lovebug

in which daeron flees his home and family, trading the privilege of his surname for the anonymity of working a dead-end diner job. his carefully crafted isolation is broken when a pretty customer starts getting close enough to notice the parts of himself he's been trying to leave behind

photographs by Stephen Shore

music by The Shins - New Slang

summary: daeron flees his home and family, trading the privilege of his surname for the anonymity of working a dead-end diner job. his carefully crafted isolation is broken when a pretty customer starts getting close enough to notice the parts of himself he's been trying to leave behind

or

daeron works at papa's cheeseria lmaooo enjoy chapter one

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The smell of frying oil was making him sick. He looked over at the clock, which rushed ever so slightly. 12:24. Minus the three minutes it was ahead. He could go out for his break in 9 minutes. Great. Just in time to finish the order.

A kid’s head popped up through the pass. 

“Hey, could we have some napkins?” the teen asked with little regard to the tone of his voice. Daeron held back an annoyed sigh.

“Right there on the counter,” he replied rigidly, pointing to the napkin holder right in front of the kid, who grabbed some and went back to his table without a word. The blond’s eye twitched.

He suddenly remembered every time that he too had, as an entitled teenager, disregarded service workers, or downright mistreated them. This was his payment for that, he supposed. He finished plating the sandwich and fries, placing them on the counter and ringing the bell. 

Looking around, he saw that the woman at table 4 had no intentions of getting her food herself, so he begrudgingly took the plate and exited the kitchen. The door swinged closed behind him as he carried the order, careful so as to not spill any fries this time. He hoped his boss would hire another person soon. The previous server quit early into Daeron’s time at the diner, so he had been managing all the work in his shift for the past three months.

Not that it was that hard, with how little traffic Papa’s Cheeseria got these days. Probably because of the cancer-in-processed-cheese scare among Facebook moms a few years back. He recalled his aunt Jena cutting his cousins off from store-bought pizza because of it. Valarr’s 10th birthday had these cottage cheese concoctions their personal chef had cooked up.

He knocked on the ajar door of Louie’s office, where the old man was stationed. He was snoozing at his desk, but saw when Daeron popped his head in. He motioned to the pack of cigs in his hand. “Going for the break,” he mumbled.

His boss frowned for a moment, frustrated that he would have to take over the dead restaurant for twenty minutes. He looked at his watch, and upon seeing that it was time for his break, waved Daeron off in approval.

He redid his man bun while stepping over the scattered boxes of Summer Luau decorations in the back room. Those would for sure qualify as cultural appropriation, he thought as he opened the door with his elbow. Fresh air, finally.

Well, as fresh as you could get in the trashed, tire-stained parking lot. Better than the smell of dirty sunflower oil and cancer cheese, anyway.

Daeron Targaryen had never considered himself a prideful or spiteful person, but there were no other explanations for his behaviour. His father was one of the wealthiest men in Westeros, his surname the equivalent to a black card in any respected institution. He had a diploma from a top University, with a job at his uncle and father’s company lined up. And he was currently smoking through a bitter pack of Iron Lungs, probably imported illegally through the Ironman’s bay, deposited at a port in the middle of the night, to end up at the sketchy corner shop in the bumfuckville town he had drunkenly settled in almost six months ago. All because of a single fight with his father.

At least that was what Maekar would say.

The truth was, Daeron would take this greasy, dead-end job and a slightly moldy studio apartment in a drive-through part of the Reach over the alternative any day.

Call it rich boy entitlement, sure. On paper, he would always have money to fall back on, if he so decided. But that would involve begging his way back into his father’s good graces, and that’s where the aforementioned pride would come into play.

He had needed an escape. At twenty-four, Daeron felt none of the freedom adulthood had promised him. He had finished the business school his father had insisted on, albeit with two years of overstay, thanks to his drinking problem. 

When he declared he would be enrolling in the art school after that, a prize his father had been dangling over his head at every intervention and family event, the father and son duo got into a fight.

Daeron found the email declining his acceptance letter in the sent part of his account by accident, and far too late. He packed his bag and left without a word, leaving his bugged phone behind.

A week later, he bought a YiTish Xiaomi Mi 6, and, after equipping it with a temporary sim card, texted his little brother Egg. He let the family know that he was fine, but needed to step away from everything for a while, and asked not to be sought out until he was ready. Ready to finally do his duty of joining the company, or ready to forgive his father, he himself did not know. 

He was sure they knew where he was. His great-uncle was the CEO of the most renowned security company in Westeros, and the family had ears everywhere. It rendered his seclusion to this little town useless, but he tried not to dwell on things that were out of his control.

Upon careful consideration as to what he should do with the blood money on his account, as he called it, he got drunk one night and spent it all on random GoFundMes. Down to zero. Congrats to a Pete for getting his DnD prop business off the ground!

He was worried he would start drinking again once he ran away. It didn’t turn out to be that bad. It was social, he reassured himself, arguing that the only place to meet people in towns like these was the bar. He tried limiting himself to two nights a week. It worked for the most part. 

He still kept his sobriety chip. Only because he had grown used to fidgeting with it in his pocket. The memory of the while-lid, luxury AA meeting room he was forced to be in once a week for the year prior held no nostalgia. Vodka tonic did. 

He took a drag of the cheap cig, the warm wind blowing the smoke back in his face. His foot was tapping repeatedly, a habit he picked up during his road to sobriety. Payday was two days away, he calculated in his head. He had enough cash for one more pack, two if he sneaked some food out of the restaurant. Though he had no desire to eat the slop they sold here, after months of making it every day. 

He felt stiff, like he had just woken up. He thought about going for a run tonight. The small river that ran through the town was actually nice. A bit polluted, but beggars can’t be choosers. Then he remembered the last time he went on the run at sunset there. The view was beautiful, but the mosquitos absolutely ate him up. He would have to pick up a repellent at the pharmacy beforehand, but then he wouldn’t have the money for another pack. He opened the one in his pocket, assessing if it would hold him over for two days.

His break was quickly over, and he was back in the kitchen. Louie was bent over a sandwich, grilling it to perfection while giving unsolicited life advice, as all old men loved to do. 

“This is the most important part, Darren,” he nagged. “I hope you aren’t overcooking them. That would be terrible for business.”

What business, Daeron thought, but held it back and mumbled out a, “No sir.”

The boss filled the sizzling silence again.

“What do you do outside of work, son? You got yourself a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Daeron chuckled, “No, no girlfriend or boyfriend, sir.”

“No?” the man mused.

“Business first,” he imitated his father, unbeknownst to Louie.

“Well that’s no good,” he shook his head as he flipped the grilled cheese. “Love first, boy. Then everything else,” he scolded in good nature.

Daeron thought about ending the conversation there, but he found the old man’s advice very amusing. It reminded him of his own grandfather.

“Haven’t really met any girls in this town yet, if I’m being honest,” he confided in the man. “I feel like everyone’s either twelve or sixty four.”

True, towns like these had little to offer to young people. Teenagers usually left for university and never came back, leaving their mothers alone and sad. He felt it when he passed older ladies on his runs, the women smiling at him in surprise, happy to see a fine young man for the first time in a while.

Louie chuckled at his comment, “Of course there’s girls. You young people just have your faces glued to your phones, you walk right by each other!” Daeron rolled his eyes. Just as his boss finished the order he was making, he smiled under his mustache and pulled Daeron closer to the pass window.

“There’s a girl ‘round your age right there,” he pointed to the customer at table five waiting for her meal. “Go on,” he pushed, “Bring her her food, tell her she’s pretty. Boom, you got yourself a girlfriend!” He patted him on the back in encouragement and turned back to go to his office, leaving Daeron to deliver the food.

He wanted to scoff his brain out at the notion of flirting with a random girl who walked into the restaurant. It had the same energy as old people thinking you can just send an email to a CEO of a company and get a job there. Though he probably could, but that wasn’t the point.

The girl, he thought as he walked out with her sandwich, was far too pretty to even be eating in this shithole. He hadn’t seen her around before, and it was true that she was the only girl around his age he had seen thus far. The last thing she deserved was for him, greasy and sweaty, in his silly work uniform, to give her a side of unsolicited creepy compliments with her crappy food. He placed the plate on the table with a polite, “Enjoy your meal,” and let the thought go. She thanked him with the same practiced politeness and turned to her food. He went back into the kitchen.

That evening, he decided to fire up Tinder again. He hadn’t used it since his early days in uni. Who knows, maybe there were girls nearby and they were just hiding. Or they just didn’t congregate in the run-down diner.

He chose a few photos that would do. One selfie of him and Valarr, with the latter cut out. Sorry cuz. One photo of him painting Rhae took for a snap. He was shirtless, so what. He looked good. Though his abs weren’t that defined anymore. Three more generic photos of him, which revealed nothing about his previous way of life. He filled out the bio, going for a basic catchphrase, not much thought in it. The shirtless painting photo should speak a thousand words. 

He prepared for swiping, hoping to find a date nearby. He had a free day to fill tomorrow. And, truth be told, he missed casual dating, not having done it in a while.

46 miles away, 70, 142, 64… There really are only children and old people in this town. He threw the phone to the coffee table and prepared for the run, skipping the bug repellant.

He spent his free day in the apartment he was renting, bedrotting and doomscrolling. He painted a little in the evening, accompanied by some wine. It was the first time he drank that week.

The next day, after running out to grab a pack with his delivered salary, he worked his usual tempo. One or two customers would come in an hour. Some chose their own ingredients, some asked for the daily special. Today it was the bird buster, as Louie had decided to call it. After making it once, with the help of the recipe of course, Daeron’s stomach decided that it was just what it needed to get over the slight hangover, so he decided to make it for himself when the restaurant seemed quiet.

He sat on the counter, feet dangling, probably breaking a few health regulations. Louie had gone out for the day, stating an emergency, so he could break a rule or two. It also meant no break out back, so he had to eat here. 

Just as he was basking in the taste of chicken and ranch on his tongue, the door opened, snapping him out of his intimate makeout session with the sandwich. He hurried to get back down, placing the food on a napkin as the customer approached.

“Sorry, let me just-” he jittered, rounding to the door to get the order.

It was the girl from two days ago, he noticed once he took his position. He wiped the ranch he had slobbered around his mouth. Embarrassing.

“What can I get for you?” he looked at her finally, meeting her amused gaze. 

“Hi, um, could I have a-” she ordered slowly, confirming his theory that she wasn’t a regular here. “Rosemary bread.” She seemed sure about that. “Swiss cheese, and sausage,” she ordered, almost as if she was asking him.

“Uhh, can you get more than one cheese?” she questioned.

“Sure,” he replied. You couldn’t.

“Okay, I’ll have swiss and gouda, sausage, tomato,” he wrote everything down, having time to scribble little drawings of the toppings with her delayed choosing. “And, um, jalapeños, with the onion sauce, please.” Fuck, that sounded good too.

“Fries?” he asked.

“No thank you. Make that to go.”

“Alrighty,” he got to work.

To his horror, she stood by the counter the entire time, essentially watching him prepare the food. He never worked well while being watched. Unbeknownst to him, she wasn’t waiting to catch an error in his sandwich-making, but was instead gathering her courage to start small talk.

He had to stand near her to add the sauce, an opportunity she took.

“Hey, um, so,” she started nervously, “I just moved here,” she paused when his eyes met hers as he worked, looking for any annoyance or judgement in them. When she didn’t find any, with a nod from him, she continued. “Are there any places you would recommend?" she asked finally.

Daeron tried not to butcher her sandwich, think of an answer for her, and not laugh at the question at the same time. The concrete wall by the creek, he wanted to joke. Instead, he tried to form a coherent sentence.

“Um, to be honest, I moved here recently as well,” he confessed. “Haven’t seen much. I’m pretty sure there’s not much to see anyway,” he chuckled, and met her eye when he felt the chuckle come off as cruel. 

“Really?” she replied with genuine interest at their commonality. “What brings you here?”

His intrusive thoughts told him to stick his head into the fryer full of hot oil. Only a spoiled brat like him could complain about a pretty girl asking him questions about himself, especially after his failed attempt at Tinder. He had little time to come up with a lie, so he chose to be vague.

“I’m not really sure.” When he saw her raised brow, he decided to add, “Just always dreamed of working at a diner that only serves one type of food in a town of four thousand people, you know?”

She chuckled at that, the smile reaching her eyes. “I bet.”

He remembered small-talk etiquette, “How about you?”

“Yeah, same, for work,” she fidgeted with her keys, leaning on the counter. “I’m a teacher. English and History. Well, just English, but the school doesn’t really care about qualifications, so I got both. Fifth graders.”

Daeron pretended to shiver, thinking of all the kids from that school who would come to the diner. He made her laugh again.

“They’ve been fine so far,” she reassured, before going back to asking him about himself, feeling like she was talking about herself too much. “So, where are you from?”

He was leaning on the other side of the counter now, waiting for the sandwich to grill. He lied on instinct, though there was no reason to. 

“Starfall.”

“Ooh, a Dornishman,” she mused, coming across as awfully flirty. He didn’t know if that was her intent, but he played aloof, shrugging his shoulders.

“My mum’s side, yeah,” the attention felt nice. Perhaps Louie was right in pushing him to talk to her. “You?”

“Oh, I’m from Gulltown. Not as exotic as Starfall.” He felt kinda bad for lying. “But hey, we’re both from mountainous coastal cities,” she offered. He smiled at her making comparisons, feeling his cheeks blush a little.

He didn’t know what to say next. He was usually good with women. There wasn’t an event during the past few years to which he didn’t have a date. From other students to fashion models, Daeron had definitely pulled.

But that was rich Daeron. Trust fund Daeron. Daeron who could afford to be a prick. He didn’t know how to impress a girl over a slimy counter while oil sizzled in the background. He was pretty sure there was no way to do it. That thought might’ve been influenced by his brother Aerion, who insisted that only men with money got girls. It felt right in the moment, as he stumbled over what to say.

“I’ve been so disoriented here. Everything is so… flat,” she complained, continuing to offer him opportunities to respond.

“Yeah, it’s like,” he tried to think of something clever to say, “a pancake for dinner,” fucking idiot.

“A pancake for dinner?” she repeated with a laugh at his weird comparison. He stood by his words.

“Yeah. After work, when you’ve only got pancake mix and tap water on hand. No syrup. No butter. Rawdogging them at 10pm while you reconsider your life choices.”

She continued to giggle at his words, leaning on the counter more in bewilderment. Shaking her head, she said, “That’s the stupidest analogy I’ve-,” she tried getting her words out through the laughter, “-ever heard.”

He broke into laughter softly at the sound of her own. Her giggles were infectious. “You’ve never done it?” he asked rhetorically, tilting his head. She only managed to shake her head, clutching her chest in an attempt to silence her laughter. It only worked to entertain him more, his own cackles growing louder. Laughing like two lunatics.

She wiped her eye, which had begun to water, calming herself a bit.

“Oh my gods. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day,” she explained her fit, though he did not mind at all. It was more than welcome. It’s been a while since a girl laughed at his jokes anyway. He confirmed that she was good, flipping the sandwich.

“But for the record,” she added, “I’ve never made bad pancakes.”

He raised a brow, “Yeah? I’d love to try them,” slipped out before he could think about it. Turns out his default setting with girls was to flirt. A nice little souvenir from his bar crawl days.

She smiled, that initial shyness returning. “I’m sure you make better pancakes than I do, though,” she motioned around him, pointing out his job. He raised his brows.

“Yeah, I don’t think making sandwiches at Papa’s translates to any culinary skills.”

“You shouldn’t talk down on your abilities,” she teased.

“You’re right. I’m above this. Went to the Culinary Institute of Sunspear for this shit.”

“Really?”

“No??”

They broke out into laughter again. Two insane strangers, for sure. It was nice.

He smelled something burning and jolted out of it.

“Shit!”

They looked at the sandwich he flipped onto a paper plate, the dark brown side staring at them. Her laugh slipped through her restraint in small snorts this time, until he comically pinched the bridge of his nose. Laughter again.

“I’ll make you a new one,” he assured.

“No, it’s fine!” “I’ve gotta.” “It’s fine, trust me.” “It’s completely burnt.” “I’m in a hurry.”

They bargained, and he searched for anything genuine in her eyes, skeptical that she would want to eat this.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, 100%” she said as she opened her wallet. He raised his hand as he placed the paper bag on the counter.

“It’s on the house.”

“No.”

“I am not letting you pay for that.”

She sighed, giving him a tight-lipped, but grateful smile. She placed a bill in the tip jar instead, which he wanted to argue against as well, but failed at the certainty in her eyes. He nodded at her as she turned to leave, at a loss for words.

“Enjoy your meal,” he replied as he did last time, not knowing what else to say. She repeated her thanks as well, this time with a smile. It was a pretty smile.

A drawing of Princess Naerys from my fic on Ao3 :)