Eleven

A draft of a sci-fi story that I am writing.
Next installment: ??

👑 Chapter 4

“I just thought of something.” Peter is laying in the infirmary bed, staring at the ceiling.

“What is it, love?” Greta asks, not looking up from where she’s reapplying ointment to his arm.

“If we were in a book, this would be where our stories would end.”

Greta smiles, happiness welling up in her chest. “And what a happy ending this is.”

“On the contrary,” Peter replies, grinning, “I think it’s a happy beginning.”

Greta bites her lip, looking at Peter with adoration. He raises his eyebrows. She leans down and, cupping her hands around his face, kisses him deeply. Greta loves the feeling of Peter’s rough, chapped lips on hers. Peter breathes in the familiar smell of Greta’s clean, flower-scented soap.

Greta pulls back but doesn’t sit up straight quite yet. Her lips still close to his, she whispers, “I can’t believe just a few months ago all I knew of you was the scar across your nose.”

“Poetic,” he replies. “Now you practically know all of my secrets.”

“One of which being that you have a big mouth.”

“That’s the least secret secret.”

Greta rolls her eyes, squeezing his hand and sitting back up. He massages his leg. “What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, reaching to his leg.

“It’s fine,” he answers just as quickly.

“Do we need to change the bandage?” she asks knowingly.

Peter sighs. “Yes. We need to change the bandage. Ugh.” He flops down to the bed.

Greta tuts disapprovingly. “Peter! You need to tell me these things.”
“But I haaate changing the bandage.”

“I know it’s gross and it hurts. But it will help. Your. Healing.” She pinches his cheek as she says the last words. He bats her hand away, and they laugh.

Greta leans over, pushing away the blanket. She rolls up the leg of his trousers. She does not flinch at the soggy strips of bandage covered in pus. Methodically, gently, like the doctor she wanted to be, she peels away the oldness. A mess of pus and raw flesh greets her. She holds in any adverse reaction. “Healing as normal. I know it’s not what you want to see,” she adds when Peter makes a face, “but trust me, this is part of the process.”

“I trust you,” Peter concedes. He watches closely as she, with clean hands, cuts and wraps new gauze and off-white cotton strips. When she’s covered it up fully, and it is firmly but not too tightly wrapped, she pats the area as a finishing touch.

He smiles, yawns. Lays back down on the bed and dozes off. She watches him for a moment, then, heart full, tucks herself in to the adjacent hospital bed. The last thing Greta sees is the deep rise and fall of Peter’s breaths.

⭐ Chapter 5

Mio is currently crashing out behind the counter.

From the outside, he looks like he is staring straight ahead, diligently watching for the next customer. From the inside, as Elle Woods would say, this is his personal circle of hell. But even more hell to him if anyone knew he’d watched Legally Blonde: The Musical. They close their eyes. This has been a shit day. And to top it off, they’re playing My Chemical Romance in the shop today. The music everyone expects him to obsess over for some reason. No one knows they like Taylor Swift. No one will ever know. It’s just Mio and this stupid music reverberating throughout his brain, driving him crazy, making him think about all the mistakes he made today and every day and five years ago and —

“Mio.”

They start, eyes flying open. Chelsea is staring at him. Through the million-words-tornado in his head, he somehow picks out a “What?” to offer to Chelsea.

Fortunately, Chelsea has not noticed his anxious spiral. How could she? “Go take a chair,” she says. “I’ll do the counter for a while.” Touche. Maybe she’s more perceptive than Mio thought.

Without arguing, he shuffles over to one of the chairs. He likes this one; there are a lot of stickers and ripped-out magazine pages put up around the mirror.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Within a minute, the bell dings, and a customer walks in. Mio looks up.

When they look up, Mio is surprised that they aren’t physically pushed backward by this person’s presence. A tall, casually dressed, shaggy-curly-haired, FRECKLED person has walked in. Oh. My. God. Hot person alert. Hot person alert. Mio does not realize their own jaw dropping until they feel the wind blowing in. They snap their mouth shut.

The newcomer seems to radiate golden light. They look around the shop with wonder. Several customers turn to stare at them, as they’ve almost literally brightened the room.

Their eyes meet Mio’s. Mio’s jaw snaps shut.

Why are they looking at me? Why are they coming closer? Why are they approaching me why are they so attractive why do they have so many freckles aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa —

“Excuse me?”

“Y —” Mio has to clear his throat. “Yes? Er. How can I help you?”

“What is this place?” the person asks.

This brings Mio back to reality slightly. His brow furrows. “What do you mean? This is Rudy’s.”

“Rudy’s? This place is owned by Rudy? Who is Rudy?”

“… Yes?”

“Can I meet this Rudy? I need to ask them the purpose of their establishment.”

“Oh, um … This is a barbershop.”

“A barbershop!” The tall person looks delighted. “What in heavens is that?”

Mio stares at them. “You don’t know what a barbershop is?”

The person’s eyes widen. “Er … am I supposed to?”

Mio is so taken aback that he just opens his mouth, closes it, and then shrugs. “Maybe not. I don’t know. This is a place where you get haircuts.”

“Hair … cuts? Why would you need to cut your hair?”

Mio is absolutely dumbfounded. This person is probably on drugs, he realizes. You know what? They don’t seem dangerous, he decides in a spark of irrationality. Why don’t I just entertain them for a little longer. A hot person asking me what a haircut is? This is easily the best thing that’s happened to me today.

“Because it grows out,” he finally answers.

“Grows …! Incredible!” the person squeals, jumping up and down. “My hair grows! Can I have a hair-cut?”

Mio scratches his head. “Uh… Sure. Sure, sit down here.” There’s no way this person has money on them, nags his thoughts. A second voice in his head answers the first: Shut up and let me have some fun for once.

The person eagerly sits down in Mio’s empty chair. They examine their own face in the mirror. They smile, admiring themselves from every angle.

“So … What kind of haircut do you want?” Mio asks, smiling at the newcomer’s vanity.

“Cut all my hair off!” they squeal.

Mio’s eyes widen. “Uh … okay.”

But the hot person is already squinting at Mio in the mirror. “You don’t like that, do you.”

“What?” Mio says quickly. “No, it’s fine. I can give you … a buzz cut.” He cringes internally.

“Hmmm …” they say. “No, do what you would want to do.”

Take the opportunity, the weird rebellious voice in Mio’s head whispers. He relents, “Well, I guess I would fade the sides, but leave the top long to show off your curls.”

“Fade!?— nope, no more questions,” the person scolds themselves. “Yes! Do it!” he tells Mio.

Mio laughs. This is ridiculous. “If you don’t like it, it will grow back quickly,” he points out, but the newcomer waves him off.

So he gets to work. Soon enough his number two razor has created a small pile of curls on the floor, the hot person gasping each time hair falls away from their scalp. They seem to be holding back a million questions. Mio doesn’t understand how they don’t even know what a razor is.

As Mio is touching up, the person blurts, “My name is Ray, by the way. I use he and him pronouns.”

Mio looks up in surprise. “Um … Mio. He/they.”

“Pleasure to meet you!” Ray says, completely unironically.

Is he British? Mio thinks. No, that can’t be right. The British have razors … and accents …“It’s done,” he says out loud, untying Ray’s protective cape.

“Woooowwwww!!!” Ray exclaims, turning his head. “That is beautiful.” He hops down from his chair. “Thank you so much! I will come back tomorrow!” he says while bowing low. Then he sprints out the door.

“Wait, you need to pay …” Mio says halfheartedly. He sighs. Wait — come back tomorrow? He facepalms. This boy is ridiculous. But he’s smiling. And I know his name.