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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Galactica, Chapter 55 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Thanksgiving went on for 17 million years. (AKA 5 Chapters) We laughed, we cried (did we cry? I don’t think we cried – except for Adore maybe), we fucked on some stairs until our knees gave out...

This Chapter: Pearl makes a getaway, Raven carbs up, and Violet returns to work with help from a very special assistant.

***

“Pearl! Pearl, wake up!”

Pearl stirred, a hand shaking her, and opened her eyes. Fame was leaning over her, a sleep mask pushed up on her forehead, a frantic expression in her eyes.

It had been a long night. When Pearl arrived at the townhouse, they’d at down and had a long heart to heart, Pearl tearfully confessing the whole sordid tale of her and Adore over tea and leftover cranberry apple crisp, Fame even going the extra mile and topping it with an uncharacteristic scoop of ice cream--she must really have seemed pathetic. Pearl told her everything, and while Fame was understanding, she didn’t hold back or let her off the hook either, pointing out where she thought she’d fucked up, how she could have done better, and why Adore was justified in her hurt and anger. It was difficult to hear at times, but Pearl appreciated her honesty. Most of all, she appreciated that Fame stayed to listen, giving her the space to talk it out, sometimes resting a hand on her thigh just to let her know that she was still there.

After that, cried out and emotionally exhausted, they’d climbed into Fame’s bed to snuggle and watch TV, Pearl’s eyelids soon drooping heavily. When Patrick got home, Pearl had offered to leave, of course, but he saw how tired she was and insisted she stay, Fame sleeping in the middle of the bed.

Now, it was morning and Fame was apparently in a tizzy over something. Pearl rubbed her eyes.

“What’s going on?”

“The chef’s idiot assistant let in my in-laws without asking. I have no idea why they’re here so early, we clearly said brunch was at noon!” Fame fretted, Patrick buttoning his shirt in the background.

Pearl tried to catch up. “The chef?”

“Oh my god, what are we going to do?!” Fame explained, hands pressed to her cheeks.

“She could go out the window…” Patrick joked.

“Yes!” Fame turned back to Pearl. “Get dressed, you’re going out the window.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Pearl asked. “That’s dangerous!”

“Use the trellis!”

“Darling, I was kidding,” Patrick said gently.

“Well, I’m not!” Fame snapped her fingers. “Where are her pants?”

Patrick handed over Pearl’s skinny jeans, shaking his head. “Can’t we just say that one of your employees came for an early meeting?”

“Oh yeah Patrick, an early meeting on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Here in our bedroom. Sounds totally respectable. I can’t believe this, we’re never using chef John again! Pearl, hurry up.” She got up and walked to the window that overlooked the backyard, unlocking it and opening it wide.

“Was he supposed to let them just wait on the front stoop?”

“Patrick,” Fame said sternly, in that tone that told them both that she was not fucking around. “If you’re not going to offer any other solutions, you can just go downstairs and entertain your stupid family.”

“I’m gonna let that one slide,” Patrick said as he walked to the door. “And Pearl, godspeed. Try to avoid the rose bushes if you fall.”

“So, is this your way of telling me that I’m not staying for brunch with the fam?” Pearl asked, putting on her jacket and slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder.

“Pearl.” That same tone again, entirely unamused.

Pearl stepped up to her at the window, looking out. The good news was, there was a high cement wall that would likely break her fall before the ground. Worst case scenario, she’d break a bone...or two.

“This is the first time I’ve done anything like this since high school,” she giggled, then reached out and touched Fame’s hand. “Thanks for last night.”

“Of course,” Fame replied, softening for a moment, leaning in to give her a gentle kiss on the mouth. “Anytime.”

“Anytime except right now, you mean?”

“Exactly,” Fame said, helping her climb onto the window ledge and over to the trellis. “Once you get down to the garden, make sure to go around that way,” she pointed, “And duck when you pass the windows.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

***

“Now,” Juju took the dinosaur tray from the counter, handing it to her son, his pancakes carefully cut up, “take it slow when-” Juju was cut off as Owen grabbed the tray, practically spinning around in his haste to make it back to the family room. “Hey! I said take it slow young man!”

It was a Sanderson family tradition to spend the Saturday after Thanksgiving with pajamas, pancakes and TV, and even though Kelly had gotten too old to join, their teenager leaving the house almost as soon as they had made it back from Boston, Juju knew with absolute certainty that she’d find a toddler under each of her husband's arms, time with dad something the twins valued above anything else.

“They grow up so fast.” Raven smiled, her best friend sitting at the kitchen counter in a set of soft pink silk pajamas, twirling a bit of hair around her finger.

“Don’t even say it,” Juju sighed, cutting up the last of the fruit so she could make Raven a plate too. “It feels like we just left the hospital.”

“You’ll have another little one soon.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Juju smirked, and Raven laughed, taking the offered assortment of fruit that Juju handed her, but then, something crazy happened. Raven grabbed two pancakes too, putting them on her plate.

“Hey girly, what’re you doing?” Juju didn’t normally care about Raven’s diets--actually, she tried not to be involved in them at all whenever she could, but she had already spotted her best friend putting creamer in her coffee. Juju worked in fashion as well, several houses and magazines using her on shoots, but she didn’t think she’d ever really understand the sacrifices models went through. Sure, it was part of their job to go to the gym, but she didn’t think she’d ever be able to do it, even though Raja had made it seem effortlessly easy when she had been in her prime. “I know Sutan isn’t here, but I don’t believe the warden has relaxed the rules that much.”

“Well.” Raven looked uncharacteristically insecure for a moment, crossing her arms. “I’ve decided I’m done doing swimwear.”

“Oh?” Juju knew Raven had campaigns coming up in December, her friend complaining about it the last time they saw each other.

“Yes.” Raven nodded. “I’m done. It’s not worth the money, when it’s killing me to stay in runway shape year round.”

“Okay.” Juju nodded, sort of understanding where Raven was coming from. When she wasn’t walking fashion weeks where everyone had to fit sample sizes, the industry loved her curves, Raven smoking hot when she allowed herself to get to a size 4 or even a 6, which was a much more accurate representation of what her body actually looked like. “And Tan is cool with it?”

Somehow, it worked for Raven to have her fiancée’s brother as a manager, but Juju knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would have killed Detox if he ever tried to make decisions on her career, even the idea of Raja, Fame, heck, even Bianca moving in on her turf making her genuinely uncomfortable.

“I…” Raven clicked her tongue. “Might not have told him yet.”

***

“Urgh,” Sutan groaned as he flopped on the couch, face first, a white t-shirt clinging to his chest. “Fuck.”

“Hello,” Violet was biting her lip in an effort not to smile, her boyfriend absolutely exhausted, his duffle bag thrown somewhere on the floor. “Did you have a nice time at the gym?”

They had been in the middle of breakfast, Violet making her way through a coconut yogurt when Sutan had gotten a call, his eyes widening to an almost comical size when he recognized the number, the horror on his face telling the clear story of how he had completely forgotten.

“My trainer is an absolute sadist.”

“Mmh?” Violet had never seen him move so fast, Sutan drowning his coffee in one big gulp, barely pressing a kiss against her temple before he had rushed out the door, grabbing what was apparently an emergency gym bag from the hallway closet.

“He made me do 25 extra sets of everything for being late. Can you believe I’m paying someone to torture me?” Sutan toed his shoes off, winching at the movement as he got on his back, putting his head on her thigh, his hair still slightly damp. “I thought I was going to die.”

Violet had wondered why Sutan had never let her be around when he went to the gym, the man only going on nights or mornings when they weren’t spending time together.

Now, it seemed like she had her answer.

“Poor you.” Violet smiled, running her fingers over his forehead, the TV playing quietly in the background.

“I know you don’t mean that,” Sutan looked up at her, “but I’ll take it.”

“You know,” Violet bit her lip not to yawn, the smallest of efforts almost taking her out, putting their breakfast away and getting to the couch feeling like enormous tasks. “I’m going to be so jealous once I’m off my pain killers.”

Violet tried not to think too hard about what a broken bone actually meant, not being able to run or even do yoga to manage her emotions a complete nightmare.

“Seriously?” Sutan lifted an eyebrow, and Violet ran a finger over it. “When I was 23, you couldn’t force me to go to the gym.” Sutan smiled. “Not that Raja’s model diet made it necessary.”

“You were on a model diet?”

“Beat having to cook for myself.” Sutan grinned, and Violet could totally imagine it, the Amrull twins chugging their way through green smoothies side by side.

“How long did you actually live with Raja?”

“Literal decades,” Sutan snorted. “God I’m ancient.”

“I like to think of you as finely aged wine.”

“HA!” Sutan laughed, and Violet couldn’t help but smile. She loved watching him laugh, loved seeing his face scrunch up with happiness. “For that lovely eyes,” Sutan pointed up at her. “You get to stay another week.”

“Oh…” Violet paused, “I, umh, I didn’t…” She had felt so happy just moments before, but now, she could feel the uncertainty crawl up her spine. “We never actually talked about… You don’t have to do-”

It wasn’t like her at all, but Violet had simply not considered the week to come, hadn’t even thought about where she would be staying, what she would be wearing, what she’d be doing with herself beyond believing Sutan when he said he’d get her to work Monday.

“Violet.” Sutan reached up, grabbing her neck, his fingers easily holding her. “You live on the 5th floor with no elevator.”

“And I appreciate your help, but I’d never want to-”

“You’re staying here. No argument. I’d be a terrible boyfriend, fuck, I’d be a terrible friend, if I wasn’t cool with you staying here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Sutan nodded. “Besides,” He pulled on Violet’s neck, forcing her down so he could press a kiss against her lips. “I like having you around.”

Sutan smirked, and Violet couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks.”

***

“Where do you think you’re going?” Katya was whispering as she looked over at her fiancé. She and Trixie were in the movies, Annabelle playing on the screen.

“I have to pee, I had an extra large soda.”

Katya placed her hand on Trixie’s chest, pushing him down into the seat, keeping him in place. “No.”

“What?!” Trixie hissed.

“I said no.”

And in that moment Trixie saw how Katya was smiling, and he felt a surge of arousal go through him.

“Okay…”

Trixie leaned back in his chair, Katya’s hand on his chest ending up on his stomach where it rested, keeping him in place.

Trixie couldn’t help but squirm, arousal and the need to pee getting mixed up in his head, a heavy sensation settling over his entire body, his fingers drumming on the seat, restless energy filling him as the movie continued.

“Katya, please…” Tixie hissed, the stupid movie not even halfway done. “I’m about to explode.”

“No.”

Katya smiled, picking up her drink, her lips closing around the straw as she oh so slowly drank the rest of her own small soda, the sound causing chills to run over Trixie’s spine.

Katya held him in seat through the credits, and Trixie had tears in his eyes, he had to pee so badly, but Katya had told him he couldn’t, so he wouldn’t, because he was her good boy.

The very last name ran over the screen, and Katya removed her hand, Trixie shooting up from his seat, his jacket and even his bag forgotten as he ran to the bathroom, a sense of euphoria rushing over him as he could finally, finally, finally pee, his entire body shivering in delight.

***

When Bob heard the design floor door open, he instantly perked up, whirling around in his chair.

“Well well well!” he exclaimed, yelling out to the floor, his oversized coffee mug in hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear. “Look who’s back!”

“Hi everyone,” Violet came through the door, a happy but unsure smile on her face. It was clear that she wanted to wave, but she was stuck with her crutches, a bulgy cast on her ankle.

Violet looked over her shoulder, and Bob felt his eyes bulge out as none other than silver fox of the year, Sutan Amrull, came through the door in an impeccable suit, Violet’s purse and what had to be both of their jackets on his arm.

“I knew it!” Bob cried out, slapping his desk with his hand. “I knew those two were dating! No lipstick my ass!”

He looked around triumphantly, everyone's attention now divided between Bob and the pair at the door, Sutan looking on with a raised eyebrow and a smile on his lips, while Violet seemed like she was wishing that the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“Good work, Sherlock.” Jovan drawled, his head in his hand as he was sitting backwards on his chair. “How’d you figure that one out?”

“Well you see-” Bob grinned, just about to go on a tangent, when he was cut off by his boyfriend, Maxwell leaning against his desk.

“I literally told you they were dating a fucking week ago.”

“Right.” Bob huffed. “But you’re always wrong about this stuff.”

Sure. Max had told him that about the whole Violet falling thing, the drama with Aiden the talk of the department, but he hadn’t actually believed it when Max had said he had seen Sutan Amrull press a kiss against Violet’s temple, the two of them apparently leaving together.

“Are your coworkers always this much fun?”

Bob’s head whipped at the sound of Sutan’s voice, the man smiling as he looked down at Violet, one of his hands in his suit pocket.

“Don’t answer that Chachki!” Jovan yelled out, making everyone laugh. “Just come on over here!”

Violet looked extremely relieved to be called for, and Sutan followed behind her as she swung herself across the room on her crutches-- No hobbling for that bitch.

“Man, look at you go!” Bob grinned, walking over to Jovan and Violet’s desks, his own work completely abandoned. “It’s like you’ve been using those things all your life!”

“Thanks Bob,” Violet replied drily, even though she was smiling. She looked a lot better than he expected, her hair and makeup done to her usual perfect standards, curls cascading down her back. She was wearing a long sleeved black dress with a high-waisted skirt, and even a heel on her good foot, Violet Chachki as always picture perfect.

“I cannot believe you’re wearing heels with crutches. You’re an icon, and we should all aspire to your standards.”

“You’d fail.”

“Ha!” Jovan snorted, the man giving Violet’s shoulder a quick squeeze before he returned to his computer.

“Besides.” Violet pulled out her chair, sitting down with as much grace as she could muster, shaking her head disdainfully. “It’s only 2 inches.”

“I promise you,” Sutan smiled, putting Violet’s bag down on the table. “I tried to tell her it was a terrible idea.”

“Good to know.” Bob bit his cheek not to give too much away, but on the inside, he was dancing with delight at all the delicious gossip he was gobbling up. “Hi, Bob Caldwell.” Bob held his hand out, nearly shrinking on the inside when Sutan took it. “Design Project Manager.”

“Sutan Amrull,” Sutan smiled, shaking it firmly. “Elite Model Management, though around here I’m probably better known as Raja’s brother. I assume you know her very well.”

“We sure do.” If Bob was honest, he had forgotten that Maxwell had followed him over, but what he wouldn’t forget was the ridiculous grin on his boyfriend's face as he shook hands with Sutan. “I’m Maxwell Heller. Designer.”

“I’m familiar with your work.” Sutan grinned, pulling back to take a seat on the edge of Violet’s desk and Bob wiggled his eyebrows at Max, who nudged his elbow into his side.

“What do you have there, lovely eyes?”

Bob’s eyes widened in delight as Violet looked up like she had fully forgotten they were all still there, her embroidery frame already in hand, the massive skirt she was working on tethered to it.

“The dress.” Violet smiled, the worry Bob had seen on her face when she first walked in all gone now that her work was safely back in her hands. “The couture one.”

“This is your couture dress? Let me see.” Sutan reached into his jacket pocket, taking out a pair of glasses that he quickly slipped on before he carefully picked at the skirt, taking a section that was already done, examining the work. “This is very impressive.”

“Did you hear she’s closing the Spring runway?” Bob grinned, the morning only getting better and better.

“Well,” Sutan pushed his glasses into his hair, a big smile on his face, “with a gown like this, how could she not?”

“And that’s enough for you!” Violet reached out, her cheeks pink as she took the dress from his hands, her tone stern even though she was smiling. “Thank you for fulfilling your duties as a full time boyfriend by carrying my stuff. You can leave now.”

“Boyfriend?” Maxwell squeaked, and this time, it was Bob’s turn to nudge him.

“Am I a little too old for that title?” Sutan smirked, looking between them.

“Well,” Violet interjected, her tone completely dry. “You can be my man friend if you’d prefer?”

“Ha!” Sutan snorted, a grin on his face. “And I think that’s my cue to go. I’ll text you.” He leaned over the desk, giving Violet a quick peck on the lips before standing up, shaking hands with Max and Bob and waving to Jovan as he grabbed his jacket and left.

“Damn Chachki,” Bob watched as Sutan left, his arms crossed over his chest. “We gotta hand it to you. That is one sexy fucking man.”

“Umh…” Violet paused, looking up at them, her embroidery needle already in hand. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

***

“Morning, Jackie!” Sutan waved, stopping in the assistant bullpen to check if he had gotten any physical mail. Jackie was a new girl, had originally only started out as a temp, but she had done a shockingly good job, so Elite had officially hired her a few weeks ago.

Sutan didn’t have his own personal assistant, and had never had one even though he was sure Tamisha would give him one if he asked.

“How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Great, thanks.” Jackie smiled, her brown bang swept across her forehead. She was wearing a green and yellow sweater, her nails painted in a deep orange.

Sutan loved Jackie's style, the woman always dressed like she was living in the 60s, but his favorite thing was that she was cool, calm and collected under pressure, and unlike the baby temps, she was a woman in her late 30s who hadn’t just taken the job in the hopes of becoming a model.

“Also,” Jackie lowered her voice, leaning over the desk. “Ms. Petruschin is waiting for you in your office.”

“Hmm?” Sutan raised an eyebrow. He had an open door policy, and everyone was always welcome, but usually, they were welcome when he was actually there. He hadn’t stopped for coffee after dropping Violet off at work, and now, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a mistake.

“She didn’t want to wait at reception, so I let her in.”

“Ah.” Sutan nodded. That sounded just about right for Raven. “Don’t worry about it. You did the right thing.”

Sutan walked over to his office, not even trying his key in the door since he knew it’d be unlocked.

“Raven!” Sutan put on his best game face, his voice light and happy. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

Raven looked up from where she was sitting-- not sprawled on the couch where she’d normally be, but at a chair in front of his desk, spine ramrod straight, her Birkin carefully placed on the floor.

“... Everything okay?” Sutan shut the door behind him, quickly flicking the lock. Normally when he had his models come by, he’d take a seat behind his desk, but today, that didn’t seem like the right option, so instead, he sat on the corner of the table, looking down at his sister in law. “Raven?”

“I,” Raven bit her lip, her white teeth sinking into it. “I have something to tell you.”

“Okay?” Sutan kept his voice level, doing everything he could not to let his worry show on his face. The last time Raven had come to him like this, it had been with an absolute disaster involving several talks with a lawyer, but Raja hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given him any hints or sent a single text, so it couldn’t be that bad.

“So,” Raven took a deep breath, lifting her chin as she looked directly at him. “I don’t want to do swimwear anymore.”

“.... Okay?”

“It’s not worth it, and I hate it.”

Out of everything Sutan had dreaded. Of all the things that had flashed through his mind. This was not what he had expected at all.

“Well, that’s not a problem.”

“You’re not mad?” Raven’s eyes widened, surprise and anxiety painted on her beautiful face.

It was clear that Raven had expected him to be disappointed, or even upset, and Sutan couldn’t help but remember the inexperienced young girl he’d signed at only 17 years old.

It had been a long time since he’d been reminded of that, the Raven of today much more likely to slam a door or yell in his face, but the tough act had always been and would always be a facade to hide her obvious vulnerability.

Other agents had sometimes asked how he dealt with her, how he could remain calm in the storm of Raven’s emotions, but he had always felt responsible for her well being, and had always felt protective of her.

“Raven.” Sutan crossed his arms. “It’s your career. Your body. Your decisions. How I feel, and how the brand feels doesn’t matter if you hating it is your genuine emotion.”

Raven nodded, swallowing, and Sutan could see that it wasn’t an easy decision for her.

“As your agent, it’s my responsibility to make sure that you stick to your commitments, but cancellation fees exist for a reason.”

At that, Raven winced, two cancellation fees taking a hefty chunk out of her next paycheck, half of the money going to the brand while the other would end up in Sutan’s pocket but she didn’t protest, sticking to her decision, and that was when he knew she was serious, that she had thought it through.

“Rave,” Sutan reached out, touching her shoulder. “We’re okay.”

At that, a smile finally cracked through, a relieved sigh coming from her. “Good.”

“You know,” Sutan pushed up from the desk, walking around it. “We just got the potential for a Clinique campaign.” Sutan picked up the sales pitch he had received, Clinique sending over a courier with the products they wanted to focus on, Raven being one of their top five picks for the campaign.

“Clinique?”

“I wasn’t going to offer it to you because it conflicted with your December shoots, so I’ve been pulling alts for them, but now, it seems like we can say yes.”

“They pay well, don’t they?”

“That they do,” Sutan had to hide a smile at Raven’s obvious enthusiasm. “You haven’t filmed any commercials in a while, and I know you generally avoid speaking.”

To say that would be an understatement, a director once telling teenage Raven that he couldn’t understand her because of her Russian accent. Raven had gone directly to a speech therapist after that, even though Sutan had found it completely unnecessary, the director just a bigoted jerk.

“Consider it.” Sutan handed her the pitch. “You’d be absolutely fabulous.”

“Maybe,” Raven smirked, “if the offers are lucrative enough to be worth my time.” She tossed her long dark hair over one shoulder, and Sutan grinned.

That was the girl he knew and loved.

“Only the very best, top tier gigs for you.”

“Exactly,” Raven laughed, standing up, the pitch still in hand as she cleared her throat. “Well, guess I’m off.”

“Off to celebrate with some bonus desserts?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.” Sutan smirked. “Just remember that you’re still a model.”

“Yeah, yeah yeah, stop yapping,” Raven said, her sass fully back as she sailed out the door with a flurry of air kisses.

“Leave it open!” Sutan sat down at his desk, his plans for the day suddenly shifted around. First of all, he’d have to call up the magazine who had booked the shoots and break the news that Raven wouldn’t be available.

It’d require some smooth talk, but it was what he did best.

The real challenge of the day was convincing them to switch to another model, and hopefully, a model that resided under his own wing.

Sutan pressed the button that called for Jackie, the woman showing up before he had even opened his computer. She really was incredible at the job.

“You called?”

“I need the best possible portfolio we can make for Symone, and I need it stat.”

***

“Oh dear god…” Fame covered her eyes with her hands. “Please tell me that this has been handled, Raja, I cannot-”

“Of course it’s been handled. Trixie let Aiden go on Tuesday, and Rita took care of everything with the hospital. We’re making an attorney available to Violet if she wants to press charges.”

“Do you think she will?” Fame asked, concern creasing her brow. “That’s the last thing we-”

“Listen. We obviously can’t do anything to dissuade her, or we face an even bigger liability.”

“I know that, Raja,” Fame snapped.

“-But, my guess is that she’ll want to wash her hands of the whole thing, certainly not become embroiled in a lawsuit.”

“Right. Right…” Fame sighed. “And we’ve covering all medical costs, taxis, whatever she needs right?”

“Of course. It’s a worker’s comp thing now, so everything’s covered by insurance.”

“Good. I should probably send her something, too. Flowers, maybe. Or a little spa treatment?”

“That would be nice, I’m sure she’d appreciate it. She’s staying with Tan if you want to-”

“Courtney!” Fame called out, pausing for a few moments before shaking her head. “I swear, that girl left her head at home today. Courtney!”

***

Courtney was obsessing again, reading her last text exchange with Bianca for about the 75th time since Friday.

COURTNEY: Have a good flight! <3

BIANCA: Thx! See you next week. XX

It was so mundane, so trite, and Courtney found herself cringing inwardly every time she looked at it, wishing she’d said something deeper or smarter or more sophisticated. And the “see you next week” - did that imply that Bianca didn’t want to talk to her while she was away? It certainly sounded like it. But Courtney wanted to send her another message, wanted desperately to let her know that she was still thinking about her.

She’d been racking her brain for something, anything, to say. She could ask her a question about their upcoming meeting at Marie Claire on Friday, but something told Courtney that would be transparent and dumb, and in no way sexy anyway. What she was really thinking about, nearly constantly, was if she’d ever get to feel Bianca’s hands on her again, the heat of her mouth, the press of her perfect body. That she was ready to sell her soul for one more night together, one more exhilarating night...

But she couldn’t very well say that. She didn’t want to appear needy or crazy, even if that’s how she felt. What she’d said to Adore was tragically true: the ball was entirely in Bianca’s court. And if she was done, if she didn’t intend to see her again except at work-related events or casual encounters, then that was something Courtney would just have to live with.

The one source of hope that Courtney had, maybe a false one, was the way Bianca had kissed her goodbye. Soft and tender, cradling her face, a kiss that promised more.

Even if she’d made no such promise out loud.

Even if Courtney was an absolute idiot for thinking that’s what it meant.

“Courtney!”

Her head snapped up, realizing with a sinking feeling that Miss Fame had called her name multiple times. Shit. She grabbed her notepad and jumped up.

“Coming Miss!”

***

7 notes · View notes

yetremains · 4 years

Text

“...”

“Well damn, alright.” Yang downed the rest of her tea quickly, before gasping for a breath as she shoved her cup away.

“Lightning round, lets go!”

chocolate: when was your first kiss?

“It was in my young teen years, 15 I think. I’d been dating that individual for a couple weeks before they abruptly decided to kiss me then and there. We’d been dancing around the subject for a while. It wasn’t spicy or romantic, merely spur of the moment. Was sweet though. The year after that we had broke up and remained friends for a while until we lost contact.”

french vanilla: how old are you?

“You shouldn’t ask someone their age when they been through shit. Too god damn old is the best answer if you must know. I’m older than 28, trust me. Don’t let looks fool you. But hey, I’m getting even older come December 25th!”

cotton candy: three places you want to travel to?

“Do places long gone count? Can I say Home? Nah probably not. So three places let’s see... Japan, China, Romania. The actual places not whatever anything makes them out to be.”

strawberry: a language you wish you could speak?

“I know a damn lot of languages actually. Sometimes it’s hard to think of the right words to say because of this, knowing so many. It’s one reason I’m so odd with my way of speaking. However, I would not mind learning some dead languages. If that doesn’t count, then... Persian?”

coffee: favorite cosmetic brands?

“Ah hell. I mean, I’m not much of a cosmetic expert here. I work with whatever I really need for a music show or for just every day. I could say L’Oreal because I’m worth it joke but that seems in bad taste. If I was using cosmetics just for the enjoyment or to look special, I just try and get whatever works for me.”

mint chocolate chip: indoors or outdoors?

“Answered this one~!”

cookie dough: do you play any instruments?

“Plenty. I’ve decided to learn a few different ones so I can mix together my own music needs of demands arise for it. But I really enjoy stringed instruments or wind instruments. I carry a small harmonica or Ryūteki in my packs.”

rocky road: favorite songs at the moment?

“Not easy to give an answer for, I’ve got a really broad taste. But I’m thinking something with a heavier beat at the moment-”

butter pecan: favorite songs for life?

“Oh come on this makes it harder. As I said, broad taste. I can find enjoyment in many kinds of music and lyrics. Can’t exactly answer a favorite song for life here.”

cheesecake: what’s your zodiac sign?

“Which zodiac are we talking here? There are a lot out there. But the first one into my head is Capricorn. I am on the 25th of December.”

toasted coconut: the beach or the pool?

“As nice as the ocean can be, fuck the ocean. I’ll enjoy the coast line just fine but you won’t catch me swimming that far out in it. There is damn good reason why I don’t like the ocean much anymore. I’ll relax in a pool or a lake or river, thank you.”

chocolate chip: what’s your most popular post?

“Good question. I’ve made a few social media posts that exploded. But that’s probably not fair considering the music I do. I think my most popular is from years ago when I spray painted a statue of a certain someone to look like a baboon.”

bubblegum: books or movies?

“Both! Why choose? I enjoy both quite a bit. and besides, Books can always be there no matter what. And can hold so much valuable information depending what you are reading.”

pistachio: manga or anime?

“... Both again? But I prefer novels. This is more a guilty pleasure.”

salted caramel: favorite movies?

“I can’t remember the last movie I watched, if I’m honest, let alone a favorite movie.”

birthday cake: favorite books?

“Hmmm. Hard one. I enjoy the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe? There is Shōgun. The Mark of Zorro, Sherlock Holmes, Bram Stoker Dracula... There’s several.”

moose tracks: favorites for manga?

“Not exactly applicable, I don’t remember the name of any I like when I was young.”

orange sherbet: favorites for anime?

“The same as above. Wow I am old... I should really get in touch with these things again.”

peanut butter: favorite academic subject?

“Hah, I loved science and history. A damn lot really. I’ve used both to really help my self along and it’s come in handy. My need for knowledge had me spend a lot of time researching.”

black raspberry: do you have any pets?

“I’ve not had any pets since I was a rookie. Never had the time to truly care for one, and now with a hectic life, I’m not gonna do that to an animal.”

mango: when and why did you start your blog?

“Suppose just to exist and have something to do between pit stops.”

mocha: ideal weather conditions?

“It is torn between two for me. A nice warm day, clear, maybe with a gentle breeze. Some clouds above, and calm. That’s the ideal outing day... But, I suppose due to my birthday, I can enjoy a soft snow coming down,some snow on the ground, watching through a window with tea in hand while bundled up and warm. Much prefer clear day though.”

black cherry: four words that describe you?

“Now that’s just not fair. Let me think... Loyal, Determined, Caring, Protective.”

neapolitan: things that stress you out?

“Being reminded of my failings and those I’ve lost... the people I’ve hurt... Thinking about friends I wish I was closer too but too fearful to be that close. Hm. I can also be stressed out by far too much stimulation for my brain at once that it can spin my gears way too quickly.”

raspberry truffle: favorite kind of music?

“Again, broad tastes. But depending on my mood or feelings, it changes what my favorite kind of music can be. But I will always enjoy something gentle and calming.”

chocolate marshmallow: favorite brands of candy?

“I’ve always been partial to chocolates, or cream items.”

toffee: a card game that you’re good at?

“Ever hear of a game called Egyptian Rat Race? Also known as Egyptian Rat Screw, dunno why of course. I learned this game when I was a kid. 52 card deck, deal to each player until the deck is entirely used and everyone has a pile face down. Starting to the left of the dealer players pull the top card off their pile and place it face-up in the middle. If the card played is a number card, the next player puts down a card, too. This continues around the table until somebody puts down a face card or an Ace. When a face card or an ace is played, the next person in the sequence must play another face card or an ace in order for play to continue.If the next person in the sequence does not play a face card or an ace within their allotted chance, the person who played the last face card or an ace wins the round and the whole pile goes to them. The winner begins the next round of play.“

lemon custard: do you eat breakfast?

“Uh... Admittedly not often. With my metabolism problem I absolutely should, considering the demanding needs. I just can’t always bring my self to do so, the will for it isn’t there. I do snack though.”

dark chocolate: turn ons?

“Ooohh boy... Now this one has me turning a bit red here. I mean there is biting and tight holds, the usual stuff. But... I’m not gonna list a lot here, a turn on can be blindfolding me if I trust my partner enough.”

fudge: turn offs?

“Being an asshole, for one.”

peach: how do you relax?

“A nice cup of tea, maybe some soft music, and let my mind unwind a little. That’s if I’m alone. Otherwise a gentle conversation with a friend about small things... Once upon a time long ago I would have said long hugs or cuddling. Not an option these days.”

praline: a popular book you haven’t read yet?

“I’ve not read The Golden Compass, that has been on my to do list.”

superman: do you like sweaters?

“Weird how this one is with sweaters... but yeah I can enjoy sweaters in the right weather. They can be soft and warm, comfy. Great for cold days.”

cherry: do you drink tea or coffee?

“I drink both actually. But if I have the option for a good tea I’m going to take it without hesitation. Yet the spark of energy from Coffee can’t be denied.”

dulce de leche: an instrument you wish you could play?

“Without a doubt, Taisho-goto. Have you seen one of those? It’s so intricate and amazing, and can sound wonderful. It can be used to play all sorts of things. Fascinates me that the item was half inspired by a typewriter.”

blackberry: have you ever laughed so hard you cried?

“Oh a few times actually. It’s been a good long while now since I’ve gone that far, but it’s come close. But once upon a time this has happened!”

ginger: a new feature you wish tumblr could have?

“To Become A Functioning Website.”

blueberry lemon: favorite blogs?

“Now that’s just kissing and telling...” (( I’d also have to tag and dont wanna spam. ))

almond: favorite mean girls quote?

“Oddly specific, but... Variations of ‘One time she punched me in the face. It was awesome.’. “

butterscotch: what color are your nails right now?

“Uh, natural and colorless? I’ve not painted my nails in a while.”

cinnamon: have you ever been confessed to?

“I have yes.”

blue moon: have you ever had a crush on someone?

“Again, yes. We’re not gonna go into this can of worms.”

cappuccino crunch: do you take naps?

“Sometimes. There comes the occasion when one does get exhausted and needs a damn nap.”

mint: the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?

“Get way too flustered and accidentally admit I liked someone.”

brownie batter: do you like sushi?

“Completely! You say we’re going to get Sushi and you have my full attention.”

key lime: where do you want to be right now?

“Home unfortunately.”

red velvet: do you wear prescription glasses?

“Nope! I’m thankful for that, but one day I have no doubt that’s going to change.”

green tea: favorite flavors of ice cream?

“Mochi green tea, chocolate chip mint, red bean, Strawberry shortcake... Gelato raspberry or orange cream.”

#About Yang #Headcanon #(( THERE I DID IT. ALL THE ICE CREAMS ))#(( this was exhausting on the hands and brain i died. ))#(( but also did my best ))

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virmillion · 6 years

Text

Coffee’s for Closers

alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry

Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe. Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy Words: 22,222

Check it out on ao3!

Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.

Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’

Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.

Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.

“Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.

Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.

“I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.

Ten minutes.

“Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.

“Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”

“Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”

“Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”

“Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.

“Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.

Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”

True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.

“Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!

Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.

And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.

By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.

You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.

You would be wrong.

“Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”

“—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.

“Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.”

“It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”

“Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”

“Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.

The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.

“Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.

“He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.

A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.

Yeah, no thanks.

“There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”

“That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”

“Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.

“So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”

“Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”

“My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”

“Of which you have none.”

“—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”

“Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”

“Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”

“Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”

“Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”

“Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”

“I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”

“I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”

“You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”

“I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.

Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.

While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.

When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.

“Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”

“Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”

“Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.

“See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.

“Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”

---------------

“How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.

“Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”

“And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”

“Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”

“I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”

“Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.

“I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”

“I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”

“You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.

“Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.

“Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”

“Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”

“Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”

“Legitimately.”

“Tomato, potato.”

“To-mah-to.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.

Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up, he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.

“Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”

“I am not changing the mugs.”

“He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.

“Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”

“We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”

“No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”

“Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”

“Your ass is trans.”

“What’s your point?”

“I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.

“Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”

“I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”

“What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”

“I don’t think you know what literally means.”

“I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”

“You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”

“What’s your point?”

Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.

“I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”

“Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”

“Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”

“Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”

“And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.

“Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”

“Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”

“You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.

“Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”

Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.

“Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.

“Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”

“Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”

“Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”

“Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”

Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”

Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”

“I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.

“You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”

“Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”

“Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.

Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.

“Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”

“Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”

“I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”

“I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”

“What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”

“Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.

Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.

---------------

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.

“Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”

Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”

“Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”

“Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.

“Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”

Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.

Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.

“Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one, but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’

“Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”

The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.

“Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”

“It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.

“Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?

Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.

“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”

“Breakfast sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”

“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”

“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”

“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.

“Virge? Seriously?”

“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”

“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”

“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.

“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.

“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”

Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”

“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”

“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”

“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.

“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.

In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.

The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?

This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.

A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.

“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”

“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”

“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.

“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.

Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.

“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.

Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”

“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.

“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”

“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.

“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.

“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”

“We really don’t do tips—”

“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.

“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.

Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.

Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?

Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”

“First guess.”

“Green tea latte.”

Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”

“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”

“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.

As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.

“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”

Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”

Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”

“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”

“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”

“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”

Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”

Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—

“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.

“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.

“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.

“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”

“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.

“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.

“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.

---------------

“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”

“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.

Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.

Logan has never been one for analogies.

He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?

“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”

“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.

“So five?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”

“Stop stifling my creative energy!”

“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.

“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”

Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.

“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”

“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”

“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.

“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”

“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?

Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.

“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”

“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”

“Explain how,” Roman says.

“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”

“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.

Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.

“Where does he work?”

A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder. The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”

“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”

“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”

“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.

“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.

“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.

“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?

“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”

Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.

“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.

“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”

Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.

“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.

“I’m older than you.”

“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.

“I’m older than Patton, too.”

“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”

“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”

“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”

Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.

He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.

“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”

“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.

“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”

“If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.

“By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.

“You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”

“Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.

“Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”

“You cannot,” Logan says.

“What what,” Patton agrees.

“Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”

“Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.

The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.

Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.

“Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car. Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.

“One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”

“Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”

“When did he tell you his name?”

“He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”

“Where does he work?”

“If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”

Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”

“That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.

“Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.

“How are those supposed to drum up business?”

Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”

“Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”

Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”

Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”

“I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.

“You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”

“They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”

“You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”

“That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”

“Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”

Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.

“I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”

“That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.

When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.

Elegance, indeed.

---------------

Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.

“Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.

You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.

Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.

Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.

Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.

As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.

Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.

One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.

At least it’s a slower stream of guests.

“I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.

“Anything else for you?”

Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”

“Sure.”

“—and your number?”

“No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”

Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”

“Definitely not.”

“What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”

“I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.

“Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.

“I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”

“I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”

Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”

“Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”

Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”

“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”

Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”

This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”

Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.

“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”

“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”

“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”

“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”

“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”

“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”

“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”

Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”

Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”

“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.

“Promise.”

“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”

“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”

Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.

“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”

Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”

“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”

“Make it four.”

This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.

Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.

Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.

“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”

“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.

“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”

“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”

“Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”

“You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”

“If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”

Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”

“Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.

“Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”

“No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.

“Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”

“No.” Patton puts the tickets away.

“I found this book of stickers that has—”

“No.” Patton puts the stickers away.

“You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”

“I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”

“Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”

“Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.

“Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”

Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”

“Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.

“I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”

“No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”

“He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.

“Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.

“So,” Logan says.

“So,” Virgil agrees.

“How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.

Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”

“My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”

“Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.

“Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”

“I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”

---------------

Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.

“Does that work for you?”

Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.

“Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”

Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”

“Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?

“So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”

Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”

“Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’

“You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”

“We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”

“Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.

Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.

“Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”

“Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”

“I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.

“What don’t I know?”

“He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”

“But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”

“Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”

“Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.

“Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.

“That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.

“Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

“Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”

“Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”

“Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”

Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”

Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”

“Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.

“Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”

“Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”

“Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

“Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”

“You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”

Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.

As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.

The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.

“That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.

“You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.

“Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”

“Among,” Virgil corrects.

“What?”

“You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.

“Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”

Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.

“This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”

Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.

“Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.

“Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”

“Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.

“Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.

“Roman?”

“Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”

“It is June.”

“Yes.”

“Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”

“Yes.”

“June is not July.”

“You lost me.”

“Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”

“Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.

“For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—

“Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”

Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.

“We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”

“I am not doing that.”

Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”

Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”

“Unless you want to be doing—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”

“That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.

Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.

“You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”

“It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”

“All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.

“Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.

“So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”

With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.

“Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.

“Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”

“That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”

“That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”

“Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.

“Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”

“Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.

“Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

“Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.

“Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—

“Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”

Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.

---------------

Virgil is having a bad day.

He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.

Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.

This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.

Virgil wants to go home.

“Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”

“I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”

“Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.

“Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.

This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.

“Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”

Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”

“You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.

“Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”

“No, I want you to give me a refund.”

“Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”

“Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”

“No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”

This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.

“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.

Virgil.

Wants.

To.

Go.

Home.

“Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.

“Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”

Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.

Virgil does not want to be here.

Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.

“There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.

She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”

“Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”

“No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.

He might just scream.

“So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.

“There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.

And flicks this one square at his chest.

“Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”

“Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.

Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.

Virgil is leaving this hellscape.

“I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.

Virgil is going home.

At least, Virgil thought he was going home.

No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.

“Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”

“Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.

He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.

He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.

“Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.

“Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”

With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.

“When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”

“I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”

“Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”

Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.

If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.

Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.

“Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.

“Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”

“And where, exactly, do you work?”

“Starbucks north.”

The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”

“Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”

“Rude guests?”

“Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”

“Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”

“We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”

“Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”

“I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”

“How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”

“Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”

Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”

“It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”

Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”

“Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”

“Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”

The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.

Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.

“Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”

“Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.

“Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.

“Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.

“Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.

Mistletoe.

To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.

“If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.

“Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”

“No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”

Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”

So he does.

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sistercelluloid · 5 years

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A while back, my grandfather was taking my mother on a cruise, and trying to persuade me to come along. “You just sit back and rock, as the boat goes back and forth and back and forth,” he said, swaying and nodding his head from side to side. “It sounds great, Pop,” I blurted unconvincingly, “but please, you have to stop now!” I was getting seasick just watching him. I got queasy again at the Bon Voyage party.

Then there was the Jetfoil my husband Tim and I took from Bar Harbor to Nova Scotia. I was fine… until I wasn’t. At one point during a festive screening of The Little Mermaid on the upper deck, I suddenly felt… unwell. I barreled across the boat in frantic search of a bathroom, making it just in time. After watching in horror as everything I’d eaten since the fifth grade made a glorious comeback, I pulled myself together and swanned back to the land of the living, trying to seem calm and collected—maybe even elegant if I could pull it off! (Think Miss Davis in Now Voyager or Miss Dunne in Love Affair.) But as I settled into a lounge chair, channeling Mary Astor in Dodsworth, a deckhand leaned over and gently patted my hand. “We’re almost there,” he whispered reassuringly. Mortified, I asked if he’d seen me flying across the deck. “No,” he said, “but I see you now. And you’re green.”

When I got home, I told my doctor, who had armed me with industrial-strength drugs and dermal patches. “Those things work for guys in the Navy going across the North Sea!” she said, shocked at their spectacular failure. “There’s only one other thing I can prescribe: Stay off boats.” Which I did. For years.

Then came the TCM Classic Cruise. And I even stayed off that for years. But this time, I gave it a whirl. Along with the drugs and patches, I added ginger drops to my bag, a Seaband on one wrist, and an electronic thing on the other that’s supposed to interrupt the nausea signal to your brain by zapping the median nerve with a little Z-Z-Z every few seconds. I put it on the second-highest setting; any more voltage and I was pretty sure I’d electrocute myself.

Now it was time to settle in for five days of movies.

The schedule aboard the Disney Magic was slightly less hectic than the one you’ll find at the TCM Classic Film Festival, though there were still plenty of choices to make among 14 special presentations and 64 films, ranging from Eddie Muller-hosted noirs like The Asphalt Jungle, The Hitch-Hiker and Rififi, to screwballs such as The Lady Eve and It Happened One Night, to musicals like On the Town and Shall We Dance, to standards including Laura and Dodsworth. And like the Festival, there were no bad options.

Most of the documentaries and special events were found in the lounge; my favorite was “The First 25 Years of the Academy Awards,” complete with backstage tales and fabulous film clips, hosted by Randy Habercamp, managing director of Preservation and Foundation Programs at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Why doesn’t every classroom have cozy tables and a bar off to the side?

The rest of the films, including those with special guests Cicely Tyson, Mitzi Gaynor and Diane Ladd, aired in one of two cavernous but comfy theatres, or on the upper deck, poolside. Where I spent much of the week.

With, among others, Fred and Ginger…

…and my movie husband Rod Taylor. (This is the scene in Sunday in New York where, imagining that the pillow was me, I got shushed for sighing at the TCM Film Festival by a woman who clearly had no pulse. Hey, laydee, I was the one who pestered them into putting it on the program in the first place!)

The atmosphere on the ship was more casual than at a regular film festival, with a lot more freedom to duck into or out of theatres mid-film. (Which is great if you’re the one doing the ducking but not so much if you’re the one being climbed over.) And up at poolside, all bets were pretty much off in terms of talking; during Topper, I had to move from a prime viewing spot when a Martha Raye sound-alike and her bevy of boisterous buddies tucked into the table directly behind me.

And once, things got a bit too casual: a woman in the deckchair next to mine whipped out a can of highly stinky aerosol spritzer and proceeded to spray her entire torso, underarms and all. When I looked up from my book, startled and half-gagging, she snapped, “It’s deodorant! Don’t you wear deodorant?” I said, um, yeah, but I don’t put it on in public. “We’re not in public!” she informed me. “We’re on a boat!”

And then there was… the food. Oh my God the food. Everywhere, all the time. Buffets round the clock. Dessert stations. A pizza, burger and hot dog stand. Unlimited popcorn at screenings. And a soft-serve machine with old-fashioned cones. You know you’re on a cruise when your roommate jumps up in the middle of breakfast and says, “You want some ice cream? Cause I’m gonna go get some!”

Oh and the four-course dinners every night, with the same fabulous staff taking care of us. Our headwaiter Walter took his duties so seriously that one day when I was poolside—nowhere near dinnertime—I turned to find him behind me with a Coke. And then a little while later appearing at my table, seemingly out of nowhere, with another one. I was almost relieved when the movie ended and I was heading downstairs, as 12 years of Catholic school would have made me feel too guilty to be served another soda.

I had no problem eating, well, everything, since after a shaky first night, I did okay with the whole boat thing. But a touch of claustrophobia kicked in after a couple of days.

Me, calling Tim: “I’m having a great time, there’s just one thing though. Sometimes I have kind of a closed-in feeling. I can’t explain it… it’s like I’m trapped on a boat.” Tim: “Yeah, ummm…”

Luckily we were just about pulling into Bermuda by then. I felt a twinge of guilt about swilling a mango daiquiri beachside on a random Thursday, when everyone back home was working. It lasted about as long as it took me to bite the maraschino cherry off the stem.

“Some people just stay on the boat the whole time and keep watching movies,” a veteran cruise-goer told me. Which seemed silly. Until the second day we were dockside, when I did the same thing for a day of Halloween films. Val Lewton (Cat People), Buster Keaton (The Haunted House), Boris Karloff (The Mummy) and Lon Chaney (House of Frankenstein) were whispering my name.

As if on cue, day turned to dark and stormy night during The Haunted House, but nothing could budge me from my Buster.

And just in time for sweet dreams, House of Frankenstein—also featuring Dracula and the Wolfman—wrapped at around midnight, when we all unbundled from our deck blankets and trundled off to bed. (Or the bar on Deck 3.)

In fact all the late-night poolside showings were a bit nippy, which deterred… no one. Not with fleece and cocktails and hot chocolate handy. Though on the final night, when they showed Sullivan’s Travels, I had swathed myself in blankets so thoroughly I didn’t even budge for a drink…

…warming up only when Joel pours his heart out to Jimmy Conlin. Oh and whips his shirt off.

Cold as it was that night, I was reluctant to shed my blankets and head down to my warm stateroom, knowing this was the last film of the trip.

Before dawn the next morning, as we pulled into port, I strolled around the still-damp upper deck, where so many movies had gone by so quickly in the days before. Strains of Gershwin wafted through the air as I gazed out on the city I love—a little disappointed, though, to be back so soon. Almost a week had flown by in under a minute.

I popped into the coffee shop where Colin had made my coconut lattes all week. Where were they off to next, I asked? The Caribbean. And here I was heading into drizzly Manhattan. He skipped the usual Disney characters that had topped the foam in my drinks all week—which I always felt guilty about smooshing into oblivion on the first sip—and gave me a little going-away present.

Thank you Colin, thank you Walter and the crew, and thank you TCM, for this Sullivan girl’s lovely travels.

The TCM Classic Cruise: All Aboard to the Fabulous Movie Past A while back, my grandfather was taking my mother on a cruise, and trying to persuade me to come along.

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canaryatlaw · 6 years

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well, today was fine, I’m just kinda discouraged right now because of depressing real world stuff related to child rights and how I’m supposed to improve a government run system that is supposed to protect children when the same damn government is intentionally harming children in almost identical situations. Sigh. That’s one more thing I can’t wrap my head around, but hopefully tomorrow I will find strength to carry on. I pretty much have to, really. anyway. today was fine. I woke up at 6:30 am and grabbed my stuff and ubered to the airport. Had a nice conversation with my uber driver, very nice guy, so I sent him a $5 tip with a thank you note afterwards. I arrived by 7:30 with my flight not supposed to leave till 9:15, so I had plenty of time. I got my bag checked in and weighed without any issue, and I guess they were trying to get people through security faster (though it didn’t seem like there was a particularly large amount of people there) so they didn’t do shoes off or laptops out, just said to keep everything in place and just had to walk through a metal detector instead of the full body scanner thing, so that was nice because the full body scanner thing likes to give me weird results that sometimes lead to awkward pat downs or conversations like “is there something in your pockets?” and I’m just like “.....I’m wearing yoga pants I don’t even have any pockets” but thankfully that was all avoided and I was quickly through. Had to walk a bit to the gate, passed the Starbucks on the way and stopped because I needed some caffeine, and of course I can’t have coffee but their refreshers have caffeine. I wanted to try their new one, the mango dragonfruit again, but they ended up being out of it so I just got my typical berry hibiscus one, which is always good. Walked the rest of the way to my gate, they were still boarding the flight before ours, so I doubled back to where there was a little bakery/breakfast place set up and got an bacon egg and cheese croissant from them and I s2g it was like the best thing I’ve ever eaten, lol. So I went back to the gate and ate that, and waited. While I was sitting there this sweet older lady came up to me and was like “can I take a picture of your hair? I want my to look just like that and I can never describe it right to the person” and at first I thought she was talking about the color because that’s generally what garners interest in my hair from strangers and I was like oh boy I have to explain this crazy color regimen to her, but then it was clarified that she actually meant the haircut itself, so of course I said yes and let her take a few pictures from different angles. I’m sure my hairdresser will be pleased to hear her work garnered such positive reviews, especially since I just got it cut yesterday. Eventually we were able to start boarding, I somehow pissed off the airline sufficiently to land myself in group 9 for boarding, I’ve never even know there was a group 9, but apparently I managed to get the crappiest (cheapest) ticket package that put me all the way in the back of the line. I don’t care of course what order I get in when the seats are already pre-chosen, I don’t use the overhead bins anyway so it really doesn’t matter to me. I was sitting further up than I normally do just because it’s what was available, I normally like to sit by the wings in a window seat a few rows from the emergency exit, because that’s supposed to be the safest place to be structurally as well as access to the exit should anything go wrong, but I was in row 6 today with a window seat, and that was fine. I grabbed the magazine first of course and found the sudoku puzzles, and I managed to get through the easy, medium, and all the obvious spots on the hard one before getting into the real theoretical stuff to figure out answers (I’m too out of practice for that tbh) just when they cleared us to use larger electronic devices, so I put the magazine back and pulled out my laptop, and clicked play on the downloaded version of Heathers the musical I ripped from Vimeo last night for my in flight entertainment, and it was definitely entertaining. The volume was kind of annoying because I wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying in conversations so I’d turn it up but then when it got to the music it would be way too loud so I ended up going back and forth on it a lot. But yeah it was fun to watch through, don’t have too many original thoughts on it from this run through. I ended up getting halfway through “My Dead Gay Son” before they told us to put the laptops away, so that was pretty good. Landed smoothly, the airport is tiny (like it’s legit one hallway) and my aunt was going to meet me outside, so I just had to grab my bag from the baggage carousel. There was a bit of confusion though because they didn’t have signs indicating what flight the baggage was from and apparently there were two flights that came in from Chicago at like the same time so there was a lot of confusion between people and for a few minutes I was convinced they’d lost my bag and was starting to hardcore panic because I know I should keep my pill case in my carryon in case something like this happens but it’s always so bulky and in the way and even if I keep it in a giant ziplock bag it can still get popped open and send pills flying everywhere. But luckily before I got too far along panicking a worker came out and told us where our baggage would be coming so that quickly soothed my concern. Got my bag, walked right out and got in my aunt’s car and headed home. the rest of my family (or my parents and my sister anyway, somehow everyone neglected to tell me my brothers weren’t coming on this trip, which is not something I’m disappointed about, I just felt like this should’ve been something I was told at some point) wasn’t getting in until on a later flight since they were coming from NY. We stopped at Wendy’s and brought lunch back to my uncle and girl cousin (I’m just gonna call them girl cousin and boy cousin because there’s only two of them so it’s the easiest way to do it), the latter of which had to go take a final for her online Spanish college class, so she got sent off to do that for a while. I ate and then settled in on my computer, and a bit after that my aunt went back to the airport to retrieve the rest of my family. While she was doing that I ended up having a nearly hour long phone call (though to be fair at least half of it was spent on hold) trying to figure out if we could get our plane tickets to one con switched to another because of different celebrity appearances that had been unexpected, but the basic answer was no, there’s no way you can cancel or transfer unless you pay a fee of $400 per ticket (so $800) when the tickets only cost under $500 to begin with so like no....I’m not doing that. And it was so stupid because there was literally a flight to the second place that fit the same exact time constraints and was actually cheaper than the original one that they just could've switched us over to at literally no cost to them, and they just refused to do so. I was especially pissed because I had gone out of my way to get “travel insurance” for this trip, only to find out it only covers sickness that had to be proven by a doctor’s note or some other extraordinary circumstance that required extensive documentation to use, and like, I was really pissed because that’s not at all how they described it on the site and I may have thrown a line or two in there about how they’re really just setting themselves up for a deceptive marketing practices lawsuit to be brought against them just for the hell of it, which was the least I could do honestly. But yeah, all in all we were fucked and didn’t have another $500 to shell out to buy the new tickets independently so I guess we’re stuck with our original plans. Oh well. Some time after that we had dinner, and after that I went with my aunt and my parents down to the oceanfront and walked on the pier for a bit then walked a bit on the beach, it was really nice I liked it a lot. On the way home I may have encouraged some thoughts my aunt had about stopping for “ice cream or frozen yogurt or something” and she brought us to this cute little homemade place which was like, seriously some of the best ice cream I’ve ever eaten. They make their waffle cones fresh and like, you can see where they’re folded because the seam part kind of sticks out flat after it meets the other end which is just like super authentic and it tasted so good. They had a lot of tempting flavors, but after tasting it I decided I had to go with the cinnamon caramel oatmeal cookie, which was really just heaven and I was so glad I got it. It was cool too because they had vegan options made with coconut milk (my mom isn’t vegan but she has dietary restrictions that mean she can’t have dairy) and they actually had the same flavor I got made with the coconut milk, so we had the dairy and non-dairy versions of the same ice cream flavor, so that was cool. We sat and ate our ice cream, then continued on the way home. We sat out on the back porch for a little bit looking at the stars (I always forget how many there actually are until I’m out in the middle of nowhere and see them) which was nice, then we moved indoors and I went on my laptop for a while, and was eventually joined in the living room with my aunt and dad (mom went to bed) where we first watched the clip of James Corden doing carpool karaoke with Paul McCartney which was highly entertaining, even with having to deal with my father’s insistence that all of their songs were really about drugs, and then we watched a new Brian Regan recorded live show, so he was always funny. We pretty much started to go to bed after that, after I did my reblogging thing here I went back to the room I’m in (it’s currently the “guest” bedroom, it used to be my girl cousin’s room but when boy cousin moved out (he’s 21 I think) she transferred it to her room, which is where my parents are staying, then I’m in the guest room and my sister and cousin are on the couch/air mattress in the game room because they’re kids or whatever and want to bounce around and stay up late anyway. And yeah, I showered and then started writing this and here we are. Most of the day was objectively good, just a few sore spots bringing it down at times. Hopefully tomorrow I will feel better about my drive to actually make a difference in our awful government who very clearly does not know how to take care of children. Alright folks, that’s it for now, it’s past 1:30 am and sleep is calling my name. Goodnight babes. Happy Wednesday.

#daily journal #July 2018 #goodbye July tag

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unplacedpodcast · 7 years

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Chapter Six: Moratorium (Transcript)

Apologies for the delay in posting! I was at PodCon all weekend and it’s been a bit wackadoodle since I got back. As usual, spoilers below.

Note: This episode has content that might be disturbing or upsetting for some listeners, specific content warnings are underneath the cut.

Content warnings: alcohol/binge drinking (at the beginning of the episode), suicide (towards the end of the episode)

(ding of audio recording starting - when Narrator starts speaking, she sounds very rough, has clearly been crying and possibly drinking)

NARRATOR: How…how am I supposed to know what’s real and what’s not? I’m so tired. I’m so tired of trying to figure it out. This is all scary, and confusing, and I’m so lonely…if this is purgatory, can I just go one way or the other now? I’m sorry for whatever I did that stuck me here. I JUST WANT TO GO HOME! (voice breaks) I’m sorry, okay? (whispers) I’m sorry. (sniffles) Why am I even doing this? It’s not like anyone is listening anyways.

(click, pause, then ding of audio recording starting again; Narrator sounds much more chipper now, though still not 100%, and sounds a little sheepish when she starts talking)

NARRATOR: Hey. So, uh, sorry about that. I’m leaving it in for…journalistic integrity or something…but also because I’m not entirely sure anyone is listening, so why waste time editing out embarrassing drunken episodes of depression? (bitter laugh)

I’m also only working with one hand at the moment, so I’m trying to keep unnecessary typing and clicking and audio editing to a minimum. As you may have gathered, my little experiment didn’t go over too well. I thought I was hurting it, at first - it recoiled and there was a big crater in it, along with some gross sizzling noises, but then it…attacked, around and through the hematite, and hit my hand, and…yeah.

(sharp intake of breath) It hurt like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. That was a week or two ago and my hand is still covered in something resembling chemical burns. But it’s…it’s not as bad as it was. I don’t think there will be any permanent damage, especially because I’ve been making sure to stretch and move it as it heals, even though that’s pretty much excruciating. But at least I shouldn’t lose any range of movement.

Let me tell you, fighting off the urge to faint on a public sidewalk, and then making it back to wherever home is for the night, and then having to peel off strands of stone that are practically fused to your skin, and figure out treatment, all while completely alone…not in my top ten favorite activities. If I can be frank with you, not in my top hundred activities.

I should make a t-shirt to commemorate this whole hellish experience. “I punched a brain leech with shitty homemade brass knuckles and all I got was this lousy t-shirt! (…and also these burn scars!)” (snort)

Anyways, after that whole experience, can you blame a girl for hitting the bottle a bit? If nothing else, I needed some painkillers, because the ibuprofen was not cutting it.

The whole experience taught me something, though: I don’t care any more. I don’t care how curious I am about what’s going on, or how much it annoys me that I have no idea what’s going on, or my growing uncertainty about whether I’m actually a complete basket-case or not. Not my monkeys, not my circus. (pause) Maybe partially my monkeys, but I can definitely ignore the circus.

I don’t even know if those things are evil. It could be a totally symbiotic relationship, right? For all I know, those things are the barnacles of the brain, and like, give these people ideas or something. I just assumed they were up to no good because they look like something out of a Ridley Scott movie.

So if you think about it, I’m probably the bad guy here, just assuming that something has bad intentions because it looks like a parasite from Geiger’s nightmares, and then following it around and harassing it. Well, my bad, I learned that lesson and I’m never messing with one of those fuckers again. I’m just going to keep my head down for a while, at least until my hand heals completely.

Given the lack of paranormal PI shenanigans planned for the foreseeable future, I’m not quite sure what’s on the agenda for our time together today. I guess we’ll find out as we go along.

(muffled noise, audio dings off then turns back on again in a coffee shop with all of the background noise)

One big downside to this whole invisibility thing is that I can’t order coffee any more. I even tried using a pre-order app and it just continually glitches. I used to just hover around until someone ordered a drink close enough to what I wanted and swipe it when it came up. But the last time I did that, the barista got yelled at by an angry soccer mom with the “can I speak to your manager” haircut. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to cost someone their job just because I want my espresso.

That means I either have to swipe a cup and fill it with hot coffee, or do the same thing with iced coffee, or buy the pre-made stuff from a grocery store. I swear. My kingdom for a hot mocha with coconut milk and no whipped cream.

First world problems, huh? (laughs)

It feels good to joke about it, though! I knew this whole keeping my head down thing would work out better in the long run. I feel better already.

(Narrator sips on coffee and leaves coffee shop, the background noise shifts to be that of a busy street - cars in addition to people, etc)

What now? Maybe I’ll go shopping. I’ve been neglecting my look, because it feels a little weird paying attention to what you’re wearing when nobody else can see it. If you put effort into your personal style but literally nobody is physically able to observe your personal style, do you actually have a style? File under, “more philosophical quandaries I’d never thought of before a few months ago.”

If I’m trying to get back to normal, then why not? I’ll just take only one or two things from each store, so that no one person is going to take all the blame.

In fact, maybe I’ll experiment a little bit! I was always afraid to try anything too far outside my comfort zone before, but if there was ever a time to try new things, it’s now. I don’t have to worry about whether it’s work appropriate or not. I can do whatever I want with my hair and my clothes. It’s another small upside of this whole ordeal.

I just have to - wait. There’s one of those symbols I told you about - I said I’d stay away from the monsters, but the symbols…I’m still curious about them. And I haven’t seen anything that indicates that the monsters - I mean, the totally non-malovolent worms - have been painting the symbols or even would be able to create them. I’m totally okay to check this out, then.

(footsteps as NARRATOR walks down an alleyway)

I think I’ve seen this one before - the same design was near the library, but that one was smaller. I - hello? Hi? Are you looking at me? You can see me?!

(muffled sounds of movement as NARRATOR starts running, is panting and bumping into people in the crowd)

NARRATOR: (panting) I lost her - there was someone standing by the symbol, maybe she just finished painting it? She was looking right at me - I don’t know, the loneliness could be playing tricks on me but I swear to god she looked straight into my eyes, nobody has done that in weeks… (pause for panting) When she realized I was looking back at her, she looked entirely freaked the fuck out - she started running and I couldn’t - I couldn’t catch her.

There’s a big crowd up ahead, she disappeared into it, I think. I have to find her!

(sound of running/moving faster, pushing through a crowd)

Holy shit. The woman who could see me isn’t here, but - there’s someone else, standing on the bridge - oh no. No no no. She’s on the bridge, she’s standing on the railing, and she looks like - oh god, she’s gonna jump. Maybe I can -

(more sounds of movement)

HEY! NO! Stop!

Wh - I think she can hear - shit. It’s the woman from the other day in the psychic’s shop - with the hematite necklace. I think she can hear me, she started when I yelled - hey, can you hear me?

(her voice is shaking but trying to stay calm and soothing, like she’s talking to a wild animal) C’mon, get down, you don’t have to do this. I can help - I’ll help you. C’mere, it’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay.

Yeah, yeah, just come over here, it’ll be fine. I promise, it’ll be -

Nononono! NO! Shit shit shit, no - no…

(someone in the crowd/background screams, Narrator is crying, obviously v upset by this)

Oh my god. She…(sniff) she was coming towards me, she looked super out of it - her eyes were all glazed over - but she had started to get off the railing, and then she - jerked? It was like the leech thing - it’s like it was moving her like…a puppet or something - I don’t (retches/coughs) I’ve never - people don’t move like that. She didn’t want to, she looked like she was trying to fight it - the look in her eyes - but she couldn’t - she - and the thing sort of, it disconnected itself and slithered down, and she looked back at me one more time and then she jumped. There’s no way she survived - she’s got to be floating in the river somewhere. I don’t - I can’t…

(audio recording cuts off)

#audio drama #transcripts

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neverisalongtime-ja-blog · 7 years

Text

Chapter 37: Ice Cream with Josh

Hello everyone! I’m back and I’m so sorry I kept you all waiting for this new chapter but here it is! This chapter is so sweet and I hope you all like it!

Remember to check Anastasia’s Instagram that is on fire:

Anastasia_Truman ❤️️

Thanks to everyone who reads the fic, much love to you all! ♥

Read chapter 36

Next morning, Anastasia woke up feeling in heaven. She was trying to process the weekend she just had. Not only she met her lifetime crush, she worked with him and they shared a drinking session. Cloud nine was such a small place for all the joy and happiness she was feeling. She even managed to get Josh out of her head for a while; the constant knot on her stomach was fully undone while she was in Las Vegas.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up in a bun, took a quick shower and grabbed a long Pilots tee shirt (Her dad’s legendary rock band), put it on and went downstairs, When she was walking through her living room she saw a pink spot on her kitchen that wasn’t normally there, she smiled and walked towards her best friend.

- I’m gonna take all of your keys back. I’m tired of you all sneaking into my house! – Anastasia said smiling.

- I woke up extremely happy this morning and I wanted to have a great breakfast but Peyton wasn’t there so I came here to have breakfast together – Mandy said turning around to see Anastasia but the midnight-blue-haired girl notice that her friend wasn’t, in fact, happy. Mandy showed a serious face.

- What’s wrong? – Anastasia asked. She really wanted that breakfast.

- This is wrong! – Mandy said showing a little orange jar on her right hand.

Anastasia understood everything then. Mandy found her Xanax jar and it was empty. But it wasn’t because Anastasia took them all. After that afternoon with Josh in Orlando she never took another Xanax, instead as soon as she got to LA she threw the pills on the crusher on her kitchen sink but she never got rid of the jar. How stupid she felt in that moment. If she explained that to Mandy, her friend wouldn’t believe her because of the addiction she had on the past.

- I’m sorry. I took them on the tour but I swear I won’t do it again – Anastasia told her friend.

- I’m so disappointed and so angry right now, An – Mandy said – You know that if you have any issue, any problem you can come and talk to me and I will help you find a solution, I will cheer you up! Don’t go back to Xanax. It cost you a lot to get out of it years ago – Mandy’s face showed her rage.

- I’m sorry. I swear that it was just one time – Anastasia was begging her friend for comprehension.

- I just feel so mad that you didn’t come to me – Mandy said.

- Sometimes I think I’m a load to you.

- Never! I don’t want to see you bad – Mandy walked to Anastasia and gave her a tight hug, Anastasia embraced her friend like there was no tomorrow. They had a long time without giving themselves that kind of hugs that goes straight to the soul.

- I’m fine. Believe me, especially after this weekend! – Anastasia said with a smile.

- I’m going to serve breakfast and you have to tell me everything – Mandy said.

The two friends had some eggs, bacon and waffles and Anastasia told Mandy every single little detail about her weekend in Las Vegas.

- I saw the picture on your Instagram with the red wig – Mandy said laughing – I miss your red hair, which was the beginning of your witch-to-be look.

- I know! I looked amazing, don’t you think?

- You did! But how is he? – Mandy wanted to know.

- He is even better than I imagined. He is so sweet and so nice. He is not that cocky asshole we saw on stage or videos. We had dinner, we made the video and then we had some drinks and we talked about everything you can imagine, especially his divorce – Mandy opened her mouth big.

- He got divorced? – She was shocked.

- Yes! He has been divorced for around a year – Anastasia said sipping some coffee from her cup – Their new album is about that… Oh! – She almost forgot – He kissed my hand twice!

- What a gentleman! – Mandy said

- It was incredible! And I had a great time with Steph too.

- Time is always great if you spend it with Steph! – Mandy laughed – I’m so happy for you! You got out of the drama for at least three days.

- I know – Anastasia smiled – I’m still over the moon! – Mandy smiled too.

- I gotta go because Peyton’s mom is in town and we are going to have lunch and then we hit the stadium for the game tonight.

- Sounds fun! – Anastasia said.

- It is fun! My mother in law is so sweet. I’m so lucky.

- You are, my friend, you are!

- I’ll leave the dishes to you.

- That’s the problem with people sneaking into my house to make breakfast… I have to clean later.

- I love you! – Mandy closed the door behind her.

Anastasia sighed, looked at the mess Mandy had left in the kitchen and began to clean it. But she was still happy, even doing the dishes. She heard her phone ringing and something inside told her that it was Josh, she left the dishes half done and ran to answer the phone and, in fact, it was him calling.

- Hey! – He said.

- Hi – Was all she managed to say.

- I was about to do some grocery shopping and I decided to call you to see if you wanted to join me – That was weird – If you aren’t busy, of course.

- No. I’m not busy – Anastasia said – pick me up.

- That was easy – He said as a joke but it made Anastasia feel a little bit ashamed – I’ll be there in ten.

She ran upstairs to change into more appropriate clothes for leaving the house. She chose a pair of black joggers and a black tee shirt with the word “witch” in front, just as the one she used to wear onstage sometimes. In exactly ten minutes Josh was blowing the horn in front of her house.

- My favorite witch – He said looking at her tee shirt.

- My favorite… guitarist? – She said mocking him and laughing.

- At least I’m your favorite something.

- Don’t be silly, you are my favorite in so many things like… - She mimicked the process of thinking – Like… You are in one of my favorites bands, does that count?

- You are so funny today! – He said faking a smile.

- Why are you buying groceries if we’re leaving on Friday again? – Anastasia said.

- I’m tired of eating out – He answered.

- Did Lauren leave? – She had to ask because the matter was in her head for a long time that morning. He looked at her before answering.

- Yes. She flew back to New York last night.

- Cool – An wasn’t going to prolong subject. Josh looked at her again like waiting for a further answer but she didn’t give it to him.

Josh drove to a grocery shop in downtown Santa Monica. It felt so weird for Anastasia do mundane things like groceries with Josh. She was buying some things for herself too and they looked like a couple buying food for their home. And the atmosphere was so tense, as if Josh wanted to say something and he just couldn’t get it out of his chest, at the same time that they were there trying to choose if coconut shampoo smelled better than aloe shampoo.

- Aloe doesn’t have any smell – Anastasia said – And you know how I love coconut.

- You know what was cool? Those kid’s shampoos that smelled like watermelon or bubblegum – Josh said.

- Yes! Let’s find those! I used to use the watermelon one and my hair smelled great the entire day!

- Are we actually going to buy kid’s shampoo? – Josh said laughing.

- Yes! – Anastasia confirmed it laughing too.

- You’re crazy!

- You already know that – She found the shampoo – Take the watermelon one and I’ll take the bubblegum one – Josh looked at her with an incredulous look – I’m being serious.

- Alright… I’ll take it – He was laughing.

- Your hair will smell amazing! – Anastasia said smiling.

- Let’s have lunch together! – Josh said suddenly – I’ll cook you something. What do you want to eat?

- For real? – Anastasia was accepting all his propositions that day like it wasn’t a big deal but inside of her it was a huge deal, indeed – Mmm, I don’t know… What about some grilled steaks and roasted veggies?

- Sounds good. Deal.

- At your place? – Josh looked at her straight into her eyes like if the answer was obvious.

- Of course!

Josh started cooking the steaks at the grill in his beautiful backyard, the only place that wasn’t filled with instruments, while Anastasia was cleaning and chopping some peppers, tomatoes, onions and corn cobs to roast then in the oven. Not only they went to shop for groceries like a couple, now they were cooking lunch like if that parallel universe where Josh having a girlfriend and An having experienced a weekend with the love of her teenage years didn’t exist.

- Did you have fun this weekend? – Josh asked suddenly when they were seating at his dining table. It felt like a release, she knew he’d wanted to bring it up the whole day.

- More than you can ever imagine – She answered.

- You really like his band – Josh said looking and the food on his plate.

- I do. Well, it was one of those bands you like when you are a teenager. I use to love them then I lost track of what they were doing, but now Mark is working in the studio with them.

- Cool – Josh said, the same cold way An replied to him when he told her about Lauren a couple of hours ago – And what did you do? – He went on with it.

- We mostly filmed, but in our spare time we had dinner with Richard, the lead singer…

- ‘We’?

- Yes, Mark and Stephanie were there too. They got engaged! – The situation was as weird as you could get.

- That’s amazing! – Josh said – They seem so in love.

- They are! They were born to be together.

- Yeah. Some people are – He stopped eating and kept looking at her – What else did you do in Vegas?

- Well, we had lunch and when we were done filming the video – She stopped for a moment, doubting if she should continue talking but she liked to push Josh’s buttons and deep inside her brain, and her heart, she was angry for the time he spent with Lauren – I had some drinks with Richard… just to celebrate – Anastasia felt as if Josh’s stare was piercing her brain.

- Cool – he said again before giving a big bite to his corn cob.

They didn’t say another word until the plates were empty.

- That was so good! – She said taking the plates from the table – Here, I’ll do the dishes – She took a plate from Josh’s hands.

- Wanna watch a movie or something? – He asked her – I don’t know if you have any plans but…

- I don’t have any plans but why don’t we go to the beach? – She asked him.

- The beach?

- Yeah. Let’s go and just lay on the sand. It’s a nice day out – She was finishing cleaning.

- Alright. It’s a good idea.

And so they went. On the way to Venice Beach, Anastasia’s phone began buzzing and as she grabbed it she saw a couple of messages from Richard, she felt bad about reading them while on Josh’s car but the curiosity was huge.

“Hey. Hope you are well, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve seen some scenes from the video and you look beautiful”. She read the first.

“You will be the first to watch it when is out”, the second one said and she smiled like a child.

- Do you smile like that when you read my texts? – Josh asked.

- What? – She thought she heard wrong.

- You read that text with such a smile on your face – She heard right.

- Is that a wrong thing?

- No. It’s the face I make when I read your texts – He was impossible.

- I’m going to leave the facial expression I make when I read your text to your imagination – She said but Josh didn’t take it as well as she thought. He started to drive faster, as he did when he was angry. She decided not to reply to Richard right away.

They arrived at Venice Beach and the beach was mostly empty, which was always something amazing to catch. Josh brought a big towel with him so they could sit on the sand.

- I love this place so much – Anastasia said.

- Why? – Josh asked looking at the sand.

- Why? – She looked at him – There is such beauty in this place. So many things happening, so many people from so many places around the world. There’s the city and there’s the beach…

- It is a place with so much falseness – Josh said still looking at the sand. He didn’t catch Anastasia’s eyes even though she was looking at him. She knew he was angry.

- There’s falseness everywhere, not just here. But you need to only see the good. All the people that move here to make their dreams true…

- How many actually achieve that?

- What’s wrong? – Anastasia was done – I only wanted to get some peace at the beach shore. I mean, look! The beach is empty; do you know how rare is that? And you are there, looking at the sand being angry for some reason…

- I’m not angry – He looked at her straight to her eyes for the first time since they arrived to the beach – It’s just… I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.

- I’m here to listen.

- I know but I also know you won’t be there for too long.

- What do you mean? – Anastasia was confused.

- I feel like I’m losing you, An – He said without breaking the eye contact.

- Losing me? From what?

- From whom…

- Josh, is this because of my weekend at Vegas?

- It’s about everything you will do. I feel like I can’t make up my mind and I know you won’t here forever, I know that if somebody appears and wants to take you he’s going to do it because I can’t make up my fucking mind.

- I’m going to ask you something crazy – He looked back to the sand – By any chance did you read my writing notebook that Eric has because he’s making notes for some new songs? I wrote a song called ‘Make Up Your Mind’ and it’s about you – Josh looked at An again – I promised myself that I wasn’t going to write songs about any other guy but this thing that I have with you has turned into a fucking roller coaster – She laughed.

- Would you be mad if I did?

- Well… I know Eric didn’t give you permission to read it because he knows I don’t like people to sneak into my lyric notebook – He looked at her again – But no. I wouldn’t be mad about it.

- I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist. I’m so jealous of the way you write songs that I wanted to see if I could learn something. I guess I got more than what I was looking for.

- That will teach you to stay away from other people’s notebooks – Anastasia laughed but Josh looked to the floor one more time and she just hugged him – Look at me – She said to him without breaking the hug. Their faces were so close – I don’t know what’s going to happen, you don’t know what’s going to happen so why not just enjoy this moment, right now, without worrying about an uncertain future? – He just looked at her with the tenderest eyes and that gave Anastasia the push to kiss him. It wasn’t a long kiss but it was meaningful, it was one of those kisses that made both smile after, and they did. She saw Josh smiling for the first time that afternoon – Let’s enjoy today and this beautiful sunset.

Sunsets in California were something out of this world. The sky turned into so many shades of blue and pink and red, it didn’t matter where in the state you were, at sunset it was mandatory to stop and look at the sky for a few minutes. Josh put his arm around Anastasia while she rested her head on his chest to view that show the sky was giving to them. After that she remembered the ice cream shop she discovered with Mandy last time they were there and Josh obviously agreed to go and get one.

- Guess I should take you home – Josh said while getting into his car.

- Yes, you should – Anastasia laughed – I need to start packing because we aren’t coming back to LA before going to London and I need to pack a whole shitload of things.

- I’m so sad I’m going to miss Glasto – He started to drive.

- You can watch it, there’ll be a livestream!

- Really? I need to plan that. I’m so damn proud of you all, how far Dead Curse have come.

- I know. I will probably cry on that stage. It has been a personal dream for a long time.

- You deserve it. You all do. I’m so jealous of what you guys have with DC.

- You have that with Dot Hacker.

- It’s not the same. I mean it fulfills me… to a certain point.

- You’ll never be content with anything you do, will ya? – Josh shrugged.

Anastasia wanted to ask Josh if he wanted to stay the night at her place, but she felt that with everything that happened that afternoon it was enough Josh for a day. They shared another kiss in the car once they were in front of her house and it was a much more passionate one. To her, it felt like he didn’t want to let her go, the way he grabbed her lips with his lips woke up a bunch of emotions inside of her, but it had been enough for that day.

This chapter was inspired by a particular Florence and The Machine songe (By now you all guessed that I LOVE Flo) I couldn’t find a good video on Youtube but here is a LINK to the lyrics, sorry for that. This is also the song that Josh read on Anastasia’s notebook.

#Josh Klinghoffer #JoshKlinghoffer #JoshKlinghofferFanFic #JoshKlinghofferFanFiction #Josh Klinghoffer Fan Fic #Josh Klinghoffer fan Fiction #FanFic #Fan Fic #FanFiction #Fan Fiction #Klinghoffer #Red Hot Chili Peppers #RedHotChiliPeppers #RHCP #JoshAn #NeverIsALongTime #Never Is A Long Time

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abyss-mal-blog1 · 5 years

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a saturday i felt everything was too much

27th april, 2019

- woke up in the morning feeling anxious about my project i have a day for

- i am even anxious that i am typing about it but i’m going to do a quickie

- contemplated going to brooklyn’s YTTP and do hot yoga there but i was LAZY i didn’t go and lijun called me and told me about some things i found weird about (and also about her going back to chung cheng)

- she hung up abruptly and i started to stress-eat food (some leftover digestives, cheese, banana, i think two oranges)

- changed, squeezed into my jeans, and left to meet eshaa and pira! met eshaa on the L train station we happened to get on the same carriage which was such a coincedenz

- pira overslept, spent a windy lunch time at smorgasburg

- food was okay (many choices actually for a food fair somehow it remind sme of my high school friends and how much they’ll like it if i brought them there) but i felt like mentally i wasn’t in the right state to enjoy it - was it because i was too full

- on the L train on the way to bedford ave (read: L train - avoid when you can!! especially on weekends) as i was looking at eshaa i just felt like i was in a separate state, like i’m living another reality. you know those shows that have th protagonist living a simulation? i felt like that, like i’m not truly present there and my mind and body are kinda separate and i have to act a certain way in public to “keep up” with what i have to do

- ordered a raclette burger because i always wanted to try the cheese + the patty looked good to me - half regretted because i was fucking full

- i wanted ice cream but i didn’t want those folded kinds from 10below and i was kinda bored of walking around the place multiple times so we just got churros and left

- went to mcnally jackson (am thinking about this book i wanna read right now -how to date men when you hate men) (lol i am sure this tells you a lot of my current headspace), some stores, walked around a lil bit

- i felt bad for 1. not giving eshaa anything - i have a new orleans shot glass to give to her!! its k next time 2. asking her to try my beef burger f can i be more culturally sensitive

- alighted at union sq, grabbed some van leeuwen’s at whole foods to bring to clara and my cousin’s party because i love that shit

- tbh really didn’t feel and in my whole mind i wanted to cancel the meeting at 4 - i didn’t though because i didn’t want to be that person + i thought it might be good for me

- i was nervous and bought the most horrible tasting gluten free cookie from news bar on the way home - i have no self control (it was $4) it was also coconut avocado i am going to start baking my own stuff now.

- (channeling what greyson chance said) you gotta be patient with yourself

- oprah: the best thing you can give yourself is time

- me: *impulse eats and buys when i am nervous*

- anyway, finally got my ass home, really nice weather while walking through the park, changed to my leggings bc f me

- wanted to wear my blazer, luckily i didn’t because he wore a blazer too, he be lookin dapper

- a little too dapper to go record shopping in the village & for what we about to do, but you know it was okay i appreciate the effort

- at the beginning, you know, a lil awkward, a lil extended glances on the face and eye contact

- we went to the record store i’ve always walked past but never entered on bleecker...and saw seth rogen!

- tbh was a lil out of my element but it’s okay i am learning to get into the element you needa start somewhere ya kno

- interesting guys working at the record store

- i wanted to buy something but i didn’t because i didn’t have a turntable and i am broke

- we got coffee and walked to the park

- i got an iced coffee but i shoulda gotten an espresso like he did because, too much liquid yo

- speaking about liquids i feel like i need to go on a detox juice cleanse

- walked to the park and sat by the jazz area

- chatted a lil. programming buddies?

- 6pm, i needed to get wine, we went together and even picked up some stuff from morton williams. it all felt very adult-like, picking up wine and groceries, kinda lol to be doing this on an apparent date but ok, cool cool

- went back home and got changed, saw nicole called out to her, she was napping and closed the door

- got my ass out of the apartment, cousin told me about clara’s unfortunate wallet-and-passport-losing situation, went to uncle ted’s and talked a lil

- thought his party was gonna be chill and i could do work but fuck

- it’s okay though i got a lot out of it i met cool and interesting people

- drank enough for the party to have fun

- everyone seems really cool - amber, khoo, weijie was lol, talked to erica (yay cs!) clara, annoying guy, xia, it was fun last night

- i am thankful for my cousin for throwing parties tho i feel like i wanna throw a grad party for him, kinda like a send off. it’ll be thatschic’s level of party

- went home, tried to confide in chloe, urges was so strong i walked down to mamoun’s

- didn’t get anything bc broke ass bitch, i went back home, cooked all my soba noodles and opened my mala sauce pack, made a lot of noise and heartburn

- (writing this on sunday morning) regrets

- the first few broccoli was good tho, with the sauce

- i died after because it was too spicy

- i am talking too much about food

- when will was sharing with me about his relationship with food i enjoy it actually

- he talked about making crepes!

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itsjayyyy · 6 years

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November 12, 2018 12:50 pm

alright so the last real update was thursday. So friday i had class in the morning, which was review for the bio exam on wednesday, then after that I went to work. I think i was on cash but I cant remember (yea i know it was only a few days ago). oh i was cash, but closest to bar so i was helping bar a lot too. Saturday I had off, and Friday night I was like “saturday I’m gonna be so productive, I’m gonna detail clean my bike and study for bio more and organize my room” but then actual saturday came and it was like,,,,, eh.

I woke up and was gonna go get breakfast, but my teeth were still sore from my ortho appointment, so my first thought was to have oatmeal. But I’ve had oatmeal every day since the appointment, and I was getting sick of it, and also was craving something salty since I’ve had nothing but sweets recently. I really wanted an omelette, especially one with mushrooms, and realized that I hadn’t yet eaten at keke’s since rose got hired, so I went there. I asked to be put in her section, but man she had nonstop large groups. The people I was sitting next to were so obnoxious too, always sending food back for the smallest thing. After I finished I told her I’d wait until she got off work so we could hang. It took her over an hour (in which I was just loitering in publix), then we sat in the parking lot trying to figure out what to do. I wanted to go to tampa, but by then it was already 3 so it was kind of too late. We decided to go to the free art museum in rollins. it was p aesthetic, got a couple good pics for ig. I’m trying to lighten my feed, bc a lot of my pictures used to be really dark.

After the museum, we swung by starbucks, then went back to the west side to scoop up peter from work. We went back to his place for a minute, then went back to the east side to pick up. we drove by edc, it looked cool. on the way back we stopped by a wawa to get some snacks (seriously, why is the brownie flavored muddy buddies discontinued???), then headed back to his place to smoke. Bruh we watched the tuesday episode of supernatural, and that shit fucked me up.

Obvs it was a challenge driving a motorcycle while slightly high, so rose and peter said theyd drive behind me to make sure i got home safe. For some reason, I thought that I needed to be making sure rose was driving safe, so i spent more time looking in my rearview mirror than looking at the road.

Sunday I was working at cinnabon from 2-9. I think I actually did pretty good, I never ran out of buns AND was out right as my shift ended. It helped that we ran out of vanilla ice cream an hour before close so I was able to shut it down early and clean it then instead of after we closed. For some reason (i had a medium coffee (with chestnut praline syrup- pretty good as a cheap drink) which is like 182 mg of caffeine) I was feeling really motivated when I got home, so I put new sheets on my bed, did a load of laundry (and put it away!), and cleaned my floor before going to bed. I also ate a healthy, vegetable based soup (you know the one, the spicy bean soup that every poor family lives off of) which was definitely better than another bowl of oatmeal with nutella and coconut flakes.

Today I woke up around 9, had more bean soup, took a shower, and did a face mask. It’s only 1, so I’m probably gonna split the rest of the day between studying for my two exams this week and organizing my room. I’m starting to get serious about wanting to move out, and I need to clear a lot of clutter (i know i did a round of purging my room a few months ago, but tbh it wasn’t nearly enough). On saturday, on the way to pick up peter as rose and i were driving down i-4, she asked if, in the next two years or so, I would want to move back to michigan with her. She then also said that mom and dad would want to move back too, but like in separate apartments (and maybe a few cities between them), and she didn’t want to just leave me all by myself. I unloaded a lot of my feelings on her then, but I don’t think she really got it. I told her that I would never ask mom and dad for help because they’ve made it clear that they don’t love me or care about me, that I was tired of being treated like an accessory in her whole life, how I’m pushed to the side while everything is made about her, and how I was WAY more likely to be fine just by myself than any of the three of them. Not sure how much I got through to her, but it definitely made me realize something: i needed to start making my own moves in life. A while back I was trying to clean out my likes on here (i was up to 20k- that’s what happens when you’ve had an account for 7 years) and I saw a tweet that said “sometimes you can’t wait until you have all your ducks in a row, you just have to grab what you can and make a run for it.” I think that’s what I’m gonna do. I know for sure, that with my current bills, I can allow for 350 to go towards rent, and I also have 1000 saved, which, if I stretch it to my next student refund, can give me around 600 per month total for rent. I know that ucf has a food pantry where you can get 5 items per day no questions asked, I know several recipes that average at 50 cents per serving, and I know that within the next month I’m gonna buy a phone mount for my bike and start delivering with postmates, where I can earn between 8-15 per hour (and can have flexible hours). I think I’m probably gonna stick around at home for a maximum of, until the new year, then I’m gone. Worse comes to worse, I have 2000 at my disposal in credit cards, and don’t need to worry about maintaining a credit score since I’m not gonna buy a new car any time soon. Just gotta start looking for places to live now.

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3one3 · 7 years

Text

The Sequel - 849

Holes

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Remember when you said you were going to lift weights this morning?”

“Remember when “morning” happens until noon? I have plenty of time still.”

“Yeah okay.”

“Stop poking my tummy.”

Christina asked for chocolate chip waffles and whipped cream for breakfast. She said she deserved it because Lukas kept her up all night. Thunderstorms were not his favorite thing to experience onboard a boat, even safe in a marina. While he finally got some rest, she devoured chocolate, flour, sugar, and cream in bed in her sweatpants. André had eggs, smoked salmon, and avocado on toast, in significantly smaller quantities than her breakfast. He told her he only even had substantial food to help soak up the alcohol that lingered in his system from the night before. She kept on trucking well after he cleared his plate. He entertained himself by making fun of her.

It was still gray and gloomy outside, and there was some leftover drizzle in the forecast. There was no light coming through the blinds in the master stateroom. Christina was tired of bikinis and lounge chairs and sightseeing anyway. She said she wanted to work out, have a bath, and then hang out in bed all day with Lukas, André, Spencer, Lucky, toys, and Law & Order: SVU reruns. Not only had it felt like an eternity since she last had that opportunity, but that was the first morning she expected that kind of day to actually feel as relaxing and rewarding as it once could. Everything she tried to explain to the player about how she felt being with him was real and true, and while she couldn’t quite understand why that seemingly meant much more to her than it did to him, she was incredibly relieved. She was incredibly grateful to whatever happened in the universe, be it a solitary event or a series of efforts, that allowed sharing the same space as André to feel like her Happy Place™ again.

He was still figuring out how he felt about her explanation. There was no denying that her happiness was dear to him, and that he was relieved to be able to think of her as “out of the woods”, so to speak. The urgency of her uncertainty and chronic depression was gone, and it was a load off his shoulders. There was just no solitary event or series of efforts he could pick out and actually believe led to that situation. He’d been arguing for months that all they needed was for Christina to get on a winning streak and be happy and comfortable in the saddle again, but for some reason he struggled to accept that it worked. To him it was more likely that she experienced some kind of quieting peace sharing her nights and most of each day with Juan, and that that in turn led to better riding. The player hated that he sent a troubled girl who was trying to be happy and clinging to the prospect of a positive streak of good show results and little fighting at home off to Cannes with Juan, and got her back “cured” of all major ailments. Her ankle even seemed less swollen to him at night, and there was no complaining about her knee. In the mean time, while he processed and internalized, just being with Christina was great. She was his best friend.

“How did we even have chocolate chips on the boat?”

“Luke likes these mini ones on his ice cream so it was on the list,” she explained with her mouth full.

“When are you going to wake him up?”

“I’m not. He can sleep as long as he wants. He cried for like three hours straight.”

“My mom says we need to start toilet training.”

“I know. I’m letting Espen handle it. She’s a pro. You have to help her though because you’re the only person in the house who knows how to pee standing up,” the rider winked. “I think she wants to wait until August, when he’ll be home for a while...” Her casual tone became slightly tentative, and she trailed off as if she were leaving something unsaid. Obviously, it was the Olympics. Lukas would be home with his dad and his nanny while Christina went off to Tokyo if she made the team, and there was a little break after the games too and thus no need to travel. If she didn’t get in the team, there would be other shows to attend while her colleagues were in Asia.

“Yeah that’s a good idea,” the footballer nodded. “Dom says the best way is to keep him naked all day so he has nowhere to put the poop.”

“He’s just go on the floor or something. Or he’ll find a towel or a blanket and try to use it like a diaper, and I will be mortified and probably throw up.”

“And I will laugh,” he smiled. “How is your pooping, by the way? I know you have trouble when you’re on the road.”

“Boyfriend. Have I not made it clear that I never want to discuss that with you?” His wife glared at him before shoving another waffle square dripping with melted whipped cream in her mouth.

“Except when you can’t go, and send me 20 messages about how uncomfortable you are and you’re afraid that if you try to push it out it might start to come but it won’t get all the way-“ She reached over the plate in her lap and clamped her hand over his mouth. Then she lifted her other hand to her mouth, still holding her fork, and held her pointer to her lips to shush him. “You are such a baby,” he chided when she withdrew.

“I’m your baby though.” Christina turned a cheesy grin on him and leaned over to kiss his forehead. Then she looked back to make sure she didn’t get any chocolate on him. If she had, she would have licked it off. “Also, I’m ready to try that whole getting off before working out thing.”

“You’re not going to want to have sex after you finish eating that.”

“There are other ways to get off.”

“Like binge-eating waffles?”

“Like...you can put your hand in my undies and I’ll put mine in yours.”

“Maybe you should just take yours off.”

“For easier access?”

“No, because the elastic is holding your waffle-belly in and probably damaging your stomach,” André sniggered.

“You’re the worst.”

“That makes you Mrs. Worst. Want to watch porn?”

“It’s 10 in the morning.”

“So?”

“I dunno. That’s weird. Can you take this? I’m done.” Christina lifted her plate and attempted to hand it off to André, who was no closer to a place to put it than she was. He frowned at her and reluctantly accepted the empty plate anyway. The second he put it down on the tiny nightstand to his left, she asked him to pass over her green juice. He in turn asked if she needed him to digest the food for her too, and “poop it out” after. The rider told him that if he didn’t stop talking about poop, there would be no pre-workout orgasms for anybody.

“Are you going to text Kyle back? You said to remind you,” he yawned as she pulled on the hot pink straw in her glass. Loafing in bed was really quite all right with him too, and he didn’t care that much about the porn or the orgasms, or even the workout for that matter. He was very good at doing nothing, unlike her. His favorite part of doing nothing was snuggling with her, and that was hard to do in the sun. A day indoors sounded nice. It would be his first in a week and a half. He sunk down the low bed, dropped a pillow on Christina’s lap, and violently crashed into it face first as a precursor to finding a comfortable position to stay in.

“No. I forget what I was going to add. I told him to hack Dirk and some of the others and I can’t remember what else I wanted, so whatever,” she yawned back. “Your hair is pretty now.” And I’m-n-a play with it! So fluffy, the lazy girl thought as she dove into his head with all 10 fingers. “I like when it gets Carolyn Kennedy blonde. It’s getting so long all over though.”

“Which Kennedy is Carolyn? I don’t know that one.”

“Carolyn Bessette. She married JFK Jr.. She was also a publicist for Calvin Klein, and Working Girl goals for every WASPy girl in my generation and the one right before mine. Her hair was like white. She died in the plane crash with him. I’ll never forget that day. The day after, actually, because the crash was at night and it wasn’t all over the news until morning. We were getting ready to go to a horse show. It was a Saturday. I think it was Salt River, or St. James or something, out east. Mom put the TV on while she had her coffee or whatever, and the news was flipping out. Then she was flipping out. I think she probably cried. The Kennedy’s were like royalty to people like her.”

“Which plane crash?”

“Seriously? You live under a rock. JFK Jr. crashed his own little private plane off Martha’s Vineyard. The theory is that fog and darkness led to him losing the horizon, and then ending up upside down. It took a few days to find the wreckage. The Kennedy family is totally cursed. He had just raised his profile big time with George Magazine and everything, and he was sooooooo hot. For every girl who was obsessed with Carolyn Bessette, he was like...the Holy Grail of hotness.”

“When was this?”

“1999”

“Your memory is ridiculous.”

“That’s why I worry so much about the future,” Christina replied quietly. Her fingers slowed their entanglement of his platinum and gold hair. “I can never forget the mistakes and problems of the past.”

“I know, pretty girl,” André replied just as quietly. He moved his left hand between her legs, just above her knees- not for any sexual purposes, but just to leave tucked in there, in the warmth of her sweatpants, where she might take it as comforting. “How many times have you seen this episode? Can you recite the dialogue?”

“No, but I remember the plot,” she chuckled back, allowing him to go ahead and steer them away from the solemn moment. “I know who did it.”

“Well don’t tell me.”

“K.”

“Does my hair feel nice or does it need coconut oil?”

“It’s very nice.”

“Good. Where is your juice right now if both of your hands are in my head?”

“Balanced precariously on top of your pillow and against my chest. My boobs are like a nice cradle. But if you move, the sheets are gonna be green.”

“Good to know.”

What was I trying to remember to tell Kyle, the equestrian wondered after a minute of silent TV-watching. A glance at her phone on the bed beside her failed to jog her memory. It did make her think of Juan though, because she owed him a text too and was intentionally waiting until a bit later in case he was sleeping in. I miss him. I’m not supposed to miss him when I’m with Schü and everything is great, but I really miss him. Mostly just his face. And his laugh. And what happens to his face when he laughs. He said he’s down with my Mallorca and Ibiza plan, so I’ll see him soon though. Oh, you know what? I should ask him if he knows any Chelsea transfer secrets, like why they haven’t signed ANYBODY yet. And on that subject, I wonder how long boyfriend can keep suppressing his need to tell me all his hopes and fears about his new manager. I don’t know anything about this Bosz character except that his team was a total fucking embarrassment in the Europa League Final. And that he coached the Chelsea Youth B Team AKA Vitesse. No big clubs. Ajax isn’t a big club anymore. And he hasn’t won anything. What were they thinking, Christina groaned inside. At the same time, her insides groaned too.

“Uhoh, is all the poop about to come now?” André teased when he heard the rumble.

“No. It’s just my organs rehydrating. They were severely dehydrated from all the alcohol last night.”

“Uhhuh.”

“Do you think Lucks and Spence went out drinking last night too? They haven’t moved in like 45 minutes. What if they’re dead?” his girl questioned absently before withdrawing her fingers from his unruly locks so that she could have another big sip of her juice. He was correct. She was feeling short on fiber since arriving on the boat. Her juice was full of spinach and kale. She was also feeling pins and needles in her legs because they were stuck between footballer and snoozing terriers.

“I can hear Lucky snoring through the blanket,” the footballer yawned.

“Are you gonna be snoring momentarily too?”

“I don’t know. It’s honestly a tough choice between mutual masturbation and a nap.”

“I’m kiiiiiiiind of leaning toward nap,” Christina admitted. “And can you move for a second so I can put a pillow under my knees?”

There was a nap. It lasted for one and three-quarter episodes of SVU. Then the dogs needed to go out, and Lukas was up, and phones were ringing and vibrating, and the world was trying to butt into Stay In Bed Time. The baby got to eat, the business calls were dealt with, the dogs went for a walk with Espen, and then Christina said she absolutely had to go work out. André wanted to keep up with his routine too. They told Lukas they needed an hour and then they’d watch The Little Mermaid with him. He liked the songs. And he was very understanding. Besides, he had his nanny to play with him, and his Toy Fox Terriers. His dad wanted to play with his mom when her exercising became too distracting for him to do his own.

I did not know when I realized the annoying feeling in my stomach after I talked to her the first day was butterflies that if I invited the girl with the great legs, fantastic ass, tits with potential to be nice if they weren’t held prisoner in a sports bra, small waist, and pizza tummy to be my partner that she would one day have even sexier legs, a tighter ass, the most nom-tastic neck and shoulder and whatever the rest of that space under her face is called area, and a stomach that is so perfectly sculpted that it’s just disgustingly sexy and all I want to do is hold her waist and squeeze it while I fuck her. I should get some kind of special prize for investing early. I mean, look at her. Ridiculous. How does she keep it so that her stomach has JUST the right amount of definition? It would be gross if she had abs like mine. She just has lines. They’re soooooo perfect. I want to pour water on her just to watch it run off in the channels, the footballer reflected while he watched Christina do burpees with free weights.

There wasn’t a lot to work with on the boat, because there wasn’t a lot of room, exercise equipment is heavy, and everything had to be securable no matter the speed at which Lilly XO traveled or the type of seas through which she went. In addition to a limited set of dumbbells, there was a high-end treadmill, a pull-up bar, a punching bag, and some yoga mats. André almost tripped and experienced a tragic treadmill accident multiple times while he stared at his girl’s torso each time she popped up from the floor and lifted her hands and the weights above her head. The definition of her abdominal muscles changed in that process. The horizontal lines appeared at maximum stretch, while in any other position it was just the vertical ones that were most apparent. To him it was like her 6-pack was playing peekaboo. She was all tan, and shiny with sweat, and it was mesmerizing. She worked out in stretchy boyshorts and a sports bra, so he could see pretty much all of her legs too. Her thighs did a satisfying jiggle when she jumped in the air, even though it didn’t seem like she had enough mass to jiggle. It was just her muscles letting go once they’d achieved the jump, and preparing for the landing. He almost marveled at her form.

How does she recreate the exact repetition every time? She never looks tired. She doesn’t do two bad ones because she’s tired and then fix it and do them right again, and she never changes the rhythm even a little bit. Gym Prinzessin is a machine. When was the last time I watched this? I’ve watched her do stretching by the pool, and her on-the-floor ab routine, and the stuff she does for her Swiss cheese ankles. We’ve run together at the house. When was the last time I watched her lift or do her intervals, André asked himself while scanning his memory. Then Christina allowed herself to collapse on the floor instead of jumping again, and wailed something about wanting to die. Her right cheek was on the sealed floor, so she could look out to the water. The gym was also part of the “toy” room, where the scuba gear and some other fun stuff lived, and had a big “door” that could be lowered out into the water like another deck, called the “tender port”. The jet skis were in there too, on a hoist system that made it easy to drop them into the water and pick them back up again. It was open for the view and to let some of the extreme air conditioning out. Water splashed up onto the wood deck each time a boat passed by on its way in or out of the basin.

“Don’t quit now,” André said with an encouraging clap. “You said you wanted to work on your thighs too, for the pain.”

“Yeah. Soon,” came the rider’s breathless reply. She was thinking about what Captain Theo mentioned to her about a regatta for boats like hers only, called the Perini Navi Cup. He said all “the others” went. The Italian manufacturer didn’t make that many boats, of course, and Christina was one of the weird outlier owners. Apparently the other lucky sailors all wanted to get together to see their brethren. The event included races, which the captain said were serious but not like the most hardcore regatta in the world as most of the crews in charge of Perini sailing yachts are there to provide a luxury cruising experience rather than pilot for extreme performance. He said most of the captains were more likely to win hospitality awards than get in the America’s Cup, for example. Some owners apparently brought in different crews and a tactician for the regatta though, to be more competitive. Rosehearty, a 56m boat just like hers but a few years older, was the reigning champion. Captain Theo brought up the Cup as if he was presenting a social opportunity for her- to get to know the other owners, meet the family that built her vessel, see the other boats, and enjoy wine and cocktail-themed parties- but Christina could see a twinkle in his eye too. He definitely wanted to show people what Lilly XO could do. She looked across the harbor at the many smaller sailboats lined up in front of the cafes, and wondered what a boat show would be like, as a way of distracting from the pain in her muscles and lungs. She loved walking around any port to check out the boats. An actual boat show did sound fun. Not moving was also a lot of fun in that moment.

“Want some water?” her workout buddy offered. Unfortunately he also tossed the full bottle to her without waiting for a response, and it arrived just as she rose up on her arms. It clunked her in the back of her shoulder. He meant for it to land near her, not on her. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

“Ow, fuuuuuuck that hurt,” Christina grumbled upon laying back down on her cheek. “Why you do dis, boyfriend?”

“I’m sorry!” André switched off the treadmill and scurried over to her to apologize properly, and to kiss her shoulder. She was sweaty and gross and he regretted the kiss as much as the accident. “Want me to put the bottle on the booboo? It’s cold.”

“No.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll survive, probably.”

“I’m going to get a yoga mat for you so you can do the thigh lifts and things.”

“Why are you trying to be my fitness coach?” She rolled over onto her back before the textured floor could leave an imprint on her face, and because her chest felt uncomfortably smooshed.

“I’m not. I just like watching you exercise. Your body is amazing.”

“Thanks,” Christina yawned. “Yours ain’t too bad either. But your thighs could use some work too. You should do this with me. It’s a shame I don’t have another set of ankle weights.”

André decided he could humor her, and pulled up a mat for himself too. She’d packed both her medium and high resistance bands, and, being a gentleman, he volunteered to use the more difficult one for their various exercises. They did each one on the opposite side so they could face each other and talk. The first one required lying on their side and then propping up on an elbow, using the other hand in front of the body for stability, and then using the strength of their obliques and inner thigh muscles to lift their feet off the floor, with the band around both legs just above the knee. Then the top leg was raised to stretch the band, and lowered back together, in a quick but controlled rhythm. The second version was the equestrian’s least favorite. She lifted the top leg a few inches and then raised the bottom one up to meet it, even more quickly than the other version. It made the “round and juicy” muscle in the middle of the inside of her upper thigh tickle from the inside out. Then came two clamshell exercises- one regular, and one suspended, and the corkscrew lift. They took a stretching break, which André used to simulate holding his girl’s tiny waist between her open knees and fucking her, and then it was on to the things meant to help the tightness in her adductor. She lay on her side again, up on her elbow, with her top leg bent so that her foot was flat on the floor behind the bottom one, which was then lifted up for a two-count and then lowered back down for two. After 30 seconds, she held it in the raised position and moved it up and down just a little, very fast. He could do all of that and hold a conversation about spending another night in St. Tropez as if he were just lying still on the couch. The last test for each leg was circles- lifting that bottom leg straight up, opening it forward, bringing it down, and then pulling it back in before repeating the circuit. Switching the circle in the other direction was the worst. It was much harder to lift the leg when it was open out in front. Annoyingly, the football player didn’t seem to think any of the exercises were difficult. He was never taxed.

“You’re done?” he questioned with feigned surprise when Christina started pulling the Velcro open to take off her ankle weights.

“Yeah. I’m trying not to do anything with my ankle. The burpees are bad enough for it. I want to give it a real break. My knee, too.”

“That’s good, pretty girl. I have a little more to do. You should go have your shower. I’ll be up there by the time you’re done.”

“K. Do you want a post-workout snack or smoothie? I’m probably not gonna take a bath.”

“Nah but save me some hot water, yeah?”

She administered a see-you-in-a-bit kiss and then climbed the stairs to the main deck, stepped down the stairs into the outdoor sitting area, and went inside to assure Lukas that she’d be right with him. He was sticking Play Dough to a dinosaur figurine and couldn’t have cared less. He paid no attention to his dad stopping for a sweaty kiss 10 minutes later either, and that was good for his dad because he was in a hurry to get to the shower.

Good, I didn’t miss her, he thought as soon as he heard he water running. The workout ended abruptly when he realized he wanted to get in the shower with Christina more than he wanted to work on his fitness. She was literally rubbing a soapy washcloth between her butt cheeks when he flung the glass door open, which caused surprise and blushing on her part and smiley laughter for his.

“Why are you here?” she complained.

“Because foreplay.” André shut the door behind him and stepped closer so he could smooch her and grab both breasts at the same time. The shower was rectangular, and big enough that two people could stand completely out of the water streams, or even sit down on the wide tiled ledge designed specifically for that purpose, when the space was used for steam instead of water. Christina was already standing clear of the water to give the conditioner in her hair a chance to work its magic while she scrubbed everything else, including her chest. Soapy breasts were among the player’s favorite kind.

“Okay but you have to get clean too,” his girl warned. “No just rinsing.”

“Do you want to soap up my dick for me?”

“Not especially,” she laughed. “And can you move? I need to rinse the soap out of my butt.”

I’ll help! André switched places with her and then aided by holding her butt cheeks apart so the water would run in between. Usually she does this too, but she bends over a lot and tries to get the water to hit her lower back and then run down. I think it gets all the way to her pussy that way. The water isn’t very warm though. She probably only likes that when it’s really hot. I’ll help with the boobs too, he thought once her back was rinsed and it was time to do the front. He kissed her left ear while helping to push coconut-scented suds down her breasts and stomach. It tasted like lemon and chemicals, from the conditioner. Kissing is really not for the shower, he realized not for the first time. The shower is more about touching. Prinzessin is all roll her eyes and laugh away my foreplay right now. I want her melting into the touching, so that we can do the kissing when we get out.

“Babe, stop with my belly button and wash your hair.” Christina passed him the Kevin Murphy Balancing Wash and swiveled round again to scrub her face with a green paste full of sea salt and avocado, among other things.

Fine. I’ll wash my hair and then I’ll wash my cock and she won’t be able to resist touching me, the player reasoned. He was discounting how turned off she was by flaccidity. In fact, she paid less attention to him than Lukas did when he passed through the lounge. He gave up and waited until they were all done and his wife was about to transition from towel-drying her body to moisturizer application.

“Prinzessin.”

“Wha?”

“Stop for a second,” he requested, polite but firm. He secured a towel around his waist and bent down to hold onto hers with both of his big and newly softened hands, and leaned in to plant his lips on hers. After about three seconds, the rider lifted up on the ball of one foot so she could reach around his neck. The toes of the other foot behind helped her get just a little taller. His hands moved around to her lower back, and then her butt, and he briefly considered lifting her up onto the vanity directly behind her. I doubt she’s in a fuck-me-on-the-bathroom-counter mood, especially since she just got clean and dry. I’m not really in that mood either. I want to be with her, not just fuck her. We got so drunk last night, when we had sex we were so sloppy. Before that I was thinking about being with her and seeing if there was a palpable difference since she decided she’s happy with me again and everything is roses. I want to know if there has been as much missing from our sex life as there was missing from her complexion and her smiles and her laughs. “Come to bed, baby,” he urged when she released her heavy, yolk-like hold around his neck and let her palms slide down over his shoulders instead. It was her choice to break the kiss at the same time, but she kept her face in kissing-range. Her nose bumped into his a little as she lowered to the flat of her feet.

“Yeah,” Christina nodded. André let her out from between him and the vanity where she left her towel falling out of the sink. Her hair was really too wet to get in bed but that wasn’t so important. He wanted her to sit on his lap anyway, so it was just his wet hair dripping onto the pillows he pushed up against the headboard. She settled in the requested spot as soon as he ditched his towel, and he pulled the comforter over his legs and up to her behind, drawing it closer to him around her, so she was sort of enveloped in it but he could still see and touch all her best bits. He held her waist again, because that was what turned him on so much in the first place, and she leaned on his shoulders so that she could kiss him, because that’s what she liked best in that moment. She liked the soft and gentle way he smooched her in the shower and in the bathroom- not hungry, not passive, not invasive- just very soft. It wasn’t indecisive, testing, tentative, or cautious, nor overly confident, demanding, or brusque. It was just right. It was just kissing for the sake of kissing, and loving.

“You’re my best friend,” André muttered when the kiss had to stop because Christina’s hair got caught on the button on her bracelet. “You know when we were separated and you said it felt like you had a hole, like something was missing from yourself?”

“Yes...Why?” she asked dubiously while untangling her hair from her wrist. Then something occurred to her. “I’ve felt like that for most of the last year too, but I didn’t know what was missing. I didn’t know the shape of the hole. The time you’re talking about, the hole was Schü shaped.”

“I know, baby. I know. I’ve had a Chris hole for a long time. You’re part of me, in here.” The player worked his right hand between their bodies so he could pat his heart, and she flinched inside. Her last very serious conversation with Juan was very similar. He held his fist over his heart and said she lived in there even when she wasn’t around. Very quickly, she pictured a silhouette of herself being carved from André’s heart and pushed into the Spaniard’s. She couldn’t imagine there being two of her- enough to go round. She could only really be in one heart at a time. The bit added to the heart couldn’t be stretched or duplicated, but the heart could expand to accommodate more. Hers had grown to fit the André cutout and the Juan cutout too. It was crowded in there for sure, and didn’t feel quite right- kind of like her stomach after all the waffles. But she wanted them both there, and getting them there was satisfying and enjoyable and she didn’t want either of them to go. Meanwhile, the bigger of the two shapes in her heart was watching her face and stroking her sides with his thumb. “I’m very, very grateful that the hole is gone now. I’m very, very grateful to have best friend back.”

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