#this thing has all the hallmarks of polynya-pocalyse

[recurring-polynya]

I never thought "Fast food AU" would be something I want that much but thanks to you, this is happening! I'd love to read it: it sounds terrific!

In case you missed it, this is a reference to this post, which as predicted, I promptly forgot about.

Anyway, yes, I, too would like to read it, so, here, Anon, I wrote you a drabble. It’s less of a Fast Food AU and more of an everyone-works-at-the-mall-in-the-year-Polynya-graduated-high-school, but you get what you pay for.

Izuru works at the Squad 4 Arby’s, tho, so it counts.

“Ma’am,” said Shuuhei, in an extremely serious voice, “this is a fantasy gaming supply store.”

Rangiku dissolved into giggles.

Izuru stuffed his nose deeper into this month’s Dungeon Magazine, which he had absolutely no intention of purchased. He was trying to ignore Shuuhei draping his arm around Rangiku’s shoulders next to him, or more accurately, trying not to imagine Shuuhei’s arms draped around his own shoulders. Maybe if he smelled like Cinnabon, like she did, instead of Horsey Sauce, he’d have a better chance. 

“They didn’t publish it this month,” Shuuhei informed him.

“Publish what? What are you talking about?” Izuru stammered, shutting the magazine self-consciously.

“You sent in a module, didn’t you? I can tell your style, and none of this month’s looked like yours.”

“Liches, bitches!” Ikkaku cackled from the back corner where he was perusing the Gundam kits.

“Other people write campaigns about liches,” Izuru snarled. 

“But so few include haiku about phylacteries,” Shuuhei sighed dramatically.

“Takes up a whole four syllables, power move if you ask me,” Rukia mumbled from behind A Clash of Kings.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t send anything into a magazine, that’s dumb,” Izuru pressed, hoping his cheeks weren’t too pink. To date, he had sent seventeen submissions to Dungeon Magazine. Eleven of them had been about liches. Two had been published, under a pseudonym of course. He hadn’t told anyone.

“Speaking of which, are we playing this weekend?” Rangiku whined. “I can’t have the car back for another three weeks, because of my report card, so I need a ride. “Shuuhei, can you pick me up on the bike?”

“I mean, I can, but we’re playing at my house, so that seems a little dumb. Izuru, how’s the Festiva running?”

The Festiva was not running. The Festiva was a brick. The Festiva needed $1200 (which Izuru didn’t have) of work, or possibly just Renji to hit it really hard again with the crow bar.

“KIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRAAAAAAA!”

Speaking of the devil, a tall gangly mass of limbs and red hair in a referee’s jersey came barrelling into the gaming store. 

“He’s back here!” Rangiku called, unhelpfully, as if they weren’t always all packed in on the old shitty couch in amongst the WWII rpgs.

“I knew I would find you here!” Renji yelled. “I need you to go back on shift! Isane won’t give me my senior citizen discount and I need Beef’n’Cheddars! I got soccer practice tonight!”

“Reeeeennnjiiiii, will you give me a ride to D&D this weekend?” Rangiku whined. “I’d rather ride in the Camaro than Izuru’s Festiva.” 

The car-shaped pile of rust that Renji insisted had once been a Camaro ran even less frequently than Izuru’s Festiva, but at least it was very loud. 

“If you give me gas money,” he agreed amiably.

“Maybe instead of trying to scam discount sandwiches out of Izuru, you should try to get Omaeda to give you a discount on sunglasses instead,” Shuuhei suggested helpfully. “He’s not such a bad guy, as long as you agree with whatever he says. His house is really nice, too. They always have a million leftovers in the fridge.”

“I’m not saving up for sunglasses,” Renji protested. “I’m saving up to ask--” he trailed off suddenly as Rukia’s eyes surfaced above the top of her book; he clearly hadn’t noticed her small, black clad form curled up in the corner. “-- for college.”

“Fuck off, you’re not going to college, you’re gonna work at Foot Locker forever,” shouted Ikkaku, obvious as usual. 

“Better than the fuckin’ Sbarro,” Renji snapped back.

“You shut up, Sbarro rules, and at least I get free food!”

Izuru sighed and heaved himself up off the couch. “I’m back on shift in ten anyway. Let’s go get you your sandwiches, Abarai.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Renji smashed him on the shoulders as they headed back into the mall, toward the food court. “Hey, Izuru,” he hissed, when they were out of earshot. “Have you read those George R. R. Martin books? Are they any good? They’re huge.”

“I’m pretty sure Rukia is just hate-reading them,” Izuru reassured him.  “I’ve read them. They’re great, if you don’t mind your favorite characters dying. They’re never gonna get popular, though.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Rukia unironically enjoy anything. He had no idea why she hung out at the gaming store with all the broke-ass part-timers. She worked in the high-end clothing boutique that her super-rich family owned. Surely, there was a better class of people she could be hanging out with. “Why don’t you just ask her to prom already? She might say yes.”

“Because I’m broke, dude, I just outgrew my cleats and I had to buy new ones and the only way I’m ever going to college is on a soccer scholarship, so I gotta--”

Izuru waved his hand. He’d heard it all before, and it’s not like his own prospects were in any better shape. “Just go thrift a suit. Pretend you’re doing it ironically. I tell you Rukia would go for that.”

Renji’s jaw worked nervously, contemplating the idea. The big jock was usually a pretty chill friend, but not when it came to the subjects of money or college, and especially not the subject of Kuchiki Rukia. “Are you gonna ask Shuuhei?” he demanded suddenly. 

“No!” Izuru gasped. “I could never!” he hissed under his breath.

“You always act like he’s some sort of movie star. So he owns Doc Martens and wears a vest with a bunch of anarchist patches on it and sleeps through class a lot. He’s also on the school newspaper club and yearbook. Were you there the time Iba gave him a cigarette? It was bad. It was real bad. He’s just as big a dork as you are.”

“No one is as big a dork as I am,” Izuru hissed. “Also, he likes Rangiku, I’m pretty sure.”

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t?” Renji agreed. “She smells like Cinnabon all the time.”