Chapter Text
On the list of things Jean hates—and it’s a pretty long list—people who put records back in incorrect alphabetical order are in the top five.
This applies especially if the band or single is a really rare one, and there’s some chance that a savvy customer can’t find the holy grail of his or her musical tastes.
Jean scowls as he sticks the Tori Amos import single back under “A” rather than “B.” Just because it features BT, does not mean it belongs under “B.” Fucking ridiculous.
He must be mumbling, because Sasha bends one of her headphones away from her ear, letting it rest against the side of her head as she says through the chips she’s munching, “Did someone put something back in the wrong order?”
Jean bristles, but she’s so immersed in what she’s reading where she’s sitting behind the counter that she doesn’t even notice. “You want a chip?” she offers, finally looking up.
Jean just frowns.
“You know, you kind of look homicidal when you make that face,” she comments with wide eyes, still chewing.
“Good,” Jean retorts, turning with his arms full of records. “Maybe it’ll stop morons from fucking up my record order.”
“I can’t believe you still listen to vinyl,” Sasha snorts. “CDs are the wave of the future.”
She flips the headphone back into place and lifts her hand to take a bite of the candy bracelet she’s wearing. She’s got her long hair gathered up messily in a claw clip, and she flips the page of the magazine she’s reading.
Jean heaves a sigh and walks over the counter to deposit the remaining pile of records onto the top.
“Is that this month’s 'Rolling Stone?'” he asks curiously.
Sasha takes her headphones off again and lets them sit around her neck. “Yeah. You want?”
“Yeah. I wanted to read that article about Radiohead. I hear they’re going in a more electronic direction.”
Sasha makes a dismissive ”pfft” sound and rolls her eyes. “I didn’t peg you for techno, Jean.”
“It’s not techno,” Jean says, lifting his nose self-righteously. “Haven’t you ever listened to Pink Floyd?”
“Um, no,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes. “My boyfriend tried to get me into that, but I don’t know... it’s just me and Alanis, you know?”
“Fair enough,” Jean replies, leaning his head in his hand against the counter. “Except that song ‘Ironic.’ What the hell is that? None of those lyrics are actually ironic.”
“It’s people like you,” Sasha says with a raised eyebrow, pointing at Jean, “who ruin the world.”
Jean snorts and grabs the 'Rolling Stone' out from under her hands nimbly.
“Hey!” she cries. “I was reading that!”
“Well, since you don’t care about Brit techno shit, I’ll just take that one article.” He flips to the right page and rips out the Radiohead article. Jean also thinks that Thom Yorke is hot, even with the wonky eye.
“Ugh, fine,” Sasha says, taking the magazine back when Jean hands it back to her.
Jean folds the article in half and slips it into his pocket for later, then throws himself dramatically against the counter top.
“I fucking hate closing shift,” he mopes, running a hand through his hair. “There’s always some douche who walks in, like, ten minutes before we close.”
Sasha readjusts herself on the stool and shrugs. “Whatever. I’m good as long as I don’t run out of candy. Also, your roots are growing back, just FYI.”
She takes another bite from the bracelet on her wrist, and goes back to reading the magazine.
When Jean had first met Sasha, he had thought she was diabetic. (She’s not.) Then, he’d thought she was a candy raver. (She’s not.)
She just really likes eating—everything, always. Jean still isn’t sure where it goes, though.
The record store is in pristine condition—mainly because it’s Jean and Sasha closing—and everything is in order.
“I wish we never even had to open it,” Jean says dreamily, looking at his watch. Only ten minutes to nine. “It should be like a public library, where you can just come and get all the music you want. Only we wouldn’t have any Top 40 crap.”
“So, you’d basically,” Sasha says without missing a beat, crunching on another bite of her candy bracelet, “feed your own propagandist snobbery to the masses.”
Jean straightens to look at her in surprise, and she starts laughing. “I’m taking poli-sci this semester.” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “So boring. Although you might like it... are you going to college?”
Jean can still hear Alanis Morissette wailing through Sasha’s headphones as he goes to reply, and then the obnoxious buzzer above the doors screeches.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he grumbles under his breath, straightening.
“I’ll go,” Sasha says, hopping off the stool and pausing her Discman. “Otherwise, you’ll get us fired.”
“Alright, whatever,” he retorts. “Just remember, it’s ten minutes until we can go. Just get rid of the asshole.”
She laughs a little. “Done,” she says, nodding in solidarity as she walks away toward the front door.
Jean hops up on Sasha’s vacated stool and flips through the new 'Rolling Stone.' There are some interesting things in there besides Radiohead, and he makes a note to steal it back from Sasha on his break.
The store soundtrack loop is still playing, and Jean reaches underneath the counter to shut it off to send a clear message to the douche who decided to come into the store ten minutes before it’s closing.
“Um, Jean?” Sasha says, reappearing with a confused look on her face.
“Yeah?” he replies. “Did you get rid of—”
“This guy says he’s looking for you.”
Jean’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he replies in surprise. “Uh, who is it?”
Sasha swallows hard and cocks her head to the side. “Well, first he asked for you,” she said, “and then he asked where the Top 40 section was, and then, he apologized like six times because he thought we closed at ten.”
Good Christ.
“Um,” Jean says, “okay, whatever. I’ll talk to him. Just go lock the door because fuck the next five minutes, I want to get out of here on time.”
“He’s over browsing the Top 40 section,” Sasha says, her eyes wide. “I’ll go lock the door. Uh, friend of yours?”
Jean rolls his eyes and groans. “I have no idea. Ugh, let’s just get the fuck out of here. I’ll deal with him, and then we can go.”
Sasha nods enthusiastically. “Cool,” she says. “I’m meeting Connie at that bar that just opened. Come with?”
Jean makes a face and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I should probably go home.”
“Oh, okay,” she replies with a shrug. “It’ll be fun, but whatever.”
She takes another bite of her elastic bracelet and heads off to the front door to lock up.
Jean darts a look around and finally spots a tall guy browsing Jean’s most hated section of the store.
Jean comes to stand a few feet away next to the black metal section, tapping his foot. He personally made sure that the metal section was adjacent to the Top 40, just to freak out preppy jerk-offs.
“Hey,” he finally says when the guy doesn’t turn around, “were you lookin’ for me?”
His mystery visitor finally turns around, and Jean blinks, because he looks really familiar.
“Uh, hi?” he says, baffled.
“Hi!” Top 40 guy says, smiling. “Jean?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry! I thought you guys closed at ten. My mom told me stop by.”
“Who the hell are you?” Jean blurts out.
“Oh,” the guy says, laughing a little. “Of course you wouldn’t remember me.”
“No offense, man,” Jean says, shrugging, “but I don’t.”
“Marco,” he says, extending his hand, “Marco Bodt.”
Jean’s eyes widen; now he remembers.
Marco Bodt, freckled face in the summer, jumping off the end of the pier in the lake, chasing fireflies at night...
“Oh,” Jean exclaims, “yeah, of course. Sorry! I didn’t recognize you.”
He shakes Marco’s hand awkwardly, cocking his head to the side.
Marco is wearing... a striped polo shirt with a giant Abercrombie and Fitch logo on it, khakis, and hi-tops.
Wow. But he does have a firm handshake.
Jean can’t help but suddenly feel like the polar opposite in his ripped jeans, faded Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and scuffed up Vans.
Marco’s got a killer smile, though, and Jean feels unexpectedly at ease.
“I’m back in Trost,” Marco says with a shrug, smiling a little. “I’m just sort of bumming around until I figure out what I’m doing, and my mom mentioned that your mom said you worked here, and to stop by.”
When Jean just stares at him, Marco starts to blush. “Oh no, she didn’t tell you, did she?”
“Um, no,” Jean says awkwardly. It’s not that would have minded, but he’s just taken off guard. “But it’s okay.”
Marco looks sheepish, and laughs nervously.
“Nice shirt,” Jean blurts out, and then curses himself. He’s such a douche bag when he’s nervous.
“Thanks,” Marco says, and Jean realizes he didn’t even get that it was a jab. “Um, I don’t know who Dead Kennedys are, but that’s cool.”
“We’re closing like, now,” Jean says. “So, uh...”
“Oh no, I’ll get out of your way!” Marco immediately replies, his eyebrows raising. “I’m really sorry!”
“No,” Jean says, rolling his eyes. “I was going to say... do you want to go out and get a drink or something? My friend Sasha and her boyfriend just invited me to this bar. I wasn’t going to go, but if you wanna chill for a little while, that’d be cool.”
“Oh, man,” Marco exclaims, and Jean can’t help but be reminded of ‘Leave It to Beaver,’ “that’d be great. Thanks.”
“Uh, no problem.”
“I’m not going to waste your time,” Marco says, glancing over at the wall of mainstream pop hits, “but do you have a recommendation?”
Jean just stares at him.
“I don’t know,” Marco continues, smiling sheepishly, “I know Blink 182 is really big right now, but they’re a little too edgy for me.”
“How about DC Talk,” Jean deadpans. To his surprise, though, Marco actually gets it and laughs.
“I can’t believe you remember that,” he says, still laughing.
“That fucking Christian rock shit,” Jean grumbles. “Do you know how often it haunts me in my dreams? Frequently.”
“Uh, yeah,” Marco agrees, “Bible camp wasn’t exactly all fun and rock music.”
Jean groans a little. “Don’t call it ‘rock music,’ dude. You sound like my grandpa.”
Marco’s eyebrows raise, and when Jean thinks he’s offended, he starts to laugh.
“Thanks for the tip. I’m not exactly ‘hip with the kids.’”
Jean opens his mouth to give Marco a PSA on Things Not To Say, when he realizes it was a joke.
“So,” Jean says conversationally as he goes to cash out, motioning for Marco to follow, “here’s the thing about fucking Blink 182... Wait, you drink, right? Just a beer or two, nothing crazy...”
Marco laughs, nodding, and Sasha looks exceedingly pleased that Jean has finally taken her up on a social invitation as they lock up together.
The bar they end up at is pretty low key, and Jean chooses a table in the back as Sasha goes to find Connie.
Marco settles down, his chair scraping out across the floor as he sits down across from Jean, smiling a little.
“Thanks for inviting me,” he says enthusiastically. “I haven’t been doing a lot except hanging around my mom’s house and watching Friends re-runs.”
Jean raises his eyebrows, but nods. “You went to private school away when were like, twelve, right?” Marco goes to open his mouth, and Jean interjects. “Oh, and what do you want to drink?”
Unexpectedly, he feels cripplingly impolite. He’s never given a fuck about that before, but somehow with Marco, he wants to make a good impression. Maybe it’s just because he seems so damn genuinely nice.
“Oh!” Marco says, his face becoming contemplative. “Whatever you’re having, I guess?”
“I’m having whiskey on the rocks.”
“Uh...”
“How about a beer?”
Marco smiles a little. “That’d be awesome. Thanks, Jean.”
Jean orders a whiskey on the rocks and a light beer for Marco. The bartop itself made of some sort of stone, and it’s got all kinds of ridiculous, fancy gold moulding around the mirror of the back bar.
Jean steals a glance at Marco curiously in the mirror. He’s looking around in fascination, surveying the people and the decor, taking it all in. He has a look of absolute open wonder on his face, as if he’s just stepped into a parallel universe.
He’s still got those freckles that Jean remembers from the summers they went to camp together. Marco was always the kid that was a little taller than everyone else, and helped Jean out when he dove a little too deep into the lake, or went a little too far off the trail in the woods.
He was the kid that was everyone’s friend, always protective, but he always seemed to have a soft spot for Jean.
Jean had told him to go fuck himself their last year there—right around the time that Jean learned that word “fuck”—and Marco had cried. It all started with some kind of argument about the Bible, and Marco had insisted that a true believer needed faith without sight. Jean had pushed him and said he was an idiot, told him to go fuck himself, and the rest is history.
To this day, Jean still feels bad about it.
He grabs Marco’s beer and his own whiskey, pushing the memory away with a frown, and lays down a ten dollar bill. “Thanks,” he mumbles, turning away and making his way back to their table in the corner.
“Here,” he says, pushing the drink across the table at Marco as he sits back down.
“Thanks!” Marco says brightly, smiling. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Jean says with a shrug, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Whatever.”
The ice rattles, and Marco takes a shy sip of his beer.
Jean realizes he just came off as harsh, and tries to smile. “Um,” he says, “I mean, how about you get the next one?”
That brings the smile back to Marco’s face, and he nods.
“Sounds good.”
“So,” Jean says conversationally, swirling the ice in his glass, “what are you doing back in Trost? I heard you went to some fancy boarding school or something in high school.”
Marco swallows nervously and bites his lip. “Uh, something like that. Well, yeah, I did.”
Jean takes another swallow of his whiskey and waits.
“I got into an Ivy League school,” he continues haltingly, “but I dropped out.”
“Sasha’s always complaining about her poli-sci class, so I figure college is kinda boring,” Jean says, raising an eyebrow. “But that sucks to blow an Ivy League.”
“Nervous breakdown,” Marco says with a shrug, and lowers his eyes to the table, hiding behind his beer bottle. “I mean, that’s what they called it.”
“Oh,” Jean says, feeling like a world-class tool. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay,” Marco says, his voice full of forced cheer. “I mean, who does that, right?”
“Well, lots of people, I guess,” Jean says with a shrug. “If it’s too much pressure, anyone would crack. I figure play it safe as long as your life’s not fucked up.”
Marco blinks at him and cocks his head to the side. “Oh,” he says, as if he’s not sure how to respond. “Um, well, to be honest, no one’s ever actually said that to me before.”
Jean grins at him and rests his head in his hand. “My life sucked until I got this job at the record store,” he says, feeling talkative. “I like music, I get paid, and I can live comfortably. What else is there? I don’t want to deal with extra bullshit.”
Marco smiles a little. “Yeah, that’s not a bad philosophy.”
“It’s the best fucking philosophy. Now drink up, Bodt.”
Jean smiles at him, taking a long gulp of his whiskey, enjoying the way it burns down his throat. He has to admit that they must make a weird pair to any bystanders—Jean there in his ratty jeans and band t-shirt, and Marco, in his preppy ensemble.
“So, uh, what’s with the wholesome look?” Jean asks.
“Wholesome?” Marco asks in surprise.
“You know,” Jean continues, “the whole preppy look.”
“I thought these were just clothes,” Marco replies with raised eyebrows, looking down at his outfit. “Uh, you’re the one who’s dressed like you’re going to a fashion show.”
“A fashion show?!” Jean exclaims, laughing. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at some poseur shit like that.”
“You look like you belong in a magazine. And your hair especially.”
Jean pokes Marco in his polo-shirted arm. “You gotta understand something really important. Forget your clothes... but fuck Blink 182, okay? They suck. Like, they suck so hard that a fucking sinkhole in Florida couldn’t suck harder.”
“Um, wow.”
“It’s true.”
“I’m not going to tell you what else I listen to,” Marco says cautiously, straightening his striped polo shirt self-consciously.
Jean laughs. “You ever heard of Radiohead?”
“Um, no, but I like what’s on the radio. So...”
“Oh my god, are you serious right now?”
“Yes... ?”
“Do you want another beer while I explain the virtues of all the music that doesn’t suck that I’m going to give you tomorrow?”
Marco grins, looking eager. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Okay, first of all, have you got a record player...?”