Chapter Text
“I wanna buy some of your weed.”
“Well, that’s one way to start a conversation.” Lucien sighs, looking the angry, acne-ridden mess of a kid standing in front of him. First of all, where the fuck are this kid’s parents, but more importantly, why did this idiot think he could just waltz up to people and demand weed?
Ernest rolls his eyes. “I’m not here for a lecture on manners. Just give me some weed.”
Lucien swallows back the remark on how clearly he needs them to address a more pressing issue. “I’m not selling weed to a fucking nine-year-old.”
Ernest’s face twists into a scowl, and he puffs his chest out indignantly. “I’m fourteen, you dickweed.”
Lucien scoffs. “Same difference, man.” He stares the twerp down, looking for an insecurity for him to hit on, when he realizes that the dunce looks familiar. Isn’t he Mr. Vega’s son? “Besides, I’m not selling weed to the teacher’s kid. You’re probably just trying to get me busted.” With a toss of his head, he turns his attention to his phone. Coffee Guy said he’d be here ten minutes ago, and still no sign of him. And here Lucien went to all the trouble of changing up his meet points to throw off the cops. That’s what he gets for being nice, he guesses.
Ernest pops directly into his line of sight, nearly knocking his phone out of his hand. He bares his teeth, as if that could make him look threatening under all that acne and baby fat. “Either you’re gonna sell me some, or I’m gonna kick your ass and take it by force.”
He can’t be serious. “You couldn’t kick my ass if you tried.”
“Try me.” Is it really necessary for him to get further in Lucien’s face as he says that? Does he think it’ll make him look more intimidating? Because the only thing intimidating about this kid is his breath. He must live off of Pizza Rolls.
With a roll of his eyes, Lucien pushes Ernest out of his face. “Yeah, I’m not exactly in the mood to get arrested over punching a toddler.”
Ernest stumbles back, and for a second, he looks like he’s about to come back swinging, but he quickly deflates.
Lucien deliberately turns away, but he still watches the kid out of the corner of his eye. He’s gone back to slouching, which can only mean one of two things: he’s giving up or he’s about to start begging. Lovely.
Ernest touches Lucien’s arm to get his attention. Once he has it, hescratches at the back of his neck and ducks his head. “Come on, man. I promised my friends I’d hook them up.”
Lucien, however, refuses to budge. Or even give eye contact, for that matter. “I’m sure if you show them your collection of Yu-Gi-Oh cards, they’ll be just as impressed.”
Ernest scowls again. It seems to be a well-crafted skill of his, only made stronger by his constant mood swings. “Yu-Gi-Oh went out of style, like, ten years ago, dude.”
Lucien rolls his eyes. “Go home, kid.”
He re-counts the cash, only half-listening to the grumbling Ernest is doing, when a large raindrop smacks him right in the forehead.
“Fuck.” Well, there goes the rest of his clientele for the day. But maybe it’s for the best. He’s almost out of oregano. “You’re still here?”
Ernest scowls—is that the only expression his face can make?—and tugs his hood further over his head, so his eyes are barely visible. The rain beats down on his head. “Don’t rush me, asshole.”
Lucien pockets his earnings and, much to his dismay, feels something inside of him soften. “You’re walking home?” Obnoxious little shit he is, Lucien’s dad taught him better than that.
“How’s a nine-year-old supposed to drive?” Ernest mocks.
Lucien swats the back of his head as he walks by. “Be less of a dick or you’re walking home in the rain.”
That shuts him right up.
Ernest trails silently behind Lucien, slouching into the passenger seat and disregarding his driver completely.
Lucien plugs his auxiliary into his phone, gearing up his playlist and his car gets going. Even with his weed sales on the side, he was only able afford the least functioning car he’s even seen in his life. It takes it a while to get going, and actual heat takes even longer, so he’s more than happy to sit there for a minute or two while he queues up his jams.
Fuck what anyone else says. Ke$ha’s the bomb.
Ernest makes no comment about the music playing, probably because he knows he’d get kicked out if he did, and that’s fine by Lucien. The little twerp is a lot easier to like when he’s not talking anyway.
After the iconic “Tik Tok” closes, Lucien glances over to see Ernest bopping his head to the beat of Ke$ha’s “Backstabber.” Lucien grins.
“Dare I say I’ve created another Ke$ha fan?”
Ernest scoffs, actually bothering to look over at Lucien. “I was already a fan, dumbass.”
“Let me guess. Her comeback album was so great, right?”
“Um, duh? But I’ve loved her since Animal.”
“Not everyone appreciates her early work.” Lucien raises a brow, impressed. “I would’ve never guessed.”
“And I would’ve never guessed you listened to anything besides Blood on the Dancefloor.”
“I should kick you out just for that.” Lucien slams on the brakes, bringing his car to an ungraceful halt. “In fact, get out.”
Ernest’s eyes widen for just a second, before he turns and realizes they’re parked in front of his house. “Oh, fuck you.” The faintest bit of a smirk plays on his lips. “Thanks for the ride.” Ernest grumbles, but as he goes to open his door, he finds it locked.
Lucien looks less than impressed. “Empty the hoodie, peach fuzz.”
Ernest’s frown deepens to epic proportions largely unseen by today’s world as he reaches into his pocket and removes the dime bag of pot. Without a word, he reaches for the door again, but Lucien stops him cold by yanking back his hoodie.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Ernest screeches.
Lucien holds up the second dime bag with a grin. “I’d say that was smart if you weren’t such a dumbass.”
Ernest scowls.
“Now get out of my car, idiot.” Lucien says with a smile, and even though his own house is barely twenty feet away, slams the gas to make a hasty exit.