The Debt of Guilt [BxB]

1: after

May
1995

"Hey there, what can I get you?"

Peter realised too late that he was stood at the front of the queue. He wasn't sure how that had happened. Moments ago, he was behind a scruffy line of businessmen, itching for a caffeine boost before starting their busy days. Now, he was face to face with the barista, and he suddenly felt extremely intimidated.

"Uh..." Peter's palms began to sweat. He hadn't been in a coffee shop in years. He used to go with his Mum when he was a kid, his head in a book as they waited for his brother to finish swim practice. That was another lifetime ago now. In his juice box days, when 'coffee' sounded like such a grown-up word.

The barista watched him expectantly, and offered a forced smile. He had braids twisting into his hair, and warm hazel eyes. He looked kind; not impatient, not frustrated. "All our drinks are listed above." He prompted, gesturing to a blackboard full of squiggly words Peter could barely make out.

Peter squinted to try and read the overhead menu, "Can I just get a tea?" He asked nervously, desperate for this encounter to be over already.

"Sure." The barista nodded, "One iced tea coming up."

Peter's brows furrowed, "Oh...uh..." he chewed on his lower lip. "Iced?" He queried, "You don't just serve...regular tea...do you?"

It was the barista's turn to hesitate, "Uh...sorry, I don't quite..."

"No worries." Peter dismissed it quickly. He reminded himself that he was in LA, and needed to stop acting so painfully British. "Iced is fine." He was lying. He hated icy drinks, and sugar made his teeth hurt.

The barista's smile returned. Peter wondered if it was difficult, pretending to smile all day. "Perfect. That'll be two dollars."

"Thanks." Peter rummaged through his pockets, fishing out a couple of crumpled notes.

"You visiting?"

"Uh, yeah." Peter hated making small talk with strangers. "Visiting an old friend."

The barista took the money from him and stuffed it into the till, "Welcome to LA." He said cheerfully, "Did you want your drink to go?"

"Uh, yeah, takeaway... Thanks."

He couldn't wait to get out of there. It felt like he couldn't breathe. It was the static air the AC was pumping out. The smell of coffee grounds and sweat. It made him dizzy. Or maybe it was his anxiety. His dread at what was to come.

When he got back outside, into the sunshine, and the sticky heat, he didn't feel much better. He leant against a shop window, clutching his icy plastic cup, watching the world move about around him. Everyone was in shorts and sunglasses. He felt out of place in his heavy jeans, and oversized t-shirt.

Maybe he should go and buy some sunglasses next.

Or maybe he should stop avoiding doing what he came here to do. Seeing who he came here to see.

He noticed a pay phone across the street and forced his legs to carry him towards it, fishing out the folded piece of paper from his pocket. He stared down at the numbers, part of him hoping he had got the phone number wrong. Hoping for a reason to get on the next flight home. Back to the rain and the mud and mundanity of it all.

A bus pulled up in front of him, and he let himself get distracted for a moment by the advertisement plastered across the side of it. It was a man with striking green eyes and a head of wild blond curls, holding what looked like a giant crystal. It was the poster for a new fantasy film Peter couldn't seem to escape; the marketing team were extremely good at their jobs - the posters were everywhere. 'The Dawn of The Cursed', it was called. A stupid name if you asked him.