Chapter Text
Bloody 'ell I'm tired...' Kid scowls even as he blearily blinked the exhaustion out of his eyes. Damn other job held him after hours even after he fucking told them he can't stay late because he has another job to work at fucking three in the morning to past noon!
Next time they pull that shit they'll have their noses busted so far down their throats they'll choke. At least this job didn't suck ass, but that still didn't change the fact he's tired as shit. The sound of a bell snaps Kid out of his thoughts. Great, a custom—
Kid's mind blanks out as said customer walks in.
In walks in a young man, seemingly in his early 20s. Tan, a scar with two stitches right below his left eye that had long, perfectly curled lashes. Their eyes were large, brown, almost-black bambi-like eyes which is half hidden under their black hat. A simple brand name white tee, black pants and backpack made up his simple yet breathtaking outfit. There's even a slight shine to his lips.
"Food…" The fucking model looking ass mumbles under his breath, eyes traveling across the inside of the store before landing in the chip area. He begins making his way over there, a simple yet expensive looking silver teardrop earring dangling from his left ear. Kid gawks.
FUCK?!?!
What the fuck?! The absolute ever loving fuck?!?! The bloody fuck was some guy looking like he was torn straight out of a fucking magazine doing here?! At a shitty 7/11 like this?!?! Wait, what the fuck? Why does he have a second—no—three hats?! Is that another hat thrown over a straw hat of all things?? Why the fuck does he have so many hats?? Who in God's name would need three fucking hats?
The sound of a bag dropping stills Kid.
He turns towards the direction of the stranger, seeing him bend down to pick up the fallen chip back despite...his arms already being full of a multitude of different chips and snacks. He hazardously stacks it on top of the rest and—his head snaps up towards him. Kid forces down the will to jump with experience, returning the look unwaveringly.
What? Why is he staring at him? Is there something on his face, or does he just have a problem? What's with that look? And why the fuck is his eyelashes so long and why does his lips look perfect even with their dist—the fuck?! He's drooling!
"Hey, spiky haired guy!" He calls out to him, an excited ear to ear grin stretched across his face. It takes Kid a moment to realize he's talking to him. He frowns at the name, but he replies nonetheless. Job rules, and all that.
"Yah?"
"Those!" He points to the hotdog cooker on the counter beside Kid, "Are they ready? How much are they?" Oh. So that's why he was drooling. Is he a dog?
"Yah, yah, they're ready. $1.50 each." Kid answers with a sigh, earning him a beaming smile that definitely doesn't do anything to his heart. Eustass fucking Kid isn't some weakling. Eustass fucking Kid isn’t some sap
"I'll take four!!" Four? Seriously? Is he buying food for his friends or something? How the hell will he carry four hot dogs when his arms were already full of snacks? "Oh, and a pizza slice, too!" He adds. Well, what's one more heart attack?
"Aite, whate'er. Yer mates gon' help yu’ carry that or whot? Thatsa' shitton 'a snacks yer gettin'." Kid grunts, walking to the hot dog cooker to grab the "order". The customer tilts his head to the side.
"Why would they carry my snacks? They're mine." He asks.
"Yer kidding me. Yu' can't be telling me yer gon' eat all this." Kid practically gapes at the guy as he responds with a confused,
"I am? I'm hungry." Kid stares at him for a few beats, sighs, and goes back to grabbing the hotdogs. Whatever. He ain’t a nutritionist. If this guy wants to down a whole heart attack and then some, that’s on him, not Kid. His job is just to grab stuff behind the counter and man the cash register. That’s it.
“Well, here ya go.” Kid says, placing the four hotdogs onto the counter and manually typing it into the cash register. The customer dumps his countless snacks onto the counter as well, and Kid has to bite back a sigh before getting to work on scanning them all. Once done, he reads the total on the screen and holds back a grimace at the number.
“That’ll be $48.97.” He near bitterly tells the other, the words almost painful to say, despite it not being his own money. How does one buy almost $50 dollars worth of just snacks? And only for yourself?
Must be nice to have money to waste like that.
“Okay!!” The customer all too cheerfully chirps, not at all bothered by the total as he digs his hands into his pocket, presumably for cash. Two $20’s and a $10 is thrusted at him. Kid accepts it and looks down at the snacks before asking the obvious question of,
“Would you like a bag?”
“Nope !” Wait what?
The guy doesn’t bother to take his receipt, he only reaches forward and dumps all the snacks onto the floor, grabs the four hotdogs and pizza slice, and casually plops himself on the ground. Kid stares in absolute shock and befuddlement as the guy casually starts chewing on his pizza slice while popping open a bag of chips. What. What the hell? Is this guy alright in the head? Who the hell just sits their ass down in front of a 7/11 cash register, downs a pizza slice, and shovels half a bag of Doritos down their throat? This guy, apparently.
Kid should probably kick him out, he's sitting on the floor and making a goddamn mess all over the place. Being cute isn't an excuse, he could get in trouble with his boss. But, even so...fuck, he can't do it. Looking drop dead gorgeous while literally stuffing your face with snacks on the floor shouldn't be possible. And yet, it was happening right in front of him.
“Oi…” He starts, almost cautious. The guy blinks up at him, and it is then that Kid realizes how wide their eyes truly are, almost owlish, in a way. He shakes off those thoughts and continues, “Whot’re yu’ doin’?” The guy tilts his head, popping open another bag of chips.
“Eating?” A generous amount of chips is inhaled, “That’s pretty obvious, Spiky-guy.”
“It’s Kid.” Kid growls, but then quickly catches and corrects himself, tightly, “Sir. My name is Kid, sir.” Fucking job rules and guidelines and politeness and every-fucking-else in the book. The guy laughs, which almost makes Kid jump the counter.
“Kid? That’s a funny name, Spiky-guy!” He literally just told him his name and he seriously continues to call him that shit? “My name is Luffy, by the way!” Fan-fucking-tastic. He didn’t ask, and that didn’t answer his fucking question.
Another chime ring has Kid biting back a sigh. Great. Another customer. How the hell is he going to explain why there's some guy on the floor surrounded by snacks? Kid turns to greet them anyways, he has rules to follow and most people have enough common sense to just look away and not mention things like this.
"Welcome—" Oh you gotta be fucking kidding. This has to be a joke. Because there stands a bloody Malinky Longlegs in a form fitting, black turtleneck, grey pants, a beige trenchcoat, and polished, black, heeled, ankle-high boots. Both ears had golden earrings that drastically stood out against his caramel tanned skin. And he, just like the other that Kid has learned is named Luffy, looks like he was just torn straight out of a modeling magazine. A fucking good one, at that. The new model looking guy's eyes land directly onto Luffy, and, exactly after that, he sighs.
"Hi Traffy!!" Luffy waves at the newcomer as he simultaneously a hotdog into his mouth. Luffy gulps it down mere seconds after. Traffy? So they know each other? Traffy, as Luffy called him, heads for Luffy in a stride that makes damn good use of those long legs of his, squatting down just in front of him. Holy shit. Kid shouldn't stare but holy shit those legs.
"Dumbass," He finally speaks, and his voice has Kid gripping at the edge of the counter and forcing down a shudder. It's husky and deep, but also somewhat breathy, almost like a low whisper. It's doing all sorts of things to Kid that he really can't handle with his three hours of sleep brain, which was running purely on fumes, mind you. Traffy slowly raises a tattooed hand and grabs Luffy's chin, tilting it up and rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip. The swallow Kid makes is so loud he worries if it was heard.
"You ruined your makeup. Your face is covered in food."
"It's fine! I already finished my photoshoots for today!" Luffy chirps back with a blinding grin, but it's returned with a sharp click of the tongue.
"No, you haven't. You still have the photoshoot with me, you were late and I had to look for you." Traffy withdraws his hand away from Luffy. Long, tattooed fingers drop and splay across his thighs to help push himself to a stand. Luffy blinks up at him.
"Ah. I forgot." He says, making the other sigh again. A fucking sigh shouldn't be so hot what the actual fuck.
"Of course you did. Now, pick up your mess and let's go. Your makeup will have to be touched up, if not redone." Luffy puffs his cheeks out into a ridiculous pout of sorts, but he still reaches out to scoop up all the trash closest to him.
"But I already have makeup on…" Luffy mumbles as he tosses an armful of trash away.
"Yes, that you ruined." Is lazily shot back. Kid briefly wishes that he'd stop fucking speaking. Luffy only makes a huff in response, picking up the last of the wrappers and waddling over to the trash to throw it away. At that moment, Traffy strides on over to Luffy, swiftly snatching a napkin on the way, and begins to wipe at Luffy's face. Kid hates how hard he had to fight to keep his eyes up during that.
But wait, photoshoots? So they're actually models? What the fuck? What are models doing at a shittyass 7/11 like this? Whatever, at least they picked up all their trash. Well, Luffy picked up all his trash.
"Now, apologize for all the trouble you caused." Traffy's voice sounds from just in front of the counter, pushing down Luffy's head who stood beside him.
"Sorry for all the trouble I caused!" Luffy obediently apologizes. Before Kid can say it's whatever, he's stopped by Traffy smirking and saying in a rather honey sweet tone,
"Good boy." Wh—
What the fuck. What the actual fuck??
Throat dry and curled over the counter, Kid is rendered speechless as he digs his fingers against the marble. He doesn't have a praise kink, but what the fuck. He doesn't have a praise kink, but what the fuck?? That's dangerous. Holy fucking shit, that's dangerous. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck he needs to get it together. He’s at work. Shit. Fuck. That wasn't even directed at him! What the actual fuck is wrong with him? Is three hours of sleep and nonstop work really getting him this bad? He's had worse days, though!
"Then, we'll be leaving now." Kid looks up to where they're now exiting out the door and happens to meet Traffy’s eyes.The most punchable, shit-eating smirk is thrown at him, along with a taunting scoff as he turned away. The moment the door shuts, Kid punches the counter with a loud "fuck!!".
That little shit was fucking with him on purpose! He knew and—fuck! He's gonna knock him right across that pretty little face next time he sees that asshole. Cover that cocky face in blood, watch it slowly drip down snarling lips and—fuck! What the fuck is he doing getting excited by that?! The fucks wrong with him?!
Kid takes a few calming breaths, remembering the surveillance camera pointed at him and his location. The only reason why any of this shit even got to him was his barely functioning brain. He’s slept three hours, worked another job last night, and hasn’t had a proper meal in a damn near week. He’s gone far past running on fumes, and this is what happened. But he’s still standing, and he’s still running, and like bloody fuck he wasn’t going to work. With a few more breaths, Kid shoves the previous interaction into the deepest corner of his mind, straightens his back, and gets back to work.
By the end of it, he nearly passes out in the street. But he doesn’t, because he’s not a dumbass, and he’s not looking forward to getting mugged of the little he has. He’s not even in the mood for a fight. His stomach had long since given up on growling, and his head was pounding from lack of sleep. Ignoring his burning eyes and lead feet, Kid forces his back to remain straight and face clear of struggle. His neighbourhood isn’t the cleanest of places, and the last thing he wants is some no-name thinking he’d be an easy target.
Of course, he wouldn’t be, because he’s taken down a whole group surprise attack on him with almost three days of no sleep before, and he’d do it again if he had to. Kid glares at a guy who was trying to “subtly” eye him, making them hurriedly turn around and quicken their pace away from him. He forces down a sigh, especially once his apartment was in view. He took slightly wider steps, eager to get home and pass out for an entire day. Bless the fact he only had one shift tomorrow, that one being a night shift. So he could sleep in all he wanted to. But then he had his construction job the following day, which means little no sleep again, but at least he had a day off from everything after that.
Ah, bloody hell, his head is murdering him. As Kid damn near drags himself up three flights of stairs to get to his own apartment, he prays to every god he doesn’t believe in that Killer was home, and dinner (or lunch) was made. He opens the door—no Killer, no dinner. This is why he doesn’t believe in God.
“Whote’er, ‘m passin’ the fook out.” Kid mumbles to himself, throwing (collapsing) his body against the couch. The sun was still up, it wasn’t even 4pm yet, but who the hell was gonna stop him? He’ll knock the sorry life out of anyone who tries. Mind hazy and body heavy, Kid feels his exhaustion take its toll and his fumes run out. He welcomes in the rapid incoming feeling of sleep. But right before he Kid knocks out, his brain gives him the wonderful question of:
Seriously, who the fuck wears three hats?
Kid wakes up with everything sore down to the tip of his fingers. Right. Shitty couch, giant body, and horrible position usually equals soreness. Well, at least his headache is significantly better. But more importantly, he smells food. Grinning, Kid pushes himself up off the couch, cracks every bone in his body, and heads to the kitchen to see Killer at the stove.
“Morning, Kid.” Killer greets without turning around. He gestures to the table with a free hand, “Your food’s ready.” This is why Killer is his best friend.
“Thanks.” Kid gives an unseen nod and hurries over to the table, stomach revived and growling at the sight of the freshly cooked food. Killer gives him a noncommittal hum in response as Kid digs in. “Time?” Kid’s words are muffled and barely understandable, but he knows Killer understood him.
“3:20pm.” Ah see? He did. Seems like he woke up a little over two hours before work, perfect. Plenty of time to fully wake up and get ready. More work? No problem. He slept, got a meal, he’s good to go again. Besides, payday was soon.
“Gonna shower.” Kid declares the moment his plate is cleared of food, grabbing his plate and heading to the sink to rinse it off. Killer makes another hum.
“I cooked some pasta last night, your plate is in the fridge.” Kid grins.
Yep. Killer really was his best friend.
The rest of Kid’s week was normal. Took the night shift at 7/11, got close to no sleep before going to his construction job at ass o’ clock, a day off filled entirely with sleep, then a few noon shifts at 7/11, repeat. He has pretty much forgotten the faces of the Three Hat Loon and his Shitfaced friend, only remembering that one had doe-like eyes, and the other, he wanted to smash their face in. It was probably for the better that he forgets such a ridiculous scene, he doesn’t have time to waste on thinking about it, anyway.
Popping his sore back, Kid glances towards the large windows by the door. The sky was darkened by black clouds and the trees in the distance were bending back from the strong wind beating against the window. Frowning, Kid mumbles,
“A stormsa’ comin’. Damn.” Storms meant leaks in his and Killer’s cheapass apartment, which were a pain in the ass to deal with—especially after working full time.
Whatever, Kid huffs, knocking his head back and rolling his shoulders, at least business will be even slower, now. The door opens, and Kid immediately regrets thinking such a red flag thought.
“Huh? Oh!! You’re the Spiky-guy! Hi! So is your hair always spiked up like that? It looks cool, is it sharp? Oh, and, can I get three pizza slices this time? And a corn dog—do you sell that here?”
. . .
“Yu’ gotta be fookin’ kiddin’ me.”