#there are still a few stickers and nametags but anything that could be ripped from the wall in a fit of grief is gone

[allegorymetaphory]

Miles from 42 doesn't do art anymore. He's got no drawing board like our Miles; 42's room is filled with crates of records--he's into music like Uncle Aaron. He used to be an artist, but that part of him died with his father.

[callboxkat]

Second Chances: Virgil’s No Good, Awful, Very Bad Week

Author’s note: Thank you everyone for your patience on this! I’m so sorry I didn’t get this out as quickly as I intended. I hope you enjoy it :)

Summary: Things had really begun to snowball for Virgil in the past week or so. And he was reaching his breaking point. 

It had started with those stupid nails.

Warnings: Food mentions, rude customers, arguing

Word Count: 4735

Second Chances Masterpost!

Writing Masterpost!

...

Virgil had been having a time of it lately. Seemingly everything that could possibly wrong was going wrong, and he desperately needed a me day. He was going to lose it, at this rate.

His new coworker had finally settled in enough to start being actually helpful, rather than slowing everything down and doubling the number of irate customers Virgil had to juggle, and had maybe turned out to actually not be a jerk, and things had been looking up. But of course, Virgil’s life couldn’t have that, and here he was. Things had really begun to snowball in the past week or so. And he was reaching his breaking point.

It had started with those stupid nails.

…

“Are you freaking kidding me,” Virgil groaned.

There was a nail in his tire. A nail, in his tire. The end of it glinted slightly in the weak sunlight, the rest completely embedded in the tire of his car.

He’d had a feeling about what he’d fine, as the low pressure warning had come on and he’d pulled onto the side of the road, although he’d hoped otherwise. This was the third time this had happened in as many months. Virgil swore someone was seeding his driveway with them.

“Great. Just great.” Virgil fished his phone out of his pocket, glanced at the time—he was definitely going to be late for work, since he wasn’t about to let his car sit in the parking lot and leak air from the tire all morning—and dialed Thomas’s number. Apparently, he and Roman would get to start today’s shift alone.

Rain began to fall, pattering the street. Even more perfect. Virgil cast one more glare at the offending tire before he got back in his car. He slammed the door just as the line picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey T, uh… were you going to go in today?”

“I wasn’t,” Thomas admitted. “Why, do you need me to?”

“Well, I was on my way to the café, but you’ll never guess what I just found in my tire.”

There was a sympathetic groan on the other end of the line. “Oh, no.”

“Yep.”

“But you just got that fixed.”

“Yep.”

“…Are you sure it’s not just a pebble?”

Virgil laughed. “Thomas, I think I know how to tell a nail head from a pebble. If I didn’t before, I sure should now.”

“That’s true.”

“So, uh, hopefully I shouldn’t be too long, but….”

“No, don’t worry about it. Do what you’ve got to do. I’ll go make sure Roman’s not by himself.”

“Yeah. Um, tell Princey I said hi, I guess. And that if he messes anything up while I’m gone, I’m gonna take his name tag and make him wear my Myrtle one.”

“…You don’t have a Myrtle nametag?”

“I’ll make one, then.”

Thomas snorted. “Alright.” He knew Virgil was joking. Which he was. Mostly.

Getting a nail in his tire sucked; but of course, it if were only the nail that he had to deal with, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Virgil could handle a minor inconvenience. A few minor inconveniences. But things only got worse from there.

…

“Medium chai latte with two cherries,” the woman standing in front of the register said, not looking up from her phone.

“Sure,” Virgil said. They typed in the order, then told her the price. The cherries seemed a little odd, as did the specific request for exactly two of them, but they’d put together some pretty strange orders. And it wasn’t exactly difficult to throw in a couple of cherries. It wasn’t a very expensive drink.

The woman frowned anyway and finally looked up from her phone, clearly unhappy. “But the sign says the chai latte is only—"

THUMP! The loud interruption was accompanied by a gasp and a splash. Virgil spun around, their heart immediately racing. There was a yelp from the side—probably Roman.

“Oh, goodness gracious,” Thomas sighed, one hand on the counter, looking down at the mess he’d made. He’d dropped a gallon of milk—which had been nearly full, from the look of it, and which either hadn’t had a cap, or had lost it when the jug fell, hitting the ground hard. It had, of course, tipped onto its side. Now, milk was spreading across the floor, and there were splashes of it across the bottom of the cabinets and their clothes.

Roman, the only one of the three spared from the splatter, quickly set down the pair of drinks he’d just finished before he could drop them. A bit of coffee dripped down the side of one of the cups. His eyes were wide as he looked from the splattered milk on the floor, to Thomas by the counter, to Virgil at the register.

Virgil also took a second to take in the scene, then noticed the damp feeling at the ankles of their leggings. They looked down, and their still frantic heart managed to sink as they took in their skirt. It was new, ankle length, with beading and embroidered skulls. They’d worn it with a stylishly ripped long sleeve shirt under their uniform shirt, as well as a studded choker with a dangling storm cloud pendant, which had been a birthday gift from Thomas. They were also wearing a they/them pin that they’d gotten from Roman, who’d shown up one day with a set of three pins, looking both very nervous and very pleased with himself. Virgil had still been able to see where the clearance sticker had been torn off—not that they were judging saving a little money. Virgil was 100% sure that the gift was Roman’s attempt to help himself, since apparently the name tags were too subtle. Virgil thought it was kind of hilarious—and maybe a little sweet (maybe)—so they wore the pins.

They had loved the look, minus the Sanders Café shirt; and wearing it had really brightened having to go to work so early in the morning; but now the ensemble was rather soured by the milk dripping from the skirt’s hem and splashed across their shoes. They stepped back to avoid the spreading puddle, as if it mattered at that point.

“Huh,” they said, still trying to get their heart rate to calm down.

Thomas sighed as if in agreement. A few people in line either groaned or snickered, depending on how impatient they were feeling on that particular day, but most weren’t that rude. One person whispered to their friend, “Should we go somewhere else?”

Roman, meanwhile, looked like he was waiting for someone to start yelling. He was eyeing the closet where the cleaning supplies were, but he couldn’t get to it without marching through the milk, and he was visibly hesitating. Probably didn’t want to ruin his shoes. Virgil might have been annoyed, but Roman was the only one who hadn’t already gotten milk on them, so they couldn’t really blame him.

Their gaze drifted to Thomas’s hand on the counter, and how much weight he was putting on it, and the fact that Thomas had also made no move to clean up the spill.

“I’ve got this,” Virgil said, leaving the register and the crowd behind it. A soccer mom who was waiting for her drink made a snide comment about professionalism. Virgil decided her drink was getting made last.

“Thanks,” Thomas said. He watched as Virgil righted the jug and picked it up. The side of the jug had cracked, and they quickly moved to hold the jug at an angle to avoid too much more spilling—not that there was all that much left. It continued to drip as they carried it to the sink and set it down. Then, they went to get a mop. Thomas was feigning casualness as Virgil went, clearly preferring to look a bit like a jerk than anything else in front of the customers, who probably assumed he was just a manager taking advantage of the lower ranking employee by forcing them to clean up his mess. Virgil wasn’t going to do anything to ruin that image if that was the one he preferred, although they did keep an eye on Thomas as they started to clean up the spill.

Roman slowly turned back to what he’d been doing, wiping off the side of one of the drinks and sliding the both towards the waiting crowd. He grabbed one of the café’s popular double chocolate cheesecake slices, put it on a plate, and added it to the grouping on the counter before calling the customers’ names.

After a few seconds, Thomas straightened and walked to the register, and sat down on the stool. Chatter resumed a more usual tone in the café, although Virgil did notice a few people taking pictures of the spill.

Thomas smiled brightly at Ms. Chai Latte with Two Cherries. “Sorry about the wait! Let’s see, one chai latte, with two added cherries. That’ll be—”

The woman was already waving her credit card in his direction. “I know, I know. Here.”

Finally, the spill was cleaned up, and Virgil went to put away the mop. They snagged a bag of chips from the display and tossed them to Thomas on their way. And for the rest of their shift, they desperately tried to ignore the milk still stubbornly set into their skirt and leggings.

…

“Sorry,” Virgil said dully, not actually sorry at all, “Would you mind repeating that again?”

The young man grinned and repeated his very, very long order, speaking fast in a way that could only be on purpose. Virgil was pretty sure the order was different this time than the first. They cast a glance at the camera phone the guy was holding up, which was recording the entire thing, as if this was somehow the thrilling content the entire internet was looking for.

“One more time,” they said. “Please,” they added, because their boss would want them to.

The guy chuckled. “A little slow, huh…” he squinted at their shirt “…Alex, are we?”

Virgil only blinked at him.

He repeated the order. He definitely changed it again, but at least he slowed down this time. Slightly. Virgil typed it in, flashed a customer-service smile that didn’t reach their eyes, and went to make the order, taking a copy of the receipt. Roman was technically meant to fill the orders, but no one else was in the café besides a pair of teens waiting for their drinks. And based on the look the other barista cast Virgil, he had no idea where to start with this guy’s order anyway, even if he wasn’t already busy. Everything the man had ordered was ridiculous and often contradictory, like an “americano” with milk and whipped cream, to start. Most of the drinks had about ten customizations each that made their drinkability questionable at best. The order was rounded out by two relatively normal cappuccinos, identical except that one was decaf, and three-quarters of a cookie (he was being charged for the full cookie). It wasn’t a cheap bill, but that didn’t seem to be a concern.

The man filmed Virgil work, making dumb comments and laughing, and calling out various things that he thought that the barista had forgotten even though they hadn’t, or saying that they hadn’t added enough sprinkles or cherries or syrup, or whatever he could think of. Virgil only checked the receipt and kept going.

When the customer clearly didn’t get the reaction he wanted from any of that nonsense, he instead started berating Virgil’s appearance, saying he hadn’t known he was at some kind of freak raccoon zoo.

Roman looked annoyed at that and opened his mouth to respond, but Virgil shook their head. “Don’t, Princey,” they said in a low voice.

Roman hadn’t looked happy, but he had dropped it, instead heading over to the register, so that he could help the newly arriving customers who would otherwise be stuck waiting.

Finally, the monstrous order was done, and Virgil placed each cup on a tray. Two trays, actually. The drinks didn’t all fit on one. They set the dumb three-quarters cookie the customer had ordered on top of the lid of one of the cups.

“Which one’s the full caff cappuccino?” he asked. “You know, with—”

He went on to list all of the specifications it had, which Virgil tuned out because they didn’t care. They calmly pointed at one of the cups.

The guy grinned, took that drink off of the tray, and set it to the side. Then he did his best to fit everything else on one tray, putting his phone in a chest pocket so he could keep filming. He wasn’t going to win any awards for cinematography. Maybe he didn’t have any friends to film for him. It wouldn’t be a surprise.

The man picked up his overflowing tray of drinks, and then he dumped the entire thing in the trash.

Some of the drinks hit the edges of the trash can’s opening, spilling over the sides; but most of the man’s order ended up firmly in the trash. Everything Virgil had spent the past… he didn’t even know how long putting together. The two teenagers in the cafe looked up from their table, their jaws falling open like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

Roman looked even more horrified, but as angry as they were, Virgil simply blinked and turned to the drink the guy had set aside. “Oh, wait. Yeah. Sorry, that one’s actually the decaf.”

The wannabe internet star, who’d been watching their reactions smugly, paused. His face went blank with surprise, then contorted in rage. He turned off his camera phone and stormed out of the café without his drink.

Virgil counted to five, to reset, and let out a long, weary sigh. There weren’t many customers who were that horrible, but they were always a pain to deal with on the rare occasion they did show up. They turned to the small line that had collected during the show, held up by how long the one pointless order had taken. “If you all wouldn’t mind, please use the trash can on the other side of the café until further notice.” They pointed at the other trash can. They’d clean up the other once the line was gone, or make Roman do it.

Speaking of Roman, the other barista was still staring at the trashcan full of wasted drinks. Probably his first encounter with someone like that.

“Next customer,” Virgil called.

“He didn’t even… try any of them,” Roman said quietly. He looked down at the solitary, ridiculous drink left on the counter, and picked it up.

Virgil sighed. “Yeah. He was just here to make a mess for views, or whatever. Don’t worry about it. You can just throw that one away, too—we can’t sell it; and I doubt he’s coming back.” They turned and smiled at the customer before them. “So sorry about the wait. What can I get for you?”

They focused on taking the customer’s order, then turned to Roman, only to see that he hadn’t moved, still standing with the abandoned drink. He looked angry.

“Roman?”

“I’m taking my break,” Roman said. Still holding the drink, he left the prep area, walking stiffly towards the back of the café.

Great.

Virgil watched him go, shrugged, and went to make the order herself. She handed the drink off, then paused to switch the pins on her shirt before heading back to the register.

Some time later, once the café’s line was empty and the trash can had been cleaned up, Virgil walked to the break room and leaned on the doorframe. Roman was in there, sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and looking at the floor. The drink he’d taken from the counter sat on a table, half finished.

“You drank it?”

“It was the most normal drink he ordered,” Roman said, not looking up. “And he barely touched it.”

“Yeah, but… it’s decaf.”

Roman huffed, but he didn’t actually seem amused.

“What’s up, Princey?”

Roman shook his head.

“Come on, humor me. I don’t have time to needle it out of you. Someone’s supposed to be out front.”

Roman shook his head, glanced at Virgil, and looked away again. “It’s just a big waste, okay? What that guy did. I don’t—” He shook his head. “People shouldn’t do that.”

“No,” Virgil agreed, still confused about why a few drinks mattered so much to Roman. He wasn’t the one to waste so much time putting them together, and the guy had paid for them. “They shouldn’t.”

Roman took in a shaky breath and sat up, still looking away. “Sorry, just… go back out front. I’ll join you in a second.”

“…Okay.” Virgil hesitated, glancing him up and down, but she did leave.

Roman came back soon after, but he kept acting weird for the rest of their shift.

When she got home that afternoon, Virgil wanted nothing more than to take a long nap and watch some bad television, but someone had backed into her mailbox, and she got to deal with that instead.

…

The next day, the fridge died.  

The freaking. Fridge. Died. They had just gotten a milk delivery!

Virgil and Thomas were stuck with a dead fridge and a crowd of customers who weren’t exactly going to leave and give them space to figure out what to do. At least they knew roughly when it had stopped working, since Virgil had checked it when he got to the café, and they’d noticed something was wrong soon after.

Thomas went to the back to make some calls about getting the fridge fixed, and Virgil went on as normal, since they had some time before this really became a problem.

He tried not to think about it too much—at least, not until Thomas returned, looking annoyed and exasperated.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “That’s the earliest they can come look at it.”

“Everything will go bad way before then,” Virgil pointed out, arching an eyebrow. “The milk.”

“Yep.”

“So? What are we going to do?”

“Bradley told me we could figure that out. He doesn’t care.”

“Um, okay, well….”

Thomas shrugged. “Clearance sale?”

They ended up selling everything that required refrigeration for half of the regular price. Some of the less popular items, or items they had a lot of, were even further discounted. The first few customers to find this out were simply pleasantly surprised to hear the prices. Some of them added more to their orders, since they might as well.

And then, news spread, which created a new problem. Soon, the line was out the door, the café filled with customers clamoring for their discount coffee and pastry fix.

This rush, naturally, created more problems. Many of the customers seemed to be under the impression that everything was half price, and Virgil had the joyous task of dealing with many customers who were angry that their plain black coffee or chocolate chip cookies were full price, and who were unimpressed by Virgil’s suggestion that they make their americano a cappuccino or a latte if they were that set on paying less.

Thomas and Virgil were pushing out orders as fast as they could, and still it seemed like half the shop was filled with people clamoring to get their orders filled.

Mass hysteria rose when the café ran out of the popular double chocolate cheesecake. Virgil was beginning to contemplate simply closing the café for the day, cutting their losses, and hoping he wouldn’t get fired for doing so. Possibly the only reason he didn’t do that was remembering Roman’s reaction to a few (well… relatively few) drinks getting thrown away.

At one point, Thomas pulled Virgil aside. “I might need to go home,” he very reluctantly admitted. “This is… a lot. Would that be okay? I don’t want to leave you alone with all this.”

Virgil bit his lip. “Okay. Just… hold on a minute. Stay on the register. I’ll see if anyone else can come.”

Virgil pulled out his phone (which he was allowed to have in his apron pocket, at least as far as he cared) and stepped away from the crowded front of the café, retreating to the back room. He tapped his painted nails against the black, purple-rhinestone-studded phone case, thinking. Talyn and Joan would both be in class, so they weren’t an option. And he didn’t like most of the other baristas. Really, there was only one option.

Virgil selected Roman’s contact, and waited. He’d have preferred to just text—he hated phone calls—but he couldn’t be sure that a text would get Roman’s attention; and that cheap phone of his probably took forever to type on, anyway.

“Hey, Virgil,” Roman said. “What’s up? It’s my day off, isn’t it?” There was a shuffling noise, like he was scrambling to check that he hadn’t gotten the date wrong.

“Yeah—yeah, I know it is. Sorry, but, uh… we kind of have an emergency going on here, and we really need you to come in if you can. The fridge died this morning, so Thomas and I are trying to sell everything we can before it goes bad, and it’s getting crazy. And he’s not feeling well, so it’d just be me here… and—and it won’t like you’ll be losing your day off this week, since I doubt we’ll be able to open tomorrow with no fridge or supplies or anything. It’ll only be a couple of hours.” After that, they’d have to throw everything out.

Roman paused.

“…Please?”

“Wow, you must really be desperate if you’re saying ‘please’.”

Virgil scoffed, but before he could say anything, Roman continued, “Yeah, of course I’ll come in. One sec, I’ll see if I can get a ride.” Roman seemed to freeze, as if he’d misspoken “Uhh—my car’s—it’s in the shop.”

“…Yeah, sure.” That was an obvious lie, but it was neither any of his business nor anything he particularly cared about, especially at that moment. Virgil heard a scuffing noise, then footsteps, then a muffled conversation. Virgil paced the back room impatiently.

“Alright, I’m on my way. Give me like ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”

Virgil heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

He went out to tell Thomas, who agreed to stay until Roman arrived, although he wasn’t sure how helpful he’d be.

And then a disgruntled guest threw a drink, because apparently it was taking too long to get their wife’s order. Virgil was really going to need a self-care day after the week he was having. Or two. Or ten.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” Thomas said from the register, looking unimpressed with the display.

“Sure, ma’am, whatever you say,” the customer said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Thomas frowned.

“Bye,” Virgil said pointedly.

Both customers looked annoyed, but thankfully, they did leave. The next several customers were overly nice, as if trying to make up for them. Virgil was not opposed to that, or to the substantial tips a few of them left.

Just under fifteen minutes later, Roman arrived. Another young man came in with him. Virgil assumed that he was a customer at first, but he looked around the café, grinning, chatting with Roman in a clearly familiar way.

“Wow, Roman,” Virgil heard, “is it always this busy?”

Roman laughed. “No, Pat. This is a little… unusual.”

“Oh, that’s good. It looks like a Black Friday sale in here.”

“That’s accurate,” Thomas commented, looking amused, as they came closer. He was sitting on the stool from the register, no longer taking orders—Virgil had been doing that for a while now. He started to get up, leaning on the counter to talk to Roman. “Thanks for coming in. Virge and I really appreciate it.”

Roman waved him off. “It’s fine, I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Still, thanks,” Thomas repeated. He waved at Virgil, then left the prep area, starting to untie the knot of his apron.

Virgil set down another cluster of drinks and pastries, and called the names on the orders even as hands appeared from the crowd to snatch them. Hopefully they were the right people, but if not, well… not his problem. “Who’s this?” Virgil asked, coming closer to Roman.

“Oh, Virgil, this is Patton. He gave me a ride. He’s, uh….”

“I’m his roommate,” Patton said, smiling. “And a friend.”

“Yeah,” said Roman. “Thanks, Pat. You can go home if you want.”

“Okay. Just text me when I should pick you up!” He smiled at Virgil, then glanced around at the crowded café. “Well, I won’t keep you, but it’s nice to meet you, kiddo.”

“Nice to meet you,” Virgil agreed.

The young man hugged Roman before he left, and then the baristas turned to face the mob.

By the time their clock ran out, very little was left to throw away. Still, Virgil could tell it pained Roman when they had to announce to everyone that the café was closing, and even more so when they threw out what was left. There wasn’t much to do about it, though, which Roman understood.

After their disaster of a morning came to a close, Virgil threw his apron at the hook on the wall in the wall. He missed, and the apron fell to the ground. “At least we get tomorrow off, right?” he sighed.

(Of course, this was before he knew that Bradley would ask him to be there when the repair worker came to look at the fridge)

…

Virgil watched a movie in bed that afternoon, but she burned her popcorn, which happened to be the last in the box; and she wasn’t exactly willing to go out and buy a new one at that moment. And the neighbor’s kids seemed to be having some kind of screaming competition.

She wasn’t having a great week.

…

The next afternoon, after dealing with the fridge situation at the café, Virgil finally got to go home and properly relax. No more nails in his tires, no more angry or entitled customers, and no more neighbors backing into his mailbox.

He had barely closed the front door before he was kicking off his shoes and yanking off his Sanders Café shirt (Why had he worn it, when the café wasn’t even open? The best he could figure was some kind of horrible autopilot.) He put his head back and let out a cry of pent-up frustration.

The week was over. It was finally time for some self-care, before he lost it completely.

He put on his softest pajama pants and was about to flop on the couch to watch The Office when the doorbell rang. He would have ignored it, but it rang again. Virgil threw a pillow in the door’s direction. It fell to the floor. The doorbell rang again.

Reluctantly, Virgil got up and went to answer it, and give whoever stood there a piece of his mind. “What,” he groaned, only to cut himself off when he saw who stood there. “…Oh. Hi, Thomas.”

“Hi,” Thomas said. He held up a case in one hand and smiled. “I brought drinks.”

Strawberry lemonade—Virgil’s favorite.

Virgil leaned on the doorframe and looked at Thomas appraisingly. “…You like The Office, right?” he asked.

Thomas laughed. “Storm Cloud, I introduced you to The Office.”

“Hm.” Virgil stepped back to let him in, cracking a grin. “Fair point.”

They watched a few too many episodes of The Office before Thomas went home, and by then, Virgil was feeling a lot better. Still, once he was alone, Virgil treated himself to a nice soak in the tub (in swim trunks and t-shirt) with a wine glass full of his finest purple Gatorade. He even set out candles (the battery-powered kind), put on some relaxing music, and used a swirling galaxy bath bomb that he’d been saving. A book Thomas had recommended sat on a little table by the tub, along with his cellphone in case it didn’t turn out as to be as good as his friend claimed.

Once everything was ready, Virgil sank into the bath, Gatorade in hand, surrounded by a swirling galaxy, ready to let the stress melt away

It was a nice way to end a very, very sucky week.

[lambent-loser]

He’s Pretty In Pink

Chapter 1

A reddie Pretty in Pink AU where Richie works in a record store and meets the cutest little rich kid he’s ever laid eyes on.

Word Count: 2064 

The familiar scent of petrichor lingers in the autumn air. The simple smell the morning rain has left on the surrounding damp sidewalks is enough to cause a smile to tug at the corners of the brunette’s lips. Richie Tozier is a man of simple pleasures. All his life he’s grown up without much, so he learned quickly to enjoy the small things in life. This makes him a pretty optimistic person by comparison to most others at 18. So even as the moisture from the weather seeps through the canvas of his hand-me-down converse high-tops, he smiles to himself, enamored by the way the rain can wash away the scent of the city, even if only for a few hours. It’s pleasant.

           He nods his head to the rhythm of the music coming from the cassette in his Walkman. Richie bought the device with his very first paycheck and he has yet to regret the purchase. He uses it daily to play the music he buys at a discount from the record shop he works at after school. The place is called High-Voltage Records, which Richie deemed a ‘bitchin’’ name the day he found out they were hiring. He’s been working there for four years now and he genuinely enjoys the job.

           Richie walks into the empty store and dances his way to the backroom without a care in the world. There he comes face to face with his absolute best friend. Richie met Beverly Marsh his first day on the job. He later found out the girl had been hired only a month or so prior to himself. One thing everyone needs to understand about Beverly is that she is beyond beautiful. She isn’t pretty in a conventional way. No, she’s confident with a glare that could stop your breath in your throat. Her hair holds almost as much fire as her gaze and her freckle spattered cheeks hold a softness that reminds Richie of early summer mornings before the heat becomes unbearable.  When he first saw her that day four years ago, Richie was convinced he’d found his soulmate. Now, of course, they laugh about it.

           “’Ello, Ms. Marsh. Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,” he greets in an obnoxious British accent as he removes his headphones. Richie believes he is a master of accents and impressions, but Beverly seems to think otherwise. He doesn’t get it and he will never stop calling himself comedy gold.

           Beverly rolls her eyes and finishes pinning on her nametag that has been decorated with various stickers.

“Okay. For one, Rich, it’s literally three in the afternoon and also… your accent is bad,” she insists for at least the fiftieth time that week.

           Richie attaches his own nametag to his patched-up jean jacket and adjusts his glasses.

“Oh, c’mon, Bev. Don’t be so mean to me,” he pouts with a grin.

They both head onto the main floor and Beverly turns on the blue and red neon light that displays to the public that the shop is open while Richie unlocks the door. The lanky boy sifts through the stash of music behind the counter and chuckles before picking out Duran Duran’s Rio album. It’s fairly new but both he and Bev have most of the songs memorized since it’s so popular. The ginger rolls her eyes at his album choice, but when “Hungry Like The Wolf” begins to play through the old speakers even she starts to sing along.

She and Richie have developed some kind of awfully choreographed dance to several songs including this one, so they confidently dance around the vacant store to the tune as they sing out of key. This is how days usually are at the shop: filled with smiles, laughter, and bad dancing. Sometimes Richie will even let Bev paint his nails or do his makeup while they talk about cute boys AND girls when business is slow. That’s another thing the two found out they have in common.

Despite their conversations, neither Beverly nor Richie have been very successful in their pursuit of love. Both are rather quirky and don’t really fit in anywhere. While life at the record store is good, this means that social life at school is challenging for them both. The only reason either of them is even able to attend the preparatory school is because an equal education initiative was passed five years ago that required a percentage of the student body to come from families with incomes below the poverty line. At Harrison Prep, these students became known as, for the most part, freaks.

Richie is good at dealing with things like that. He’s good at smiling through the insults and coming up with clever comebacks. Sure, he dresses weird and cracks a sinful amount of jokes, but he doesn’t see how that makes him ‘freakish’. If being a freak means being confident and having a good time, then he doesn’t mind the insult. He feels a lot happier than all the other students at school look.

Beverly is not as confident as Richie. In the moment she is witty and sassy and is able to defend herself just fine, but it’s in the days following that the words get to her. Sometimes Richie catches her crying in the backroom and he rushes to the convenience store across the street to pick her up a pint of ice cream. It’s a good thing they have each other because both hate to be alone. So much so that they made a pact that if neither were married by thirty-five they would get married for tax purposes.

School the next day is bad. Beverly is sick so Richie is alone. It’s absolutely boring and Richie can hardly stand it, but he makes it through the day. As he steps out of the school to begin his trek to High-Voltage, he’s stopped by an especially nasty brute named Henry Bowers. He really doesn’t get how he can be called a freak while this kid wanders around.

“Where do you think you’re going, freak?”

Richie saw it coming, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“To my job, because unlike you, my daddy doesn’t buy me anything I want.”

Sometimes Richie’s trash mouth gets him into trouble. The beefy boy throws Richie into the brick wall of the school and pins him there.

“What did you just say to me, faggot?!” he spits.

Richie rolls his eyes.

“Does that ugly ass mullet of yours fucking muffle sound? I said you’re a Daddy’s boy, Bowers!” he retorts.

Lots of trouble.

Henry punches him in the stomach and Richie is down. He continues his assault until he grows bored with Richie’s lack of retaliation. He spits on him before stalking away. The brunette groans in disgust and sits up, wincing at the sharp pains emanating from several places on his body.

After gathering himself, he heads to the record store. He still must cover his shift after all, even with Bev sick. Business is slow, so he uses it as an opportunity to clean up in the grimy bathroom that he has grown quite fond of. The crack in the mirror and the scent of a cheap air freshener have somehow managed to become comforting to the shaggy-haired boy. Even after cleaning up, Richie is left with a nasty looking black eye and a shallow gash on his right cheek.

He returns to the counter and takes a seat, resting his feet beside the cash register. He grabs a comic book and flips to the page he left off on, adjusting his glasses every once in a while when they slide down his nose. Richie isn’t sure how much has passed when he hears the bell on the door chime, announcing the arrival of a customer.

Richie lowers his comic book just enough to peer over the top and nearly chokes on the air in his lungs. There, browsing the rows of vinyl records is the cutest fucking boy he’s ever seen. He’s got this neatly styled brown hair and these chocolate eyes that Richie thinks he might get lost staring onto. He’ll have to get a closer look, but he’s pretty sure the short boy has light freckles dusting his flushed cheeks. It must be chilly outside for his cheeks to be so red. Suddenly Richie is very self-conscious about the temperature of the store. It’s warm enough for him, right? He shakes the silly worry from his head and musters the courage to stand. Richie is naturally confident, but something about this boy makes his stomach churn with the same kind of anxiety you get right before your first kiss.  

Richie pushes his glasses up on his nose and makes his way over to where the stranger is browsing.

“Can I help you find anything?” he queries. This is his job after all. Nothing weird about that.

           Eddie glances at the store clerk. He takes notice of his ripped-up clothes, dirty shoes, and messy curls. For a moment, Richie thinks the boy is checking him out and he gets very excited before he notices the slight wrinkle in his nose. So that’s how it’s going to be. It’s only now that Richie pays any mind to what the boy is wearing. He’s dressed in short, ironed shorts and a pastel pink crewneck with a yellow collared shirt poking out of the collar. He looks cute in it all, but it’s clear he’s another one of the wealthier kids.

Eddie narrows his eyes at the scrappy clerk and shakes his head.

“No. I think I’ve got it. Thanks,” he mutters. His voice is dry and laced with a sassy bite. Richie rather likes the sound.

Richie may be too confident at times, but that also leads to persistence. He’s no quitter. He flips through some records and after a moment he selects one from a milk crate. He taps the small boy on the shoulder and in response he whips around, glaring daggers at Richie for scaring him.

“Hey, don’t get your panties in a twist, princess. I just have a music suggestion,” he offers, handing him the record.

Eddie takes it with a persistent frown.

“I told you I didn’t need help, and my name is Eddie. Don’t call me princess!” he demands with his hands on his hips.

Richie just likes him more and more…or at least he likes getting under his skin. Richie just shrugs.

“Well, Eddie Spaghetti, I just thought you might like that one. It’s one of my favorites,” he explains with a warm smile.

Eddie groans in response to the horrid nickname and turns away from Richie to keep looking, completely ignoring the glasses-clad boy. Richie returns to the register and watches the boy curiously. Honestly, Eddie seems horribly lost surrounded by all the music and it’s almost as if he’s clutching onto the album Richie suggested for dear life. After nearly five more minutes of aimlessly wandering the shop, Eddie finally approaches the register, setting Richie’s suggestion on the counter to be purchased.

“So, you decided to trust me after all, didn’t you, Eds?” he teases with a smirk. He leans down across the counter and gets really close to the short boy. “I promise you won’t regret it,” he purrs, pulling away to punch in the price.

Eddie huffs.

“It better be good if I’m paying seven dollars for it,” he grumbles, his face flushed.

Richie peers at him and then back at the register.

“I’ll give you the cutie discount. Five dollars please.”

Eddie’s cheeks are burning as he digs through his fanny pack and hands Richie a five-dollar bill. Before the taller boy can even put the record in a bag, Eddie snatches it off the counter and dashes out of the store, mumbling a barely audible ‘thanks’ on the way.

Richie watches him through the window and a breathes a soft sigh.

Eddie.

Beverly may be like a warm summer morning, but Eddie is like the hot midday. He’s running without shoes on and racing to eat popsicles before they melt into your hand and he’s the sun kissing your skin until the heat is burned into your very being. Eddie Kaspbrak is nothing like Richie Tozier has ever experienced before.

He has a feeling he’s going to be seeing a lot more of him.

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