Chapter Text
"Fucking rat race."
That is all Pete could think about after he had been standing on his feet for nearly 10 hours. It had been slow in the store for a couple hours with the exception of Firkle who was sitting in the lobby, as per usual. Normally, Pete would be engaging, complaining really, with him or helping with his homework, however it seems the incoming freshman was sleeping in a booth.
Another common occurrence at the McDonald's lobby at nearly nine o'clock at night.
This is really the only time Pete wishes to be assigned to the kitchen and therefore the drive through, but no. Of course he was, surprisingly, the best one with customers out of the ridiculously understaffed crew. And by "best" that means he doesn't call them a "fucking conformist" to their face or is hostile in any way.
So, the bare fucking minimum. Which is a virtue that Is applied very dearly to his shitty food service job.
However, that virtue cannot be said about the vamp kids across the street at Burger King. Out of the very few times Pete had gone in there to get a whopper for his mom, those douches were too goddamn cheerful and enthusiastically cleaning the lobby!
"Speak of the devil," Pete thought as the sound of air filled the room and who else but the proclaimed "vampire leader" of the third douchiest kids. The second being conformists and the first being emos obviously.
Mike, fucking, Makowski.
Pete gave him a blank stare before starting to open his mouth to ask what he wanted when, before he even got the chance to utter a word, Mike very apathetically said "listen I know we don't like each other, but the line is too long in the drive through so may I please get a filet-o-fish? Then I'll be out of your outgrown roots."
Pete's eyes widened a little as he felt a little respect for Count Fagula start to form, but nonetheless he muttered "Whatever," and handed him the receipt after Mike had paid.
It was awkward as hell just standing there and the only sounds being yelling in the kitchen and snoring of a knocked out fourteen year old. Pete was left looking Mike up and down and taking in all the sweat that was dyed green from his long green hair that was tied into a low ponytail. Mike, who just tried to be a Henrietta style commander and ordered a filet-o-fish in the same sentence, kept trying to fucking talk to him.
This led to a wide variety of "shut up,""quit it," and "shut your mouth," followed by groans of irritation.
However, they weren't said with any toxic or genuine hostile undertones and, as much as Pete hates to admit it, Mike isn't the worst out of the vampire douchebags. They had managed to find a common ground back in elementary school when emos were starting to take over and they got obliterated by that douchey reality television show. It had been a long time since then. Pete was about to be a senior and Mike had just graduated, but for now it was summer and he was standing in a Mcdonald's lobby with Mike.
So lame.
Just then, a beep came over the headset and Pete went to fetch the greasy product for the godawful customer. As he handed Mike the food it was silent, yet courteous, and Mike left with a small “thank you.”
While driving home, Mike just could not get Pete out of his head. It was like he was being pulled by some force in his direction. He shrugs this feeling off, but while he got ready for bed once home an epiphany hit him like a stake through the heart: Mike wanted Pete as a friend, per se.
“Fuck,” he groaned into his pillow and as he faded into slumber he hoped and prayed to all the saints recognized by Catholicism that it was just his food service worker delirium talking.
As he would learn later, it was not the delirium.