It's not delivery, it's disappointment. (yaoi)

The Delivery

The Delivery

- "Hello, Baz's Pizza, where we always serve smiles (in 30 minutes of less), Vincent speaking."

Silence. There was nothing for a long while, longer than necessary for Vince to keep the phone call going, but he did so anyways because in all honesty this probably would be the only phone call he'd make tonight and he wasn't the one paying the phone bills anyways. So, he pressed the receiver against his ear using his elbow and kept a notepad in hand, asking every few moments, "Hello? Anyone there?", but there would be no reply.

He must have kept the phone call going for a good twenty minutes before suspecting that this was all some kind of prank call, when the briefest of thumps could be heard, and then deep breathing. Gasping, more like it. This really creeped Vincent out, and they really began to contemplate the severity of hanging up right now between possibly losing his job. Because that's just how much this bizarre call started to get to them.

A voice, "Hey." From what little that Vincent could grasp from this, it was monotone and deep. There was no real meaning behind it, just a simple phrase.

"Hey."

Vincent responded, without really thinking it through, and rephrased his previous line,

"I-I mean, hey, this is Baz's Pizza. What would you like to order?"

Vincent screamed internally at his informal greeting, wanting to claw at his innards for how much of a simpleton he could be at times. At all times.

"Yeah. Sorry about the wait. I'd like an all-veggie pizza, and an um.. what? ... what? Okay, and a pizza with... left sausage.."

This person, from what Vincent could tell from the deep edge of his voice, was male, and sounded a bit conflicted when asking for the second half of his order, and Vince could relate to this, but placed the order down anyways.

"Alright, will that be all?" The man answered hurriedly, all at once,

"Yes, I live at 14th elm street, house 1896 (can't miss it), goodbye."

And then nothing again.

Vince sat there at the stool, blinking, and letting the end ring settle into his thoughts and let it fill him with nothingness for about five minutes. Then he put the phone back on the charger, picked up the order receipt from the register printer, rang it into the pizza chef, and waited patiently for the pizza to be made. The chef stared at him for a few moments, brows raised, and he couldn't really make a response, so the chef turned back to his work and shoved the flattened dough into the open stove.

15 minutes later a steaming pie of greased doe and condiments left the stove and flattened into a pizza box. Instantly, a bell was rung to take up the pizza boxes and Vinny hastily stuffed both pizza boxes, the somewhat normal one and the weird as shit plain left-meat pizza, into a specialized black bag and was off. Well, sort of. He struggled with the chain on his bike, nearly dropped the pizza bag twice, and almost face planted while crossing a street a few blocks from Elm. Lovely.

12 minutes in he came across a dead end street at Elm. Symmetric houses, apart from the occasionally eerie garden gnome or obnoxious plastic flamingos, he searched for the specific home address, exhaustion slowly creeping in. He loathed how much it'd become the epitome of his life, and even more so on how he couldn't very well set up a curfew or schedule for himself due to his 'maintaining' a steady work ethic. Anyways, he eventually settled upon a house, directly at the base of the dead end accolade, Home 1896. 27 minutes.

With 3 minutes to spare, he hurriedly propelled off of his bike, pizza bag securely under arm, and rung the doorbell, much more than necessary. No answer. He rung again, until the timer on his wristwatch read the "5-1 minutes warning". What a sentimental gift that was, another alarm just to strike up his anxiety levels. Glorious.

"Hello?"

His voice rang out louder than he'd anticipated, echoing against the many homes and far off to the exit in group lines where he could no longer hear his voice. 29minutes, 17 seconds, 43 microseconds. He rung the doorbell again, hope beginning to deteriorate and leaving a gut-twisting cramp(ulcers, probably) in his stomach. Just more anxiety of being late. He knocked instead.

And then the heavily painted wooden door creaked ajar.

And this piqued his interest.