#thread:

"Goddamn it."

Beau’s palm smacks against the side of the computer like that might somehow undo what he’s seeing. His other hand is still gripping the mop he just used to clean the entire space—because it was the end of the shift. The end of the shift. The chairs were up, the line was closed, and there was absolutely no way he was staring at a delivery order clocked in one minute before the ovens shut down.

He could pretend he didn’t see it. Could claim he’d been in the back, shutting everything off, and it was too late. But, God, this stupid system made refunds such a nightmare—

"Georgia!" he calls, snapping his head toward the dough counter, where his coworker had better be scrubbing down the last of the flour. "Georgia, judgment call!"

@dcrkcloud

Beau doesn’t make a habit of doing favors without a little bullshittery. His time is valuable, after all, and by valuable, he means he usually spends it doing absolutely nothing. And by doing favors, he means dragging his ass out of bed long enough to hold a conversation in a more social context than asking Slater to pick up more Cheerios on the way home from work. But somehow, in the back-and-forth of his and Major's usual bullshit, he’s ended up here, sitting astride his bike outside Seaglass Gardens, the most charmingly pretentious apartment complex in a five-mile radius.

Helmet dangling from the handlebars, Beau flicks the ash from his cigarette and scans the area, vaguely on the lookout for Major. Kids are shrieking over by the playground, a couple of moms in tennis skirts are power-walking past with the kind of energy that says yoga was too easy today, and some guy with an expensive-looking golden retriever side-eyes him like he’s lowering the property value just by existing. Which, fair enough. This looked like a place where the grass is always trimmed, the sidewalks always power-washed, and the raccoons don’t challenge you for dominance on your own balcony like they do at his place.

For once, Ziggy is still.

The world hasn’t ended. He’s still breathing. No one is expecting anything from him in this exact moment, and it’s a relief.

He spends so much time on edge, stretched taut, teetering on the razor-thin line between a nervous breakdown and an aneurysm. His days are spent being exasperated, twitchy, always on the brink of combusting into a mess of frayed nerves. It’s how he functions. How he knows he’s alive. If he’s not sighing, or rolling his eyes, or aggressively gesturing while explaining yet again why something is categorically bullshit, then how did he know his blood was pumping in his veins?

It’s exhausting. But it's necessary. And that’s why moments like this—pockets of time carved out of the noise, the performance, the self-inflicted theatrics—are sacred. The herbalist’s shop is one of those places, where he drifts in when he wants to shed his outer shell and just breathe in the scent of dried lavender and chamomile. The bookshop, though—the bookshop is different.

The bookshop is for disappearing.

Tucked away in a softly-lit corner, his legs propped up, back braced against the wall, Ziggy lets himself fall in between chapters. His fingers ghost the edges of dog-eared pages, his eyes skimming over paragraphs that pull him in like a tide. The words wrap around him, a slow descent into something quieter, slower, distant. For once, he doesn’t have to be anything.

Slender fingers skim through the stack of records with practiced ease, his eyes sharp as each cover flickers by in his periphery. Ziggy’s not wasting time—he knows what he’s looking for. He’s on a mission.

If there’s one thing he picked up from living in Manhattan, it’s how to be pretentious, and nothing screams “artsy dickhead” like forcing your roommate to endure your record collection. What was the point of a Fluance turntable if it wasn’t playing something? What did they mean it was just for decoration? What do you mean you found it at a garage sale and you’re only using it to keep your succulents company?!

The record he’s hunting isn’t in this crate, but Ziggy Minamoto is not a man easily deterred. His clothes, thrifted. His pants, mended. His records, sifted. He’s patient. He knows how to dig, how to find the one thing he wants in a mess of near-misses and knock-off copies. Moving onto the next crate, his gaze snags on a familiar spine. There you are, you son of a bitch. He reaches—

And pinches a hand that is definitely not his own. Ziggy freezes. Shit. Shit. Was that hand even reaching into the crate? Did he just go out of his way to attack an innocent bystander?

His head snaps up, eyes wide as his mouth trips over itself in a full-blown catastrophe of an apology. "Holy shit—I'm so sorry! Oh, shit, I—Sorry, I don’t even... I don’t even know how to defend myself right now."

His forehead thunks against the arcade cabinet, the screen bathing his face in the flickering, mocking lights of Game Over. The muscle at his eyelid twitches.

Rigged fucking game.

Coming back here had been a mistake. He thought it would be fun, a nostalgic little detour, a way to reconnect with something from a childhood mostly spent in voluntary exile. (Okay, maybe that was dramatic. But still.) This place used to be his. His sanctuary. The one spot where he could fold himself into neon-drenched darkness and wipe the floor with every dumbass who dared challenge him. Older kids. Adults. It didn’t matter. He ran this joint. Whether it was slamming Converse onto the DDR pad or obliterating spines in Mortal Kombat, Ziggy had been a king. A machine.

So what the hell happened?! Has he gone soft? No. Impossible.

His hand slams into his pocket, rifling around in desperation. Another round. He just needs one more round. He digs around and pulls out a quarter in triumph.

Wait. This game is fifty cents. "Shit."

His scowl deepens. His pride is at stake, damn it. Who even uses quarters anymore?! This is a scam. This is a travesty. Ziggy looks up, wild-eyed, scanning the arcade like a man on a goddamn mission. Someone’s shifting back from his cabinet, probably trying to get out of the way of whatever meltdown he’s about to have.