Free Fall || Dylan O'Brien Fanfiction

one: antique shop

A/N
Hey it's Grace. Here's another DOB fanfic for you guys. Enjoy. 🌚

Dedication: primsbraids

I know I shouldn't, but I do it anyway. I don't think anyone cares. Anyways, they're my lungs.

Yes, maybe it's a little weird to smoke just so I can exhale and have smoke come out if my mouth. But I like to watch it. I'm fascinated by it. How it blows away when it's caught by the wind, or how it eventually disappears into the atmosphere, wether you want it to or not.

Smoke is uncontrollable, it's untamable. It does what it pleases. I like to think of myself that way. Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much.

I toss the smoldering bud into a nearby ash tray.

-

"What will you give me for $50?" asks the man. He's a bit older.

I glance up at him from my seat on the park bench, unamused. "I'm not a prostitute, shithead," I snort.

"You could be, with that outfit," he replies. He reaches for my hair. I don't see what he means. I'm not trying to look like a prostitute. My outfit doesn't even show cleavage.

Men these days.

I snap my head up to look at him, hiding my alarm with an eye roll. His hand stops halfway to my face. Maybe it's the look in my eyes. I can't be sure. "You look like you just spent the past week scrubbing down sidewalks," I tell him before I can stop myself. Hurt registers on this guy's face, and he drops his hand to his side. Then he walks off.

"It's true," I mutter. I can't hold my tongue for anything. I wasn't even trying to be rude. It just happened.

I look down at my lap. The book I had been reading sits open, welcoming me to its beautiful, fake world. I caress the pages, not caring how strange I look. That kind of thing never crosses my mind.

Plenty more pages for me to read, I think with a smile.

-

I push the door to the antique shop open. It's time for my seven hour shift. Fun.

I can't really complain, though. My shift starts at 2. The morning shift starts at 7am.

I take my seat behind the counter and pull out my sketchbook. Many of the pages are filled with elaborate doodles, all in pencil or pen. I do have some drawings, but I like to draw strangers, and many of them leave the place they were standing before I finish drawing them. This leaves several drawings incomplete, and once the people gone I can never seem to remember their faces or what was in the background. I guess I could solve this problem by asking people if they would model for me, but it defeats the point.

Plus, they'd want me to pay them.

I hear the bell ring, signaling that someone has entered the antique shop. I glance up towards the door, expecting some older person to greet me, but instead I see a young guy, probably my age, looking distressed. He's staring at me intently, and something flickers in his eyes before they go back to worried. One word comes to mind.

Longing.

I wonder if he's longing to talk to me, or if it's something else. I raise my eyebrows at him and wait for him to speak. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair.

"Do you guys have gift cards? I need to get something for my mom and I think she would like it here," he spits out. He actually gets spit on my face. I sigh and wipe it away with the sleeve of my thin jacket.