#and the owners r purposefully pushing them to get this reaction

[penisliker-moved]

POL WHO HATE CHIHUAHUAS DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE CID FIE FIE FID RICBFJFNR

[boonki]

Draco was not a dramatic man.

Sure, he’d given in to the stereotype over the years, laughing about it with his friends and letting them neatly label his erratic behaviors and eccentricities as such, and at times, had even leaned into it, getting away with actions and ideals because of this simple belief his friends had in him.

But the thing was, Draco was not, in fact, dramatic.

There was just a certain order to things. Things were meant to be the way they were meant to be. And as any civil and educated member of society, he trusted and upheld that those practices, ideologies, and traditions had meaning to them. That they gave way to a more poignant, established, and refined lifestyle.

Which was why, under no circumstances, he was making this man’s order.

“But,” the man practically sputtered, “I’m the customer.”

Draco hitched an eyebrow. “And I’m the owner, and I say absolutely not.”

The disbelief and uncertainty was almost comical, had it not been leading to his coffee shop’s financial decline. Well, not a fatal decline, given it was late into the evening and most of the seats were still occupied, surely assisted by the decline in weather and onset of exam week. But still, every dollar counted. To someone poorer than him, Draco speculated. But still, on principle.  

“But it’s what I want, and I’m paying you to do it.” The man pushed the money closer to Draco, as if bribery were going to suddenly peel away his sense of morality. He’d like to see this man try and break down Draco’s strict sense of self.

“You’re asking me to make you a latte with five shots of espresso and about half the bottle of vanilla to compensate. If you’re this desperate into your exams and are in need of a heart attack, I would recommend letting your marks come out and having things run their due course, no?”

Draco was impressed with this man’s persistence, if anything. His glasses hung crooked on his nose, drawing attention away from his rather startling green eyes, and Draco, though strongly disinclined to touching strangers, was fighting back the urge to smooth down his great tuft of hair. Instead, he feigned clearing a smudge off the face of the register.

“Fine.”

Draco looked up, quickly relaxing his face to veil the shock. His mouth pulled to the side, and he shifted his stance.

“So what’ll it be?”

“Just a latte then, I suppose.” The man, to his credit, didn’t look as frustrated as Draco was sure he felt.

Draco did end up putting an extra shot in, out of pity.

____

The night after, he was back.

“Okay, listen, I know it’s a bit unconventional, but I have not slept in weeks, and I need to pass this class. My friends like this place, so I can’t go elsewhere. Can I please have a five shot latte with extra vanilla syrup?” He was breathing a little harder than he should’ve been, impassioned by his short speech, his ragged flannel undulated with the rise and fall of the man’s sturdy-looking chest. Draco, although amused, was a hard man to crack.

“No.”

“Please.”

“Still no.”

The man pursed his lips, looking up at the sky. He turned on his heel, and back to his table, where his two friends, one a young woman with bushy hair and an air of efficiency, and the other looking hopelessly lost with his material, looked up at him, and then right at Draco. The young woman stood harshly, letting the legs of the chair scrape against the floor, drawing the attention of the nearby customers, and stalked over to the register.

She took a deep breath before talking. “Can I have a-”

Draco was doing his best not to smile. “No.”

She looked taken aback, eyebrows furrowing together. “But you haven’t even heard what I’m asking for.”

Draco gave her a level stare. “You’re going to ask for the drink that I won’t make your friend, and my answer is still no. It’s not even coffee at that point, just a stroke waiting to happen.”

“This has got to be illegal.” She stated, very matter-of-fact.

“If you can find the law, then I’ll follow it. Best of luck.” He countered.

She pursed her lips, letting out a sharp breath through her nose. “Fine. I will.”

He almost believed that she actually would, too.

____

The next time the man came, he came alone, and sat with his head buried in books for the better half of the night.

Draco was nearly intrigued. Why come here with no friends if he couldn’t even get his order?

The customers were fairly sparse tonight, and Draco was getting a bit tired of wiping down the same mugs and rinsing out the same milk pitchers. So, he decided to take a chance, deviate from himself for a bit. Just to see what would happen. Not because he wanted to. Naturally, he would never tell anyone about this, lest his reputation be completely ruined.

Five shots and half a bottle of vanilla it was, if that would allow him to sit across from this man and ask him what compels him to bring on his own early demise.

He made the drink, reeling with disgust the entire time, almost threw it out on two different occasions, but found himself placing it on the man’s table before Draco really had the time to figure out what he was going to say. He stood there, like a complete nitwit, while the man looked down at the cup and then back up at him.

“I’m Draco.” He said.

The man hesitated, uncertainty and confusion written clearly in the open mouth, cocked head, and wrinkled forehead. “Uh… Harry Potter.” He finally settled on.

Draco made a face he hoped came across as pleasant. “What are you studying for?”

Harry blinked at him, and then startled down to his textbooks, as if he forgot they were there. “Oh, uh, business.”

“Business, good.” Draco said, like a fucking idiot.

Harry nodded, just a small nod, and gave a flash of a smile that was really more polite than welcoming.

“Right. Well. Enjoy.”

Draco sauntered back to his counter, wanting to dissolve into the ground and melt right into hell. That was terrible. God, where did his wit go? He might as well close up shop and move locations.

Not that, under any circumstances, Draco was dramatic. This was a completely normal reaction to making a fucking buffoon of oneself in front of someone that might, objectively, be considered attractive.

____

“But  you made it last time!”

“No.”

“Then why did you make it in the first place?”

“You looked so pathetic, sitting there all alone. I was hoping the caffeine would make you do something worthwhile with yourself.”

Harry took a deep breath, the kind that is more a warning, a threat, than just a breath. “You know what? Fine. Okay. Just give me a regular vanilla latte then.”

Draco made his special drink, and said absolutely nothing of his own atrocities. God, who was he turning into?

“Here’s your latte.”

“Thanks for nothing.” Harry grumbled.

“Anytime, Potter.”

Draco watched the back of Harry as he walked away, watched his stupid sweater stretch over his broad shoulders. Maybe he should throw in some whip-cream next time.

___

“He fancies you, you know.” The bushy-haired friend was back, this time with a much more agreeable mood. She handed him her card, and he mindlessly swiped it through his machine.

Draco’s stomach muscles clenched. Why on earth would he do that?

“Why on earth would he do that?” He said, holding her card out between them.

She took it, and laughed. “I don’t know either, not to be rude," she added, after looking at his face, "but you should say something, I don’t think he will. He’ll just keep coming here and be miserable the whole time.”

“Hmm, that sounds like a personal problem.” It was an interesting development. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the information.

He placed her coffee on the counter--"thank you"--and went back to wiping mugs, totally not purposefully avoiding looking over at his table, but rather… circumstantially always finding things to do that required the back wall.

Draco nearly-- nearly, because he’s fucking good at his job-- messed up the next drink that came through, and blamed it on the fact that he didn’t get much sleep the night before. Can insomnia cause a racing heart?

___

Draco was not a dramatic man.

He simply believed there was a way to do things properly, and that you couldn’t casually ask someone out over coffee at your own coffee shop. Things like this required dinner, maybe flowers, a candle or two, hair gel, and some confidence.

Which is how he found himself closing his shop early, turning the sign to Closed hours before he normally did, and waiting on his own front steps for nearly a fucking hour before the golden trio came trekking to his store, bags heavy and books in hand.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, as if it wasn’t obvious Draco was waiting for someone. Harry’s scarf was hanging askew on his neck, and Draco wanted to stand up and fix it for him.

“Waiting, obviously.” Draco said, looking him dead in the eye, expression perfectly neutral.

“For…” Harry dragged out the 'r', leaving the question mark behind, waiting for Draco to finish the sentence.

“Well, you.”

Harry’s bushy-haired friend’s eyes widened, and she tugged the red-headed boy’s arm fervently, who looked altogether baffled. “We, uh, I actually need to run to the library quick. Bye, Harry!” The red-head sputtered a rather futile protest before being swept away. Draco was secretly grateful for her rather poor excuse.

“Wait--” Harry started, turning his head in between Draco and the now-vacant spot where his friends had previously stood.

Draco stood up, suddenly conscious of the empty space between them where a counter usually occupied. “If you can make it one night without studying, would you like to go to dinner?”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead, just about reaching his daft mess of hair. He simply stood there, books in hand, scarf askew, breathing in the cold air as if Draco hadn’t said anything at all.

“Hello?” Draco tried again.

“Yes, I would… yes. Tonight?” Harry said.

“That was the plan.”

“Uh, okay. Sure. Where are we going?”

Draco smiled, just a turn up of one side of his mouth. “I know a place. You just can’t order anything stupid and ridiculous. And no coffee, god, you’re probably going to die of a heart attack.”

____

Draco was not a dramatic man, nor was he prone to making rushed decisions and leaping to conclusions.

He was methodical, careful, calculating, and did not take kindly to strangers invading his personal space. He valued his privacy, his sanctuary at home that was undisturbed by the outside world. He usually didn’t date, and would never consider adopting a pet. He liked being alone.

But he was pretty sure he was going to keep this man.

(And never, ever make him a five shot latte again, not if he wanted his boyfriend alive.)

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 36

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 3. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Blood, insects, not taking chronic illness so well.

_____________________

Once they’d stepped out of the office, both Angel’s new top handles and recalibrated thruster facilitated ‘Choly in smoothly mounting it. The chemist ported both his syringer rifle and his .38, and rode his General Atomics custom companion out into the junkyard. The two took a lap around the yard, then set up some cans and bottles they’d found about the grounds. They took turns shooting at them, ‘Choly to measure the facility of firing from atop Angel with the harness replaced by handles and foot-pegs, and Angel to gauge the effectiveness and stability of the upgrades its owner had made. A successful testing round exhausted trash targets, so they then shot at components of junk vehicles. One would call out the part and make of the vehicle in their sights, and then make good on the shot, not at all unlike calling shots in billiards.

‘Choly had never been so great at billiards. Rather than ding its side mirror, the chemist shattered a Pick-R-Up’s passenger window with a pencil round, and he flinched when Angel chortled. He shot again in defeat, purposefully hitting the broadside of the once-red truck’s passenger door.

Soon, he observed the pickup truck shift in place, and his face slacked. The ground had built up not just underneath but around the underside of the vehicle’s chassis... and within it. The scale of it had prevented him from identifying it as any anthill he’d have known, but when the two-foot-long insects poured out of the cab of the truck, there would be no mistaking it.

He slung his rifle over his back in favor of his pistol, and helped Angel in pushing back the giant ants. His jaw tensed as the game shifted to a crisis, and his eyes scrunched wide with frozen loathing as Angel’s last laser fire struck the very bottom-heavy front end of the Pick-R-Up instead of the last ant.

“We have to get out of here!” He kicked Angel as though to spur it to about face as requested. It complied without hesitation, and immediately he rubbed at its chassis with one hand in apology at the reflex.

Before they even exited the front gate of the hurricane fence, the truck’s rusted nuclear engine combusted. Ants and vehicle parts flew everywhere, and in a chain reaction, the explosion resulted in wave after wave of vehicular explosions. ‘Choly looked back as they zipped down, to realize they sped down Route 62 and not North on Route 4 like he’d planned. He bit his lower lip, but accepted the choice. Maybe they could get to U.S. Route 3 by dark.

The longer they traveled, the denser the once-evergreen woods grew. Angel broke the silence after they’d followed the broken asphalt for half an hour.

“I must say, that was a thousand times worse than shooting at a hornet nest.” The Mister Handy switched out its pincers in favor of a laser and two saws while it spoke. “I apologize for my inaccurate aim precipitating our abrupt exit. Hopefully, you had no further need of anything on premises.”

“We both missed shots. I don’t fault you. Those ants were fast. I’m surprised your thruster flame kept them from climbing you.” He frowned, nettled by noticing its companion’s tacit poise, and readied his .38. “Guess we won't be learning what's wrong with that Sentry...”

“For the better, Mister Carey. That wasn’t our mystery to solve. The government didn’t seem to want it repaired, regardless.”

They approached the on-ramp to access US Route 3. Though ‘Choly recalled the crumbling state of the I-95 flyover in Lexington, he opted to direct them to remain on the highway rather than travel around it. Unlike the flyover, Route 3 was not an elevated expressway, and as such, they could hop the concrete guard walls if they came upon a patch they could not cross. Rusted-out vehicles had crashed through these barriers in places, including an overturned freightliner halfway spilled down the embankment. Besides the weaving required to navigate the highway, all remained quiet. Still, ‘Choly could not ignore Angel still had its weapons drawn.

“I take it you’re sensing something I’m not.”

“I’m not quite sure just yet. I didn’t want to mention it until I was certain, in case it could be chalked up to my still acclimating to the new sensor array.”

“Well, can you describe it?”

“It’s more... what do humans call it? A sense of dread. The woodlands have changed so much since we last came this way.”

“So you’ve got the heebie-jeebies.” His smile faded as quick as it formed. “It’s going to be all right. We just have to get up to the base first.”

The Frank L. Johnson Bridge had bellied out into the Concord, so they moved onto the outer shoulder of the highway.

“Should I dismount? And each of us cross on our own?”

“Nonsense, Sir! My hydraulics could handle a little water skimming, even before your upgrades.”

With that, Angel’s thruster sputtered into a different transmission tier, and they smoothly skated across the river with a swift, spraying wake. ‘Choly glanced both up and down river, admiring how even two hundred years after the apocalypse, the Concord had retained its idyllic tranquility. Once upon the other side, another overturned freightliner obstructed their immediate reentry to Route 3, and they continued on the outer shoulder a ways. Before either could register it coming, something that hummed divebombed ‘Choly’s face. Angel abruptly spun about face, but the moment blurred in a sharp pain to ‘Choly’s rib cage.

“Won’t you stay still!” slurred out of the Handy, and blood smeared through the air in front of ‘Choly as the circular saw connected with the assailant. It swerved about to nearly dance with the others incoming. “How dare you!”

Failing not to hyperventilate, the chemist looked down at his vault suit to find a mosquito head lodged by the foot-long proboscis between a clavicle and rib. His vision fell into a vignette, and his prickling extremities numbed. He could notice laser fire, but could barely focus enough to aim his pistol. Until he could reach his first aid for a Stimpak, he had to resist the reflex to pull the instrument of anatomy from his own.

When Angel noticed ‘Choly wasn’t helping it fire on the insects, it understood the immediacy of locating cover, and sped down the highway rather than eliminate them all.

‘Choly next noticed they were no longer on Route 3. Angel meandered meaningfully through a hilly expanse of field, toward a large white colonial building. He felt like he wasn’t processing what he saw, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of observing robotic carnage strewn about the unkempt fairway. They took the stairs up to the patio, and entered. 'Choly took in the interior design, between the gold twelve-point cross-stars mounted all along the far wall and the bar front with its marble-top, and recognized it as the clubhouse of the Billerica Golf Course.

Angel lowered ‘Choly to collapse gently backwards into a lounge chair. It readied a Stimpak to administer the moment ‘Choly had removed the mosquito proboscis. The thrust required to pull the spiny, textured thing back out left him heaving for breath, and he clamped his free hand over the wound to put pressure on the blood flow. He vacuously wiped blood from the lower half of his face. The Handy gave him a moment to catch his breath before offering him the last Melancholia, which he accepted with resignation.

“I fear I put you in harm’s way,” it started, tendrils terse. “I should have acted sooner. Damn bloodbugs! It’s difficult to trust the increased detail and range of my perception. Do tell me you’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be fine.” Proboscis in one hand, numbing beverage in the other, he let out a weak wet chuckle. “Bloodbugs. Went right for the heart. If it hadn’t been for my spinal corset, it might have connected.”

“Forgive me, gentlemen, but I can’t help but notice the terrible scrap you seem to have just been in.”

The chemist jumped, thinking at first the second holographic British voice had been an hallucination brought on by pain and painkillers, but it was far too soft to belong to Angel. He and his Handy both looked up to find they’d been approached by the very dented up brass Handy that once had run the clubhouse’s bar and grill.

“Bogey, was it?” Angel fielded. “I’m Angel. It’s been many years since we came this way, but you might remember Mister Carey?”

“That I am.” Bogey honed its triplicate sensors on ‘Choly. “You were one of our frequent driving range patrons, were you not?”

“Guilty.” ‘Choly tossed the proboscis on the lounge table. “Thanks for not being mad for us barging in. We’re on our way up to Lowell, but we got dive-bombed by m-- bloodbugs.”

“My word. It’s already getting late, and I don’t encourage traveling Route 3 by night these days. You’re free to stay until tomorrow, though it may not be too much safer.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got an insect problem here, too.” ‘Choly cut off his wheeze with another swig of the cherry-sweet drink.

“You weren’t followed, were you?”

‘Choly and Angel looked to each other, then back to Bogey. He shook his head.

“I don’t think we’ve got any worries, then,” it extrapolated at a caution, its posture slacking. “Come with me, the two of you. It’s been some time since I had a patron to tend to.”

Angel handed him his cane, and the two followed Bogey to the locker rooms. All the metal doors had been opened, but their contents remained. Several skeletons scattered the floor, including one having fallen out of the shower stall.

“You’re free to help yourself to a change of clothes from what’s in the lockers. It’s been two hundred years since anyone’s used them, and clubhouse policy indicates that any belongings left for more than six months become Billerica Golf Course property, and we can’t resell used clothing. Need I remind in advance, however, not to wear cleats in the clubhouse.”

“My, Bogey, that’s most generous of you. And generous to extend us hospitality! Mister Carey has been most distressed at his lack of wardrobe variety as of late, and it’s quite good to see a friendly face.”

“Ah, yes, agreed. That’s a fine shade of blue, but I imagine humans grow tired of the same exterior far more readily than any of us do. On that note, whatever became of you, chum? If you don’t mind my asking, I’ve never seen a Mister Handy in such a hodgepodge.”

The chemist chuckled as he browsed the lockers. Not many of them had anything in them, but he would stop and pull out an article of clothing on occasion. While the two Handy-bots chatted, he picked out a pair of khaki golf trousers and a cobalt blue pinstripe dress shirt with a white contrast collar and French cuffs, and a gold knit button-down sweater vest that he didn’t mind was missing a button. He found a pair of cleats in his size, and even a pair of saddle oxfords. He put a hand on a sock became animated.

“Good god, socks,” he hushed, going back through the locker contents to grab every pair he could find. No pairs seemed to have survived in tact, but he nearly felt endeared to the notion of mis-mates, and held two at a time up to one another with an odd grin. “It’s been months since I had a new pair of socks. Funny how the simple necessities of yesterday have become so... indulgent.”

“You can have as much or as little attire as you like,” Bogey indulged. “It’s simply occupying space here.”

“We have the storage space for a few ensembles, Mister Carey, if you find anything else to your liking. I’ll leave you with a canister of water and a towel, if you’d like to freshen up before you change.” Angel deposited the items beside the pile of clothing ‘Choly had made on the bench in the middle of the locker room. “I’ll be with Bogey in the lounge, if you need us.”

“Thank you. Both of you.”

Once they were gone, he doubled back to the locker where he had noticed its previous tenant had kept several pair of briefs, and he added them to his pile of new acquisitions. He disrobed and cleaned his face and front with a certain detachment. His spinal corset had soaked up a lot of blood, and removing it for the night would ideally help it dry out. He dressed in his new outfit, minus his binding, and finished off his Melancholia. Looking to the empty bottle, he bit his lip askew.

“I suppose it can’t be helped.”

His Pip-Boy click-chirped, and he glanced down to find the health tab highlighted. Last known Pip-Boy to Vault Suit synchronization completed at 16:23. Please reconnect Pip-Boy to Vault Suit to reestablish advanced diagnostics. It was well after five now. He straightened. When Vault 111 staff had insisted the technological excellence of the Vault-Tec Vault Suit, he had balked at it. But he had no idea the two synchronized for peak function.

He flipped the dial over to the health tab and selected it to read it over. Systemic damage to connective tissues due to sustained exposure to unknown CFCs. Chronic arthritis and arthralgia, possibly owing to a general neuralgia. Likelihood of syncope under duress. Undetermined neurological damage manifesting as memory lacunae. Shell-shock. Opioid addiction.

A hand went to ‘Choly’s mouth, and his right arm slacked. He hadn’t wanted to be right all this time, what was wrong with him. The majority of the things the Pip-Boy enumerated, didn’t sound like they could be cured by medicine. He winced at noticing that he’d nipped his lip between his teeth, and licked at the metallic taste. It wouldn’t get better. This was the best he would get. He stood and left the military coat, Vault Suit, orthotics, and various golf clothing in a mound on the bench. He didn’t bother tidying his hair as he shambled off with his cane to meet the Handy-bots in the main room of the clubhouse.

Surely, after the day he’d had, Bogey could indulge him with a stiff drink.

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