Chapter Text
your eyes hurt from the lack of sleep as of recent. the flickering lights in the corner aisle isn't particularly helping, it only manages to make the dull throb of your head worsen. you've mentioned it once to your manager in passing, only earning a shrug and a 'maybe soon'.
that was three months ago, and it's amazing how this part-time job managed to suck the remaining life out of you when you've faced significantly less annoying customers compared to your other job as a fast food worker.
no one even listens to vinyls anymore, apple music and spotify is the trend nowadays, unless they were avid collectors. even then, no one would bother heading to a physical store now that online shopping is a thing too.
maybe it's because you've spent longer alone with your thoughts instead of interacting with an actual human being who respected you enough to not yell over some niche band the shop least likely had in the storage.
or that retail always sucks the life out of everyone, yours on 10x speed because your schedule is complete shit by juggling jobs that are more part-time and never permanent.
you glance at your phone, two more hours in the empty record shop, until you can finally get back to your apartment and wallow up in your misery in a more personal setting.
you sink back on the seat behind the counter, which was just a box of broken record tapes returned, far from comfortable but you'd rather sit on something instead of next to the mystery spill on the floor.
you should print out a new cv soon, and check if your last week's pay was finally in your bank account.
once you decided you were bored enough in the silence and self loathing, you stepped out of the counter. glancing at the empty storefront, a sight you're far too used to but couldn't help but to make sure, before making a beeline to early 2000s vinyls.
you looked for something familiar. an itch you couldn't exactly get rid of, you used to romanticize working in a record shop back when you were younger, starry eyed and with ambition of something great. thought how great it'd be to have unlimited access to music while still being a levelled asshole about music tastes.
you managed to land a job in a record store, even if it's rundown and smelled of dust and nicotine, so there's that.
but on a bright side, at least you got to scratch the itch you had when you were young, about fulfilling childhood dreams or whatever, nevermind the fact that it's less admirable than what you used to believe.
after a few minutes of deciding between 'in rainbows' by radiohead or 'parachutes' by coldplay, you eventually settled with an entirely different album.
'infinity on high' by fall out boy.
questionable, really, but it's less about the album itself but more on the memories attached to it.
you blew off the dust, coughing out mouthfuls of it before you placed it on the record player. the machine's soft hum started before the instrumentals slowly filled up the rest of the space.
even with the album playing in the background, the itch lingers even if it was dulled.
you pick up the rest of the albums in the aisle, arranging it by genre. your mind wanders along with the music, humming along, finding yourself lost. dark blues and shimmering golden stars, that's all you think of, almost mistaking two teen silhouettes by the storefront. one pointing to an album while the other stares at the kid next to him. finding anything else less interesting now that his dark blue eyes settle on a face blurred in your memory.
that was years ago, you can't even remember what you looked like at fourteen but somehow his appearance was always the clearest.
sometimes he'd aged as if you both were still in contact.
other times he'd linger in the same age, fourteen, annoying you in your dreams. like everything was still alright, at least, the best of what could've beens and what ifs.
you let out a string of curses as you slip on a piece of paper, toppling down a few more boxes that you faintly recall telling your coworker to put the damned recent arrivals to the backroom a few days ago.
still, you're too tired and you hate yourself too much to be angry at other people, especially when the boxes cushioned your fall and prevented a headache-inducing hospital bill the management could care less about taking care of.
you lie still for a minute, taking a few breathing exercises you saw on youtube. therapy was too expensive so you powered through multiple ads just to watch a three step way to prevent a panic attack from a dubious guy more likely to be posing as a doctor with a home printed degree in psychology.
you turn your head to the mess, seeing the magazines lying on the floor. some recent, some issues dating a few months ago.
picking up one at random, you flip through the shiny paper. mostly vogue models with their fake diets and even faker music tastes filled in the 'get to know x y z' box right next to where they were serving face.
one spread takes your attention entirely. a glittery headline saying 'The New Avenger (with a Z) feature', six people posed around a couch—probably in the recreation room of the newly rebuilt avengers tower (which you find out later was also renamed into the watch tower), discomfort obvious but held together for the sake of getting through the photoshoot.
the rest of the words blur the moment your eyes locked in the most unassuming man sitting on the arm rest, dressed in comfortable yet stylish clothing, multiple words coming into mind to describe him but the most prevalent would be 'familiar'.
it wasn't warmth that flooded through you when you read the name next to him.
robert "bob" reynolds. the sentry.
it was ache.
your breathing shortens as your fingers gently brush over the picture, as if you could actually trace his features, so many things have changed in the years that passed yet he doesn't look so different from how you imagined him to have grown up to be. charmingly awkward that you'd affectionately call a dork.
you feel your panic attack come back at full force, the ground feeling like it was reaching up to swallow you whole. no amount of cheap grounding attempts and breathing exercises could stop you from losing hold on reality that was evident in the form of a glossy paper.
bob was alive. fucking hell, he's a hero too.
you met bob when you were both six.
he was a bit scrawny, wide dark blue eyes you'd often mistake as brown with how warm it always was, long sleeves and fidgety hands.
he sat small behind the bleachers, your first thought was whether he was a player.
well, of course, you'd think that way—every other kid in the field was playing baseball. another sport your father put you up in hopes of toughening you up. (though it more likely did the opposite as you hated falling face first into the dirt everytime you swung the bat)
"are you playing?" you asked, slowly approaching, tilting your head to where the rest of the kids were running around.
he flinched, looking around before hesitantly pointing towards himself. "m-me? no...i..i'm not part of the team—"
"but kids who only signed up for the game can stay in the field." you cut off, patting the space next to him, settling down. he looks at you with bewilderment which then settles into embarrassment.
"sorry—i'll go." he mumbles, picking up his things. your gaze settles on the way his arm was littered with bruises, some faded into yellow while others were fresh.
"if you leave now, the coach will scold you for not being part of the team." you say, though you're not entirely sure if it was true, the coach was kind. albeit a little strict.
he quickly sits back down, hands curling and trembling on the fabric of his pants. he almost looks like he's on the verge of crying.
you pick up on it, pursing your lips before taking out a bandaid from your uniform pocket. quietly sticking it on the small cut on his cheek. the dark blues and small littered stars contrasting against his pale skin.
you tell him your name, taking a minute to let him process, before he responds with his own.
-
your thoughts lead you to another memory, both of you twelve, spending vacation through summer school when you failed english while bob had purposely flunked science because he insists it's better to be out in school with you instead of waiting at the front porch of his house all afternoon until class dismissed.
you both were young but circumstances led you both to growing up far too quickly, you weren't stupid enough to not notice each new bruise and busted lip bob would come in with despite his bullies enjoying summer in an entirely different state.
you always hated pain, even if you were raised in an environment where it was prevalent. your mother often scolded you for being such a bleeding heart, your father even less impressed.
blood was the norm. so was yelling. sometimes you'd be on the receiving end of a fire too spread out to stop.
but you remained what you are, patching up others and quiet in ways boys growing up were expected to be the opposite.
maybe it's why you and bob got along so well in the seven years you both spent as friends.
too well that neither of you spoke up when things were slowly crumbling.
-
"bob, bob." your voice cracks with fond exasperation, throat roughened during your adolescent years, looking at him with half amusement and a question of 'are you serious?'.
"it's my grandpa's record player, bob." you remind, crossing your arms. "i get the pick."
"but you told me to come for a second opinion!" he scoffs, while you respond with a playful bump of shoulder against his in the aisle.
you stare ahead at the memory, the dull throb of your head worsening. it's one of those that played over and over like a broken record.
"i'm just saying—" bob follows behind you, rubbing the back of his neck in that painfully boyish manner where it'd lead to some of his curls falling over his cheeks.
"pearl jam has good releases but you could choose another album for your first vinyl." he softly insists, gesturing to the wide variety offered by the record shop. his gaze bashfully darting to 'infinity on high' in the corner.
it was an old record shop owned by a man that grew wise the same time the building was built and the business rolled in, located back in florida, a street down from the school you used to attend with bob.
though you could only visit it in your dreams nowadays, the building closed down after the owner had passed after he was blipped, coming back years after had proven too much for his failing heart.
a way to go you'd wish upon no one but yourself. sometimes you wondered if coming back from the blip was worth anything, doubt further solidified by the knowledge that bob was living better off compared to you.
when you bought the album, both of you were too ecstatic to try it, running up to your room—racing each other while the scolding from your mother echoed somewhere in the kitchen. your father was still at work so you had a few hours to use the record player without him complaining about excessive noise.
you both looked up on the internet on how to properly use a record player without damaging the disc. both of you ending up in a playful banter over how to put it on before you both jumped at the sudden scratch and the sound of music starting.
the disc spun, starting with 'thriller.'
the two of you sung along, obviously out of beat, footfalls soft against the carpet of your bedroom, laughing every time bob's voice cracked. soon enough, you both found yourselves in the middle of the room as 'golden' plays, the only slow song in the entire album, arms entangled, steps clumsy. you don't remember who spins first, only the feeling of the ground by the time the song ends. both of you laying on your sides, his fingers tapping rhythmically against your forearms, pulling you close.
"i feel sick," bob admits, forehead pressed against yours, you playfully push him away before he hearts the race of your heartbeat.
"don't throw up on me," you make a disgusted expression, "or on the carpet, mom would kill us both."
"oh god." he folds his arms over his stomach, laying down on his back as the following song plays.
you both lay on the floor, taking a few minutes to rest. neither of you wanting to break the moment, your fingers brushing against his, your breath hitching as he intertwines your fingers against his. squeezing for a brief moment.
you should pull away, ignore the warmth you've felt every time he gets too close, the following guilt for feeling something different for your supposedly best friend bitter on the edge of your throat. almost choking you.
boys your age don't think about how warm his best friend's touch was, their hearts wouldn't flutter like in the romance novels you guiltily read past bed time whenever they see their friend of the same gender smile. your father's words about how 'wrong' you feel echoing in your mind.
you try to focus on anything else other than the close distance between you two, though not being able to make sense of the song playing only makes everything worse, makes the thoughts in your head amplify because it's clearer.
you like bob.
and you don't know anything else but guilt over it.
when he looks at you with that warm smile. you feel like you've touched the sun itself.
you sit up immediately, pulling your hand away from him, and the slight hurt in his expression that was soon stifled to make way for concern makes your stomach twist.
"i...i think my dad's coming home soon—" you shift the topic, the record player stopping at the same time before he nods in understanding.
"okay..." he smiles, fingers reaching out and gently holding yours. interlocking your pinkies, "next time we should buy something from pearl jam." he changes the topic, you wryly respond with a coarse laugh that sounds more like a choked sob.
"yeah right, we're using your christmas money next time."
you close your eyes for a moment, the memory fading away like sea foam fizzing by the time it lands on shore, you knew there wasn't any next time.
-
bob wasn't getting any better.
even if you tried to help, you couldn't always stick close to him 24/7, one summer you spend away from florida to spend time with your grandparents further proved that fact.
it was after graduating middleschool when your contact with him was cut off without any notice, you couldn't tell him ahead of time because the trip was sudden to you as well, and you regret it every single day for not running at dawn to his house to tell him you were leaving for a while.
when you got back at the start of freshmen year in highschool, bob had changed.
you tried to reach out to him, starting conversations in the hallways and getting nowhere, waiting at your usual hang out spots after school, until you had to get shooed away by a guard or some adult concerned that you weren't home at such a late hour.
it went on for the rest of the semester.
then you decided you had enough of bob pointedly ignoring your existence.
"bob do you want to hang out—"
"can't...i'm uh...busy that time."
"but i didn't mention a day yet."
he sighs, the bags under his eyes prevalent, his gaze hardened as he meets yours and you could sense the tenseness in his jaw, his shoulders hunched over as if he's trying to shrink himself small enough to disappear.
"bob, did i do anything wrong?" you ask, though you're unsure whether you'd like an answer.
each step you take to get closer, he pulls back. keeping the distance at arms length.
"that's what it always is," he hissed, tone bitter, both of you taken aback. his eyes finally meeting yours and you immediately focus on the way his pupils dilated. the tells becoming too vivid that the knowledge itself feels acrid on your tongue.
"it's always about you." he finishes, he looks away, rubbing his eyes that stung with unshed tears.
without thinking, you grabbed onto his arm, watching him wince. your other hand pulling his sleeve up to check for any injuries from his father, only to see much worse.
needle marks. some fresh, some deep purple, scabs littered his wrist from his habit of constantly running his nail over it.
and you froze.
he pulls away harshly before you manage to snap out of your surprise, quickly running off as if the mere touch of your skin against his burned.
it rained throughout the night after that. and the days that followed as well.
it was the last time you saw bob, before you found out he dropped out of school in the middle of freshmen year and completely lost contact.
you couldn't bring yourself to get angry at him, and you've always thought about whether he had an umbrella that time he ran away.
you hoped he did.
-
your eyes felt like burning by the time you're out of your misery, you blankly stare up at the broken tile in the ceiling, the flickering lights on the corner aisle familiar. you're back in reality, eighteen years after your last conversation with bob.
you really must've hit your head when you slipped, a hand still clutching the magazine.
breathe.
inhale.
…1
…2
pause.
exhale.
…1
…2
…3
…4
your breath hitches, catching up in your throat, coughing out mouthfuls as the record player scratches the vinyl, letting out an ear drum bursting screech.
you scramble to pick up the magazines on the floor, carelessly throwing it in a pile in the box by the door, you ran to the record player, turning off the machine and gently lifting the tone arm. grimacing at the sight of the vinyl's scratched surface.
“they're definitely deducting that on your next pay.” fourteen year old bob's voice echoed, almost mocking, like the silhouette standing next to you.
you don't respond for a beat, lifting the record by its edges, sliding it between the inner sleeve and returning it to the outer sleeve.
you bring your hand to your eyes, the itch coming back. you wonder how long you can ignore it this time as you file away a recent addition of knowledge about bob in the back of your head.
the bell rings, you straighten up out of habit, back turned against the entrance, words leaving you first before your mind processes anything else.
“sorry we're closing in a bit—”
“oh, my bad, i didn't see…” the man looks back out to the door, gesturing to the open sign still out and about. he's tall, shoulders slightly hunched, and brown curls falling over to frame his face.
his eyes were wide as his gaze met yours, dark blues.
and you feel the air knocked out of your lungs, hand grasping onto the edge of the table.
“...hey.” he quietly says, emotions unreadable.
“it's been a while.”