Amongst The Stars

Chapter Two

We're Going To Be Friends - The White Stripes "Tonight, I'll dream while I'm in bedWhen silly thoughts go through my head About the bugs and alphabet And when I wake tomorrow, I'll bet That you and I will walk together againOh, I can tell that we are gonna be friends."

Quinn POV

The Past

I let my fingers trail up and down the shelves as I walk through the aisles of Hobby Lobby. I hate coming in here, homophobic ass store. I'm looking for a few sets of Cray-Pas Junior Artist oil pastels for my elementary school-aged art class. We're working on a color theory project, and I love how oil pastels come across so bright.

I'm sure the kids will love that, too.

As I turn the corner to head down another aisle, I almost run smack dab into a worker's back. I let out a high-pitched squeak as I narrowly avoided hitting them. "Oh! I am so sorry. I didn't realize anyone was down here." I look at the person I almost bowled over, lightly admiring the curly mop of hair they're sporting as their arms reach up to place an item back on the top shelf. "You're completely fine!"

I notice a small, fine-line tattoo peeking out from under their short-sleeved shirt on the back of their bicep. It looks to be a bouquet of sorts. Green carnations. Are they an Oscar Wilde fan? Sprigs of lavender. Surely, they know the connotations. Pansies. Oh, they absolutely know what they're doing.

"That's a pretty sick tattoo," I toss out, realizing I've been far too quiet. They finally turn around and look at me, eyes roving over my person, calculating their next move. I can't blame them if those tattoos mean what I think they do; it's always a bit of a gamble revealing that information about yourself.

They bring their hand up to the tuft of hair resting on their chin, eyes darting away from me as they decide. "Thank you!" Okay, not so open. 

"Does it have any kind of meaning?" I know I shouldn't press, but I have to know.

 "Oh," they pause, calculating again, "just that I would be known as a... horticultural lad... if this was the 1920s." I let out a booming laugh. I don't know what explanation I expected, but it definitely wasn't that. "Join the club, brother."

I watch his shoulders sag in relief, and his previously closed-off features morph into the biggest grin I've ever seen. Does he have 67 teeth in his head? How is his smile so big?

"I'm Quinn. They/Them. Big Queer." 

 "I'm Josh. He/Him. Same," he shoves his hand out to shake mine. I bat his hand away.

 "Oh no, Josh. I think we're gonna be friends. I don't shake hands with friends," I say, dragging him into a loose side hug.

I feel him tighten up against me before he melts into it. Fair enough, I am being a little weirdo, but it felt right to hug him. I release him after a moment, and he lets out a small chuckle.

"I've seen you here before, but I try to avoid harassing customers," he chuckles, "Though, I wish I had said something earlier. You seem... interesting." I watch his eyes trail over my carefully curated outfit: a beat-up, cut-off Bob Seger shirt expertly French-tucked into my baggy green corduroy pants, tied together with my trusty Doc Martens loafers. "You know, my brothers and I have a bit of a thing with Old Bobby Boy, but that's a story for another time."

I quirk a brow and let out a chuckle. He talks a mile a minute; I feel like I'm getting whiplash.

"I'd love to hear it sometime," I ran a hand through my messy hair. "Perhaps you will, my dear. Perhaps you will," he fixes me with another megawatt smile before barreling right back into conversation. "But no, yeah. I see you here all the time. You're kind of hard to miss." Is he flirting with me? "I mean, you know. It's just, like recognizes like. And in a town this small, you kinda—" he cuts himself off and rubs a hand down his face, "I'll stop talking. I can be a bit of a rambler." Not flirting.