Gods & Monsters

X

The rest of the day is salvaged, at least.

After the awkward aftermath of Jacob's less than commendable remark, things do get a bit silent between them as Troye perches back on his stool at the register, Jacob awkwardly gliding back towards the long rows of vinyls. Occasionally he glances in his direction, but mostly Troye just reads in his textbooks, his pencil occasionally tapping along to whatever song is playing. It's silent and jagged enough, the entire atmosphere so completely altered, that Jacob has just firmly made up his mind to get the fuck out of there—when the bell above the door dings and two customers walk inside.

They're just a pair of kids wearing Converse and Nirvana t-shirts, attempting to grow out their hair and face the beginning stages of teenage rebellion. Jacob can't help but smile a bit fondly at them. Good times.

They, of course, try to buy utter shit, though.

"Sum 41," Jacob reads blankly, spying unabashedly over their shoulders as they make to pay for the album clutched in the blonde one's hand. "You can't be bloody serious right now. What are we, eleven? Have we no self respect?"

They both turn around, taken aback and blinking in surprise, at the same time Troye lifts his head, his hand already reaching to take the album. A pleasant shade of shock is splattered across his features.

It creates an oddly satisfied feeling in Jacob . Shock is better than disappointment. Being stared at is better than being ignored.

So Jacob keeps going, feeling Troye's eyes on him.

"Now, now, kids. Let's put rubbish back with the rubbish, yes?" Gently but firmly, he plucks the album from their slackened, startled hands, their eyes wide as they continue to gape at him wordlessly. Such little fawns. Jacob grins. "Have you ever heard Iggy Pop?" he questions kindly.

Swallowing, both kids shake their heads simultaneously.

"Ah. Thought as much. Come along, young 'uns. We've much to learn," he says, gently coaxing them towards the scratched up vinyls, only briefly catching Troye's eye—which is filled with tamped down laughter mixed with pure horror.

It's fucking brilliant.

Eventually, the kids leave, a Lou Reed album tucked underarm ("Really sick, thanks!" they'd exclaimed happily, and Jacob felt like Spiderman in that moment), leaving Jacob to smile smugly at Troye, who still sits behind the counter. Only difference is, is that now his hands are covering his eyes, his grin slowing splitting his face as soon as the door shuts, laughter slowly billowing from his lips as he shakes his head, skin pink.

Any residual awkwardness is long since forgotten, and any other reservation Jacob  may have felt has all but evaporated upon seeing the shaking of Troye's shoulders. And, okay, yeah—he's slightly relieved Troye's amused rather than genuinely pissed off.

"Jacob!" he scolds through his shocked laughter, and he finally removes his hands. His eyes are huge, his teeth poking out from bright lips and a gaping mouth. "You can't just talk to customers like that!" It's somewhere between 'chastising' and 'delighted.'

Jacob beams like the morning sun, puffing his chest just a bit.

"And why the hell not?" he asks evenly, but the twitch of his cheeks shatters his attempts at unaffected composure. "I was helping them in the long run. Kids these days—you know. Need a bit of guidance from their chiseled elders."

At this, Troye bites his lip (presumably to hold back a laugh) as he repeats in a slightly strangled tone, eyes positively gleaming with suppressed giggles, "Did you just refer to yourself as a 'chiseled elder'?" he questions.