Ryden Oneshots

What A Pity That It Is (To Write You In A Song)

What A Pity That It Is (To Write You In A Song)

Ryan’s been working at this Hot Topic for exactly three weeks and four days, and if he’s honest, he has the exact hour he started buried somewhere in the file cabinets in his brain. It’s the worst job he’s ever had, and also the first one, because he doesn’t think an after-school detention of alphabetizing Mr. Bronson’s bookshelf really counts as a job.

“Hey. Brian.”

Ryan’s gotten tired of correcting her. He wonders why they don’t just wear fucking name tags. “Yeah, Audrey?”

“You put the new order of Linkin Park t-shirts on the wrong rack.” He absolutely does not struggle not to roll his eyes. “See? They’re supposed to match with the frames on the wall.” Audrey gestures, as if he could somehow miss it.

Linkin Park. Fuck. They wanted to try to blend genres, make it interesting, but they don’t know punk and they can’t rap. Like a toddler mixing together red and green and wondering why the color turned out to be shit-brown.

“Yeah, sorry.”

He’s not really sorry and she gets this look on her face like she knows he’ll mess up again, and continue not to be sorry the next time, but she lets it go. She huffs, making the choppy pink bangs on her forehead flare up, and says nothing else.

The worst job he’s ever had. Right. It seems fun in theory because Ryan loves music. After spending so much of his time with his ear Not pressed up against the door to listen to what incessant bullshit his parents were fighting about, he got used to drowning it out with music. He thinks it’s probably typical teenage shit, but it means something to him, so.

This is definitely not what he had in mind, though. To be fair to himself, the last time he visited a Hot Topic was when he was twelve, and they were still selling the good Blink-182 shirts. So he arrives for an interview after a lengthy online application and sees the Justin Bieber merch on the walls and, well. He needs a job, okay? So he answers the right questions in the right ways.

Now he’s selling rubber bracelets with that Twilight guy’s face on it to pre-teens with badly-dip-dyed hair and he hates his job and practically everything it stands for. He’d quit if he didn’t desperately need this. Plus, going home right after school doesn’t sound appealing anymore. Ryan’s gotten used to getting home long after his dad drank himself to sleep and, okay, he likes that part. If he’s being honest.

Audrey pops her gum loudly, which can only be done to annoy him. She hasn’t been there for very long, maybe only a few weeks longer than him, but she acts like she’s superior anyways. “Slow day,” she says, and pops it again, even louder this time, as if it could be fucking possible.

“Mm.” They’ve fulfilled the quota for their conversation today, so if all goes according to tradition, she should barely open her mouth for the next couple hours.

Except things don’t like going according to tradition.

“Hey, Audrey!”

If songbirds could speak, it would probably sound like the way this guy talks. Ryan makes a strong effort not to bite the inside of his cheek when he approaches, this kid with this ridiculous grin and an unfortunate haircut. “Can we help you?” he asks, before Audrey can even open her mouth.