the boy on manic street

One

Pete's POV

It was the usual day at work.
I smiled, I earned my money, I did the norm.

"Hey, Pete, I'm going to close up now, 'kay?" The manager, Adam, calls to me from the entrance to the Staff Lounge.

"Okay! I'll be right out," I smile, waving to him, "See ya tomorrow, probably." I shut down the lights of my aisle and lock everything up, dropping the keys on Adam's desk. He went to the back room to most likely look for his bag. I grab my own bag and coat and snow beanie, ready to exit when a noise erupts from the snack aisle, followed by a series of curse words.

Not being that scared of a dark grocery store, I venture down the aisle, squinting to find a guy about my age stumbling to pick up his fifth bag of Munchos while he already bears two six packs of Mountain Dew and other various snacks. His thick maroon scarf gets in the way of the lower half of his face and his glasses are a slight bit foggy. There's a black fedora lying on the ground behind him, so I assume it must have fallen while he dropped the bag of chips.

I walk forward, making sure he notices my presence, or else he'll probably drop everything else, "Hey, you know the store is shutting down, right?"

Blue eyes dart up at me and I swear I see a flash of depression, but it's quickly covered up by a worried look, "Yeah, I'm just really struggling right now."

A pang of sympathy shoots through my chest. Why? He only dropped a couple of snacks. I grab his fedora for him, and take two bags of pretzels under my arm, then grab the container of salsa from his right hand and a pack of Mountain Dew.

"Thanks man," He smiles an actual thankful smile, unlike most people, and I hand him his fedora, which he plops onto the cotton-candy like brown hair sitting on his head, "Can you check these out for me, please?"

I sigh, figuring I can't say no to him. He looks like he's struggling more than dropping snacks in the middle of a grocery store at 12am on a Friday. "Sure, why not?"

As we walk back to the check-out aisles, a flash of worry comes over me. The entrance light is off. That's funny, it would only be off if Adam left . . .

I curse, running to the entrance doors, hopelessly yanking them, "Locked." I chew on my thumb nail, turning to the guy worriedly, "You wouldn't happen to have a phone-?"

His eyes widen, "Yeah! Yea-" He sets down the groceries on a nearby check-out belt, shoving his hands into his pockets and coming out empty-handed. My stomach drops. "Crap. I must've left it in my car charging."

I groan, rubbing my face, "Mine's been dead, I forgot to plug it in last night. We're screwed. The only other phone is in the Staff Lounge and I'm assuming it's locked as well."

"This is all my fault, I'm sorry," He groans as well, then tries to perk up, "Are you sure it's locked?"

"Positive. Try it yourself," I sigh, "And it's not your fault, don't say that."

He yanks on the doors, then tries the Staff Lounge, then comes back to me, "No use. If I wasn't buying all this junk food . . . " The guy rubs his eyes with the heels of his sweater covered hands. I look around, which is kind of pointless, as it's near pitch black.

"Well, let's set your groceries on an aisle and we can check them out in the morning, 'kay?" I help him set the rest of the pile of food onto one of the belts, then think. "Where are we going to sleep?"

"Sleep?" He laughs, "I'm not sleeping in here."

"Well, I'm not just going to stand here and hope the doors open magically," I fold my arms, "Let's just figure out a place to 'sleep'." I make quotation marks with my fingers.

He sighs, "Okay, fine . . . I've always liked the smell of fruit."

I laugh, trying to wrench my way out of being frustrated, "It's wet over there. Freshly mopped. Anyways, how about the shoe area? It has a couple of couches, I think."

"I guess so, but the heat better stay on, or I'm going to turn into a stumpcicle," He shudders, rubbing his arms.

I shoot him a confused look and he explains while we make our way through the store, "See- my last name is Stump."

"Oh," I nod, "Okay, cool. I'm Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III. But you can call me Pete. What's your first name, Stump?"

"Haha that's a long name, and I'm Patrick," He smiles a toothy grin, white teeth glinting through the dark. I feel something tingly go through me. No. No. I am not getting attracted to this guy. I just learned his name, for God's sake.

"Nice to meet ya, Patrick," I smile back.

Once we arrive at the couches, Patrick immediately calls the one closest to a rack of shoe boxes, having no attraction towards the one facing the aisle. He takes off his scarf, folding it up neatly and setting it on the arm.

I sink into the leather couch, a squeaking noise erupting around me from my weight. Patrick giggles, "Excuse you, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III."

I laugh, "Shut up, decapitated tree."

He feints a hand over his heart, "Excuse me?"

I grin, placing my backpack as a mock pillow against the arm, "I'm tired."

Patrick lies down, folding his hands behind his head, "I'm not. I basically lazed around all day . . "

"Why's that?" I ask, trying to spark a conversation, even though I could pass out in a second. Something about Patrick intrigues me and I want to know more about him.

He shrugs through the darkness, deciding to pull his coat off and use it as a pillow, taking his fedora off and setting it on the ground with his glasses, "The other day my girlfriend dumped me 'cause I came out to her. I guess it isn't that big of a deal, I was going to end it afterwards, but not as rude as she did."

"As in . . . came out to her?" I double check, just wanting to make sure.

There's a pause, then he eventually responds, "Yep."

"Hey, dude, you don't have to beat yourself up about it, or be ashamed of that, okay?" I sit up, wanting to make sure he doesn't think he's trash just because of what someone thinks about him. Patrick's one of the most polite people I've met, and we've known each other for a half hour or so.

I hear him roll over, then a light snoring sound, and figure he's gone to sleep. I sigh, staring at the ceiling. I wish I could've told him. When's the next chance I'll be able to?

-
i'm sorry but i had to make one. it's gonna be short . . . i think.
and i'll probably never edit it 'cause my laziness level is 11/10.