HP one shots

Reading the Signs // Tomarry

Summary:

He comes every Wednesday for the Wednesday special, stands at the same machine all the way until closing time, and never says a word.

It takes Tom four months to find out the kid's actually a famous rhythm game champion, another month to get his name, and (embarrassingly) another month to figure it out. Harry—with his green eyes and messy hair and round, clunky glasses—is completely, utterly mute.
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He comes every Wednesday for the Wednesday special, stands at the same machine all the way until closing time, and never says a word.

Tom blinks slow, resisting the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes and yawn. He grabs a paper wristband, slips it onto the kid's wrist—so small; what does this kid eat?—and presses the two end pieces slathered in adhesive together. Then, like he's being doing for the past dozen of Wednesdays since he's gotten the job at Borgin and Burke's Arcade, says—

"Enjoy. We close at ten today."

Then he points to the laminated sign to his left, which states in big bold Arial font that "From six in the evening to ten at night on Mondays and Wednesdays, unlimited games for a cheap payment of ten pounds!" It's been hanging up for so long that the sign is wrinkled despite the lamination, with smudges of brown on the sides from who-knows-what and folded tape along the edges where it's been taken off and reapplied.

It's about as boring and cheap as a sign can be. Still, like always, the kid smiles patiently, nods in understanding, and leaves Tom to do whatever he does at the counter until the end of his shift. Hell, Tom thinks, the boy probably knows the deal better than him, having been a customer for longer than he's been an employee.

Every Wednesday, without fail, from six in the evening to ten at closing, the boy comes. He can't be much older than fifteen, can't be much younger either. Definitely a student, but university or high school, Tom doesn't know. He's attending the local uni himself, and he's never seen the kid around. But there's several thousand students and only one Tom, so what would he know?

The other minimum wage workers at the arcade know him, too. Never causes any trouble. Doesn't break the machine (though, has been around long enough to report a malfunction or two), and is nice enough despite not being much of a talker. Actually, Tom's pretty sure he's never heard the kid talk. Like, at all.

Which is saying something. Borgin and Burke's isn't the average run down, barely functioning, why hasn't this closed yet arcade. It's popular. The locals call it B&B, and people from out of town even make the drive over in order to play. The stock is wide and plentiful, ranging from crane machines to old classics, driving simulations and shooters all the way to Asian rhythm games.

Monday and Wednesday nights are special, what with the no-token wristband deal, and so the crowd that comes in isn't unsubstantial. Often times, there's a queue for the more popular machines, and the one the kid specifically plays at all the time is one of them. It's surprising that he never talks to the other players, even more surprising that they don't really talk to him either, despite socializing among themselves fairly freely.

Everyone knows the kid though, specifically him, even out of all the other regulars. He comes at six sharp, stays until they're locking up. One day, every week, without fail. No one really knows his name.

But when you talk about him, everyone knows who you're talking about.

And it's not out of infamy either, Tom knows, because no one ever insults him or whines about him or complains, even when he stays so long. Actually, the boy might as well be popular among his coworkers—specifically the women. He's heard more than once their wistful sighing over how amazing his eyes are, or how they'd like to run a hand through his hair, or how is his skin so smooth and soft? Would he give them tips if they asked?