Scomiche One Shots

Funk Polk

A short silly drabble that I've had drafted for ever. Enjoy, vote, and comment!

-

Scott is quiet, spends his time reading.

His love of books is what influences him to apply to the local bookstore at only sixteen and, seeing as they received few applicants, he was accepted shortly after applying. He stays an employee throughout his junior year, and it's his senior year when he really starts to look the part of a millennial.

It's thanks to his several years squinting at books that he's got a pair of thick frames permanently plastered on his face. He thinks he might look like the generic hipster, his sandy hair tucked under comfortable beanies a good majority of the time, and his clothes definitely fit the mark. Kirstie has always told him he looks like one, at least.

Scott also loves music. More specifically, he is a fan of folk music. It's not what he ever thought he would be into, if he's being honest, but one song led to another, and next thing he knew, he was obsessed with the music genre.

For his eighteenth birthday, his friends all chipped in to buy him a nice record player, jokingly explaining that they thought it fit him and the persona he had built up. They'd each picked out an album they thought he would like, as well, and Scott had almost teared up.

With his new record player and love for music, he was in the market for vinyls. Naturally, in the small Texas town he lived in, there weren't exactly record stores lining the streets. The closest shop was almost a ten minute drive from home, which he wasn't complaint about when he checked the other surround record shops - there was no way he'd be driving an hour to buy a record.

Of course, this meant he needed to frequently shop at the only record store in Arlington.

-

Scott didn't necessarily think himself shy.

Whenever he made his way into the record shop, though, a whole new mood took over him.

The overwhelmingly loud punk music blasted from the speakers that were scattered throughout the small store, providing headaches for those who were not particularly fans of the genre. Scott didn't entirely mind it, but he would have surely preferred a lower volume level.

Other than that, he loved the environment. The store had a classic feel to it, obviously. The vinyls lining the shelves and even the walls were beautiful, if you were to ask Scott. The album cover art, the posters, even the shelves, all screamed Scott's aesthetic, and, if he wasn't at the bookstore, he could always be found here.

His favorite part, however, was the cashier, Mitch, as his nametag read.

He was a little punk guy, tatted, pierced, and absolute fire.

His hair was dyed a vibrant purple shade, a simple undercut with bangs swooped to the side. Mitch's features were sharp, angular, even, but rounded out and softened whenever he smiled. He had a snarkiness to him, and his head bobbed subtly whenever a punk song he particularly liked came on in the little shop. He wore black a good majority of the time, and some clothes were even ripped up. Scott figured it was either to make him appear edgier or to just fit his natural aesthetic.

His septum was pierced, as well as his ears, and he wore them proudly. Similarly, he had several tattoos covering his arms, and he often excitedly explained to customers what they meant or why he had gotten them.

Mitch was so proud in who he was, and it simultaneously inspired Scott and gave him fucking anxiety.

They had only ever shared polite conversation as Scott checked out, exchanging pleasantries and little more. Their encounters rarely extended outside of musical discussion, since Scott was never sure what to talk about, if he were even able to even talk to Mitch outside of a quiet, "thank you."

Mitch was always kind, providing artist suggestions, unsurprisingly referring Scott to some punk artists that he thoroughly enjoyed. Scott always smiled, promising to listen to them one day, but he was always lying. Punk wasn't his thing, anyway.

It was one day though, when Scott had been checking out yet another folk band's album, that Mitch had caught him off guard.

"Oh," he had smiled, baring his pearly whites as his eyes crinkled sweetly. "You should definitely check out Avriel and the Sequoias' new album - I think you'd like it."

And Scott falters, his hand flutters as he reaches into his pocket for his cash. "Wait," he stutters, "he's a folk artist."

Mitch blinks up at him, the vinyl only halfway into the bag, his movements halted. "Yeah?" He says.

"Just - I just," Scott takes a deep breath, "you always recommend punk artists."

Mitch smiles, "yeah, and you always buy folk music."