
David's gesture makes Charlie squirm, and he has to spend more time than he's really got available reminding himself that David's probably just a really nice guy, that he surely doesn't want some chocolate-sexual weirdo perving on him, especially one that looks like a leprous seal - after it's been clubbed. But the espresso beans get him through the worst of his late nights, and when he goes into the shop the following week he's actually slept the night before, and composed enough to offer some suitably sarcastic thanks.
Two weeks after that Charlie misses his usual day at the store because Aisleyne has demanded that he go with her to some stupid party full of media wankers. The following morning he's hungover and depressed – he likes Aisleyne, sure, but spending a whole evening listening to twats talk about X Factor is too much to ask of anyone.
Plus, Aisleyne had clearly been trying to set him up with this girl Tara, and Charlie hadn't been able to explain that the only person he was currently interested in having sex with was a man who smelled like sugar and knew the melting point of chocolate like he knew his own name.
By two o'clock on Thursday he's annoyed with everything in the universe ever, so he shuts his laptop and heads out to the shop. Just seeing the sign makes him feel weirdly lighter inside, though, and he opens the door with a pleasant feeling of anticipation.
David looks up at the sound of the door opening, but then his face freezes, and he offers Charlie a grimace that's clearly supposed to be a smile.
"Hey," Charlie says curiously.
"Hello," David says, the word sounding oddly stilted.
Something seems off, but Charlie's no expert in figuring people out so he decides he'd better just act as normally as possible, and probably whatever it is would go away. "Anything new for me to try this week?" He walks over to the display case.
"Er," David says, not quite meeting his eyes. "No. That is, I don't think I'm going to need you to test stuff anymore. But thank you for all your help."
What? "Oh," Charlie says. "I thought--" I thought we were friends, Charlie finishes mentally, but at least he's not pathetic enough to say it out loud. "Okay," he says lamely, looking down at his hands.
"I mean, obviously you're a valued customer," David starts, but Charlie interrupts because he can't stand to hear it.
"Oh, shut up," he says. "You don't have to give me that bullshit. I'll keep coming back." I always do, he thinks. I always, always do. He puffs out a breath. "Can I have my usual, then?"
"I—" David says, and then, "Sure." He reaches for Charlie's usual box and starts to fill it without saying anything else. Charlie kind of wants to cry, which is probably half a product of his hangover and half a product of the fact that he's just been rejected by a guy he hasn't even managed to ask out in the first place.
Why is it everything I do turns to shit?
He feels even worse when he manages to drag his gaze up and discovers that David looks completely miserable, too, his eyes locked on what he's doing and the corners of his mouth turned down. Oh, fuck. Now I'm going to have to feel like a dick, aren't I?
But he likes David too much – Christ, he even likes David when the man's being a total cockface – to just let it go. He takes a deep breath. "Those curry truffles are really fantastic, by the way."
"Thanks," David says, mustering up another smile, one that looks almost genuine. "Did you, er," he says, folding down the lid of the box. "I mean..."
"Eloquent," Charlie says snottily.
David takes a breath. "Did you want something for your girlfriend?" He looks like he's braced for a blow, but Charlie's too busy trying to figure out what the fuck he's even talking about to really notice.
"My—" Something clicks in Charlie's brain. "What, Aisleyne? Are you kidding? Not only is she not my girlfriend, but if I gave her chocolates, she'd only complain that I was out to sabotage her career by tempting her with the food of the devil."
"Oh," David says. "I thought she--"
"God, have you been on the internet again?" Charlie says sarcastically. "I've told you before, no good can come of that. Sure, it's all kittens on the surface, but underneath there is a great evil."
David laughs, his whole face brightening, and Charlie feels his heart thump at the sight. And then an idea flashes in front of his brain and his heart thumps even faster.
Is that why he-- No, it couldn't be. He couldn't be... jealous. Tentatively, he says, "Aisleyne's not my type, anyway."
David stops laughing, and swallows hard. "Oh?"
Charlie shoves his hands in his pockets. Right. Are you going to grow some balls, Brooker? Because now would be a good time. "Yeah, I tend to go for something a bit different."
"Such as?" David says. He's holding himself stiffly now, and as Charlie watches he licks his lips.
That sounds like he's interested. Please let him be brain-damaged enough to be interested.
Charlie takes a deep breath. "Acerbic and smart. Dark eyes and stupid floppy hair." He steps around the edge of the counter slowly. He's giving David plenty of time to run away, to tell him to get the fuck out, but David doesn't say anything, just looks at him with wide eyes. "A bit anal," Charlie continues. "Likes sweets. The kind of guy who runs a chocolate shop, basically."
"Oh, god," David says, and then he closes the last few feet between them and they're kissing at last.
David tastes of caramel and his mouth is so sweet. Charlie licks at the corner of his mouth, licks over the curve of David's bottom lip and tastes him thoroughly. David moans, cupping Charlie's face in his hands and deepening the kiss until they're both groaning.
Oh fuck. Charlie's hard already, just from one kiss, and he wraps his arms around David's waist, pulling him closer.
"Wait," David says. "Wait a minute." He pushes past Charlie and crosses to the door of the shop; Charlie only has a few seconds to feel confused and hurt before David's locking the door and flipping the sign on the door so that the other side shows "closed."
Oh, Charlie thinks. Oh, hell yes.
As soon as David is within reach again Charlie reels him in. The second kiss is hot, slick, promising. David's hands are in Charlie's hair, rubbing the back of his neck, and his tongue is teasing across the line of Charlie's teeth. Charlie gets his hands on David's bottom and squeezes, feeling the shape of it under his hands as David shudders and holy fuck, this is way better than any of his fantasies.
David pulls back, and Charlie groans, wondering if this is going to be a relationship of perpetual teasing.
"David—" he says, helplessly turned on.
"Come in the back," David says, wild-eyed. "I'm not having sex in front of the windows."
We're going to have sex! Charlie's brain thinks, a bit stupidly. But he doesn't have time to berate himself for being obvious because David's hands are suddenly on his belt, tugging him through the doorway into the back room.
He hasn't actually been back here before, but the urge to look around is fairly successfully stifled by the way David's shoving him against the wall and pressing his leg between Charlie's thighs.
"Christ, I can't believe you actually want to--" David says, and then flushes bright red. "I mean—"
"Look, I'm fucking crazy about you," Charlie says, sliding his hands up David's back.
David kisses him, and for a while all they do is hump each other embarrassingly against the wall, Charlie's tongue fucking into David's mouth. David tears his mouth away and bites at Charlie's jaw, which makes him whine deep in his throat. He can feel David's cock twitch against his thigh at the noise, and suddenly he's desperate to touch, desperate to feel David's cock in his hand.
Charlie gropes between them and starts unfastening David's belt.
"Good, uh, idea," David says, and then he's doing the same for Charlie but quicker because he's obviously better with his hands. Charlie ends up being slowed down even further because once David's got a hand on Charlie's cock, Charlie's a bit distracted with moaning and thrusting and kissing David's beautiful fucking mouth.
When he finally does get David's cock in his hand, though, it's worth the wait – hot and smooth and solid in his palm. He strokes it experimentally and David moans, his head falling back.
"Oh, Christ, Charlie, fuck," he says, his own hand squeezing Charlie's cock erratically in a way that makes Charlie shudder. "I--" David says, "Let me-- Oh, hell, you're going to mock me forever about this." Still working Charlie's cock with one hand he gropes around on the nearby table with the other, then appears to find what he's looking for and lifts his hand, stuffing the truffle into Charlie's mouth. Instinctively Charlie bites down, breaking the shell to get at the thick, chocolate-y filling inside, and then David kisses him, sharing the chocolate between their mouths.
Oh, Charlie thinks, eyes falling shut, and then, Oh, fuck, that's amazing. It's milk chocolate, sticky sweet and melting quickly. David licks into his mouth, teeth scraping along Charlie's bottom lip, and his hand is working Charlie's cock with quick, sharp motions.
"Jesus," Charlie says thickly against David's mouth, swallowing the last of the chocolate and opening his eyes. "Oh, Jesus, David, you dirty little fuck, yeah."
He tightens his hand, trying to match David's strokes and David makes a noise that's part-laugh and part-moan. "The way you looked," David says, "that first time you came in, fucking orgasmic when you tasted it, and I wanted--"
Charlie doesn't want to think about his own embarrassing sex/chocolate-eating faces and doesn't let him finish, just gropes around with sweaty fingers for another truffle and lifts it to David's mouth. David takes it, lips brushing deliberately against Charlie's fingers, and then Charlie cups David's chin in his hand and crushes their mouths together. The second one is even better than the first because he's prepared this time and he can match the actions of his hand and his mouth, twisting his wrist to work David's cock as they taste chocolate and each other.
They break from the kiss, both panting. "Oh, god," David says. "Charlie." He's achingly gorgeous like this, all flushed and disheveled. Charlie wants to make him come, wants to see him come undone, and if he's very, very lucky maybe he won't fuck everything up.
"David," Charlie says back, and oh, yes, he was right, it's really quite a nice word to moan – it rolls out of the throat pretty easily. He leans down, licking a chocolate smudge off David's neck, a smudge he'd put there with his own fingers just a few seconds ago, which is a surprisingly erotic thought, and David's free hand cups the back of his neck convulsively.
"Fuck," David says, "oh, fuck, please," which is lovely, so Charlie licks him again, harder this time, and then David makes a strange incoherent noise and without warning comes in a rush all over Charlie's hand.
The feel of it is almost enough to tip Charlie over the edge, but not quite, and he moans in frustration as David's grip on his cock slackens.
"Sorry," David says, shakily, "Sorry, I didn't mean to--" and he starts trying to pull away, which is the last thing Charlie wants. He doesn't know what to say – he never knows what to say in situations like these, it's like he's got terminal emotional retardation or something – so instead he just twists his fingers in David's shirt and hauls him in for another kiss. David goes stiff in surprise, and then suddenly he seems to get it and he starts stroking Charlie's cock again, slower and harder this time, his kiss languid.
"Ah," Charlie says, "oh, oh," and then a variety of other embarrassing noises escape his mouth as he comes in a series of thick, slow pulses. He sags back against the wall, utterly worn out, but he keeps hold of David's shirt and after a moment David leans against him, breathing heavily, his face buried in Charlie's neck.
"I've a bit of a thing for your mouth, it appears," David mumbles.
"I've a bit of a thing for your fingers," Charlie says into his hair.
They stand in silence for a while. Then finally David straightens up, his back making an odd cracking noise. He offers Charlie a tentative smile, and Charlie does his best to look reassuring, though he's probably only managing to look awkward and thoroughly shagged.
"So," David says, biting his lip. "I don't suppose you're in the market for a floppy-haired, slightly-anal, chocolate shop-owner boyfriend, are you?"
Charlie grins, suddenly and stupidly happy. "As it happens I am," he says. "Those are all qualities I look for. But of course the most important thing is good customer service.