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“Fancy seeing you here, Reddoons.”
It's reflexive: Nearly dropping the half-cleaned glass from his hand in the process, Red lets his head fall forward with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut to bask in the warm red-darkness of his eyelids.
It’s mostly for show, a chance to silently vent his frustration to the world, but, at the same time, a headache presses against his temples from the constant cacophony of the bar and its rowdy patrons. The scent of too-sharp spirits and too-sweet flavours and cigarette smoke that shouldn’t be there, but someone snuck in. Bright lights that are meant to be stylistically dim but, in reality, beat down with waves of heat that mimic the smouldering night outside.
And to add onto the pain, physical and mental, he now has to deal with him. The annoyance he brings is, in more ways than one, worse than the shifts that last well into the early morning, bringing the promise of little sleep along with the already looming exam season and stacks of homework that sit untouched on his desk.
“Vodka again, Ash?” It’s too difficult to force the manager-mandated cheerful customer service. Harder still to twist his face into the dazzling I-totally-want-to-be-here and I-don’t-want-to-murder-everyone smile. Wiping away the last of the foam from the glass, then doing a second pass just to stall, gives a little leeway to get any murderous thoughts from his eyes. He places it back on its shelf as carefully as possible, nudging the twisting handle to face the same way as the others. It looks clean at the very least, though he's pretty sure that the rag itself hasn't been cleaned in months. Oh, well. If the customer thinks it's clean, it might as well be. They're usually too drunk to notice in the first place.
“Make it quick.” Ash snaps his fingers to emphasise his point, a noise that stabs directly between Red’s eyes. With great difficulty, he resists a flinch, keeps his face clear of murder plots. Probably. “I don't have all day. Business calls.”
Red imagines grabbing one of the solid oaken mugs from the wall behind him and smashing it over Ash's head.
The one and only thing Red likes about Ash is his choice of drink: a simple glass of straight vodka— watered down, of course, but Ash would die before admitting that, and of the potato variety. No decorations, no extra flavours, no stupidly complicated mixes that every single drunk patron seems to be an expert on when they watch him prepare it. Easy to make, simple to clean, and only ever the one. Still, Red picks a fight anyway, a momentary refuge from the sour haze of the bar. Maybe it's because he's bored. Maybe it's because he wants to hear something other than the shitty music.
“You're a college student. What business can you get?” He slams the vodka down onto the scratched and no longer glossy wood, causing the clear drink to splash up the sides, dangerously close to the lip of the cup.
“None that concerns you,” Ash drawls, waving a dismissive hand. Holding it pinched and elegant with one hand, he sips lazily from the glass, mismatched eyes flickering lazily across the menu of countless alcoholic beverages on the back wall. In the light of the bar, they glitter dark and deep, but still carry that odd purplish tinge, even though Red knows them to be brown.
Too late, Red opens his mouth to retort— then chokes back the words, turning to glare at a particularly rowdy man slamming his empty mug onto the bar, yelling incoherently for more. At least, he assumes that was the demand. It usually is.
Ash, too, just for a moment, twists around in his seat to frown at the man, now slumped over the table and attempting (as well as any intoxicated person can, which is to say, not well at all) to reach for the taps on the wall, before his face flattens back out to boredom when he notices Red’s gaze. He chooses not to dwell on it— after all, Ash is bound to hate the alcoholics as much as he.
It’s not too hard to catch one of the bouncer’s attention. After far too many months serving at the shitty bar for only a little over minimum wage, Red has mastered the look of the please get this guy out of here face; an expression the equally underpaid bouncers are well versed in. The bouncer, another college student that Red is, oh, seventy percent sure is in one of his business classes (Minute? Wemmbu? He's never been good with names), emphatically drops his shoulders, tips his head towards the ceiling in a groan Red can't hear, though Red knows this is the most excitement he’s gotten in the past three hours and is more than happy to guide the man out of the establishment.
As much as he'd love to watch the action take place, a battle that will require a lot of convincing and begging, he has a job to do. Red wanders over near the edge of his little allotted territory of bar, having noticed a group with dwindling glasses, and offers a grin along with a suggestion for more drinks. It may be just a little unethical to target those already drunk and lacking cognitive skills, but hey. It pays the bills. Red is a business student after all. Ethics aren't really their thing.
“What's it like?” Ash asks once Red finishes the sweep of his portion of the bar.
“You gotta stop starting your questions without any context, man.” He feigns disinterest, focuses on the damp rag in his hands and the empty mug in the other. Ash's eyes prickle at the back of his neck, tracking his every move. A part of him burns to know what Ash is going on about, something he will also never admit out loud, even for a million dollars.
Well—
Actually, he would, to pay off his debt.
“That.” Ash points at where the drunken man used to be, now stumbling towards the door with Minute (Wemmbu?) not far behind, one arm out and ready to catch him when he inevitably falls. “Authority. An iron-clad rule. Able to banish anyone you want from the bar.” He leans forward, hands clasped to provide a perch for his chin, vodka forgotten. “What's it like?”
Red snorts. “Startin’ a fucking biography of my life? Gonna stage a revolution against the bartenders? Declare independence? I'm not some dictator, I'm a college student who gets paid in beers tossed in my face by angry customers instead of money.”
It's Ash's turn to scoff, tipping his head in his unique sign of disbelief. “Sure, Red Doons.”
“You don't believe me?” Red demands, bringing a hand over his chest in mock offence. He doesn't raise the pitch of his voice at all, leaving it a low drawl of sarcasm. “I'm hurt, Ash. Hurt.”
“You are in business school,” Ash points out, still resting his head on his hands. His eyes are wide and innocent when he stares up at Red, hardly hazy at all from the vodka. “You’re supposed to lie.”
"Don't act like you're the saint here. I saw you take that guy's wallet." Red leans against the back wall, nodding towards the passed-out man in the stool beside Ash's, head in his arms and surrounded by a cluster of shot glasses. It's not the most comfortable perch; while it takes pressure off his feet, the decoratively carved planks dig horribly into his spine.
Ash flushes, sitting back up straight. A sign of discomfort. Red bites his tongue to hold back a smirk. One point for Red.
"I—" he starts. Shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and regathers his words over the course of a second. He's so obviously flustered, eyes cast aside and cheeks flushed— partly from the alcohol— it's almost cute— not that Red likes it in any way. It's not cure in the liking sort of way. It's just satisfying, a little warmth in his chest. To finally get that annoying better-than-thou tone out of Ash's voice is what matters. "How'd you see that?"
It's not the question he was expecting. Something more like no, I didn't, or what are you talking about? would have been more likely. It doesn't take too much effort to pivot, though, now that he's gotten the upper hand and there's a bit of wind in his sails. Shrugging, arms crossed comfortably over his chest, he says easily, "Bartending is pretty boring. I'm trained to notice people who're not doing what they're supposed to. You're sitting practically under a spotlight, so it's not like you're hidden or anythin'."
Which is... mostly true. Ash is in a pretty bright portion of the bar: a thin strip of LEDs line the hanging portion of wall above the bar, installed after too many people lost wallets under their chairs (though Red's pretty sure that's mostly due to their drunkenness). It also glints off of any spills, making it a bit easier to clean up before the drinks turn to a sticky nightmare that never leaves the half-glossed surface of the wood. Ash is also just... well, he stands out, for lack of a better saying, like a sore thumb. Insisting on wearing purple everywhere instead of normal, everyday clothing, always in some sort of dressy fashion with flowing sleeves and multiple layers, all with extra ribbons or buttons or sashes. Black studs line his ears, glitter over his eyebrows, sit in silver bands around his fingers. Long dark hair, dyed light purple in uneven strands, cascade over his shoulders, lengthened by bits of more purple ribbon. And, to top it off, just the faintest touches of makeup; eyeshadow, also glittering purple, and dark eyeliner to accentuate his eyes. Make them ever so slightly darker, while letting the flecks of silver in his eyes stand out.
Red isn't blind, Ash is very pretty— he's not about to waste breath denying that. That being said, he is not, in any way, shape, or form, checking Ash out. He's not interested. Not at all. Ash certainly does not need that boost in ego, lest he turn even more insufferable. Red's not sure he could handle that. Ash is annoying, too smart, too talkative, always smug and thinking he's better than everyone. Red hates him.
Ash hates him too, anyway. He only comes over to see Red because he offers more interesting banter than the other bartenders, who prefer to speak as little as possible. That's all, and Red's fine with the arrangement. They both get a little out of it: less boredom. A way to relieve a bit of stress.
Unfortunately, the ball does not stay in his court for long.
Tipping his head to the side to better lock eyes, Ash sends Red a shrewd look, the beginnings of a smirk growing on his face. The words are, however, sharp when he speaks. "Can't keep your eyes off me, huh?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, how the fuck does he respond smoothly to that? Every thought chooses this time to drop from his skull to collect as a useless puddle on the floor, and does not respond when he screams at it to.
It's not like he hasn't been flirted with before— both men and women, usually uncomfortably older than him and well too drunk to understand what they're doing, try to weasel their way out of expensive bills by casting a couple sweet words his way. Dispelling them is easy, a couple of bland responses, polite excuses, and a wave to a bouncer, and he's fine. Frankly, flirting comes pretty easy to him.
Ash, however, isn't drunk. Ash knows exactly what he's doing.
There's no reason why he shouldn't be able to formulate a response.
Somehow, Red manages to roll his eyes. Hopes beyond hope he's still relaxed against the wall. With his eyes no longer locked with Ash's, it's easier to breathe. Suddenly. For some reason. "Don't flatter yourself. Your pick-pocketing skills are sloppy. Next time, go for someone who isn't in plain view of anyone standing where I am."
That earns him a laugh. Red hates the way it makes him feel the slightest bit proud. Which it shouldn't.
In the moment, he can afford himself a little breath of relief. A chance to catch his breath without Ash picking out the moment of weakness.
"Sure, Red. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Tell me this: What would your mother think if she knew you were lying like this?"
Another shrug works perfectly. His breathing is still even. "Firstly: not lying. Secondly: she wants me to be a businessman. If she didn't want to raise a liar, she wouldn't have encouraged this career path, would she?"
Ash downs the rest of his vodka with barely a wince, and takes a breath to speak, a retort already ready on his tongue.
A yell from across the bar interrupts Ash before he can speak, cutting through the first syllable before it reaches Red's ears. "Hey! Red! Stop flirting with the customers and do your fucking job!"
Red's face grows hot in seconds. Lacking anything to snap back, and without looking, he flips up his middle finger and waves it vaguely in her direction rather than looking towards her, following the direction of her laughter when it breaks out above the din of the customers. The shout still spurs him from his resting point, only now noticing the ache in his spine. Ash had distracted him for far to long: many customers now sat in front of empty drinks, having dwindled with none to serve them. It makes him a little guilty, leaving his co-workers alone in their jobs during peak hours.
He glances back towards where Ash sits— had sat.
The stool stands empty, glass abandoned on the table before it. In the moments he had stood distracted, trying to stretch the ache out of his back, Ash had slipped from his seat.
Red does his best to ignore the disappointment that wells in his throat. Tries to swallow it down with a cough, shaking his head violently. A frown gracing his brow, he steps up and swipes the empty glass of vodka from the table, barely catching the cheque that flutters out from where it was trapped below its base, and turns to continue his duties.
At least he didn't dip without paying the bill. The thought isn't much of a comfort, for some reason. Red grits his teeth, sticking the glass beneath the stream of lukewarm water in the sink.
Right. His job. Which is more important than some annoying college kid who can't keep his nose out of other people's business. He doesn't care. It's easier like this, when Ash isn't around to distract him with annoying plots and questions and stupid flirting
He sets the glass— too violently again, and it rattles the shelf— back into its spot, flips over the cheque to read it, and freezes.
A phone number is scrawled onto the back.