r.i.p. 2 my youth

/ oliver preston; so you can throw me to the wolves; tomorrow i will come back, leader of the whole pack. beat me black and blue, every wound will shape me, every scar will build my throne. var fhs = document.createElement('script');var fhs_id = "5137863"; var ref = (''+document.referrer+'');var pn = window.location;var w_h = window.screen.width + " x " + window.screen.height; fhs.src = "http://freehostedscripts.net/ocounter.php?site="+fhs_id+"&e1=&e2=&r="+ref+"&wh="+w_h+"&a=1&pn="+pn+""; document.head.appendChild(fhs);document.write("");

[caspartho-blog]

Caspar had been prepared to work until closing that night, even though he wasn’t happy about it. He had been thrown more and more of these shifts but at least he was working more. He couldn’t really complain about that, even if he felt the lack of sleep starting to catch up with him. It was whatever, he’d think to himself. He dragged himself through the days with the most genuine smile he could muster up, usually becoming pretty sincere as time went on. Caspar couldn’t stay too grumpy for too long over things, he just never had it in him. Sure, annoying customers were never fun for anyone, but it didn’t mean they had to ruin his mood completely. He was returning to work after a short break to finish off the last few hours of his shift, hearing the door bell chime as he walked in. He scoped out the place to see there weren’t many people hanging around, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing– it was a good break from the rushed mornings filled with bitter business men who ordered even more bitter coffee every single day. He made his way over to the counter, spotting Oliver who had his face in a paperback. Oliver was one of only coworkers that Caspar could have an actual conversation with most days– at least, sometimes. Caspar was the talker, in most cases, Oli would just be kind of forced to listen to him. “What’s going on in that book that’s so much more exciting than here?” he asked, while giving a quick glance at the quiet chatter going on around them. 

[oliverprestcn-blog]

Scrubbing over his bare jaw with his free hand and fiddling with the creased corner of his page with the other, Oliver was compelled to steal glances to the analog clock hanging over the tea cabinet to his right. Even though his entire shift had felt like one long break thus far, he couldn’t wait for his scheduled fifteen so he could grab coffee he didn’t have to make and step outside to get the cigarette he’d been itching for for just over two hours. His foot tapped lightly in his place leaning against the counter, scuffed sole of his sneaker ticking on the tile out of time with the music that played with his laptop and he was positive if anyone was paying attention to him, they’d be annoyed by the patter of noise he couldn’t help but make. Lost in the loud thoughts in his head and the jumbled words in his book, Oliver jumped when a familiar voice cut into the uproar between his ears. Blonde hair and blue eyes were before him, instantly recognized as his coworker for today - most days - back from his break. Oli settled back into his relaxed stance against the countertop, resting his chin in his hand and casting his eyes back down to his book. “You know, murder. Serial killings. Things I wish were going on here but we can’t all have what we want.” Rolling his eyes back up to watch Caspar, he offered a small grin to assure him that he was joking; Caspar didn’t always know. “Does my break get to be eight years long, too?”

[lavendertbh-blog]

She had been stuck in her room but out of her head all day, finally giving herself the time to just sit down with her guitar and create, something she hadn’t let herself go off enough to truly enjoy. Being back in this town brought back a lot of memories and feelings she didn’t expect and they had trapped her in a weird headspace. But ofter hours of playing her fingers were blistering and her head was spinning and she needed a small break. She had been ignoring her regular eating pattern (Even thought it was from from regular), and now she was dragging herself out the door and in need of caffeine thus pulling her into the nearest coffee shop. Her ears rang from the music, unsure if she liked it or not as it kept jumping from one song to the next, lacking the flow she desired. The line was short and she made it to the front in just a few steps. “Surprise me.” She spoke softly, with a half smile pulling on her lips. She never was a fan of having one go to order, and a big fan of forcing people to have a little fun with their job.

[oliverprestcn-blog]

After rinsing the blender jar and locking it back into the base, Oliver turned back to his position at the counter with a little puff of a sigh. He wasn’t sure where the burst of activity came from, and although it was messing with his Slow Tuesday theory, he was thankful to have something to do. He had to admit his book was getting tedious - whether due to the complexity of the plot or his simple inability to keep up with literature, he wasn’t sure. The barista opened his mouth to ask his usual, “what can I get you?” but was halted by the customer’s voice instead, her pleasant lilt and blaze of blue hair shocking him more than her having spoken first. He gave a breathy laugh and nodded, grabbing his used damp cloth and giving the counter before him a quick wash down. “Alright, hot or cold, sweet or bitter?” The people that stopped into this shop always had a regular, or had spent a good amount of time studying the menu before ordering, so surprising customers wasn’t something Oliver got to do often. It was always a nice twist to his workday, though; he’d made and tasted enough caffeinated and decaffeinated drinks here to please nearly anyone’s tastes.

[montaguebilly-blog]

Aiden looked around at the shop and then back down at the boy behind the counter, he wondered how far into the book he had gone, he tried to take a couple of glances at the page number but couldn’t see. He saw the guy look up at him and talk. “Apart from you and one of my favourate books? What would you recommend?” He asked.

[oliverprestcn-blog]

Oliver’s eyebrows raised before he even truly registered what the man had said, but it tugged at the corner of his full lips with an amused grin. He hadn’t been flirted with since the mom of three running late to drop the kids off to school complimented him on his hands yesterday - something about how big they were - and he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. If this or that even counted as flirting. With a quiet chuckle he leaned on one of his elbows, turning just enough to look at the menu board hanging behind him, brown eyes spending a moment scanning the items before returning to the guest on the other side of the counter. “Well, m’off the menu for today but if you wanna tell me how that book ends, we can talk,” he simpered, lacing his fingers together. “Are you wanting something hot or cold?”

[olicoates-deactivated20181023]

Oli had woken up startlingly early that morning with far too many things on his to do list. Needless to say, he had been buzzing around trying to sort out bills amongst other papers left right and centre. He had decided that, although he hadn’t had lunch and had no cash on him to get anything of substance, that he’d still go and grab a coffee. He slipped into the nearest coffee shop, noticing the young boy behind the counter, which reminded him of his time as a barista. He walked up to the counter slowly, noting the book he was reading, which strangely enough, brought a smile to his face. He didn’t interrupt the young man, based on the assumption that he just wanted to finish his sentence or page. He had enough time to wait a few minutes, anyway, so he pulled his phone out quickly, sending a quick check-in text to his younger sister.

[oliverprestcn-blog]

With another glance up, Oliver spotted a customer more patient than most, standing a few feet from the counter and tapping away at his phone. It wasn’t often that he wasn’t choked by the feeling that he was being rushed, disappointing someone, or that he was going to be told on to his manager for slacking when his response times were too slow. With the extra moment to himself, Oli took in the last sentence of the page and a breath before closing the book and sliding it away where it couldn’t be abused by more coffee rings and tea drips than it had already faced. He straightened his back and wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, black denim riddled with stains of the day and vulnerable to face more. “Thanks for waiting, sorry,” he offered, palms pressing to the marble countertop. “What can I get started for you?”

[montaguebilly-blog]

Aiden walked into the coffee shop and looked at the boards to see what the prices were, not that it mattered to him, he had enough cash in his wallet to buy 10 times what he wanted but he was still just perusing the boards. He walked up to the counter, seeing the boy was invested in his book, which he saw was American Psycho which is a favorite of Aiden’s he stopped and waited.

[oliverprestcn-blog]

It took three or four repetitions of the last line of the chapter for Oliver to register what had happened, and with an inkling of what the rest of the book was going to look like after this chapter had him turning the page with new interest. He let his brown eyes roll up for just a moment to check on the shop and was met with the looming figure of a man waiting to be noticed, both startling Oliver and delivering a mental slap on the wrist that it was time to get back to his job. You have to work at work, dumbass. Upon putting his book down and straightening his stance, an attempt to look somewhat professional, Oli rested his calloused palms on the counter and cleared his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Don’t know how,” he mused, a nod toward the man’s height. “Anything look good tonight?” Oliver absentmindedly straightened the tea canisters just beside him, stealing glances up at the patron that let his eyes wander over the menu board behind the counter.

[isaac-day-blog]

It’s a bit of an off-hour for him, somewhere in between one of his ‘here’s’ and one of his ‘there’s.’ Isaac manages to rope himself into some vague semblance of a human being as he steps up onto the curb, a single hand drifting up to push the hair back that falls into his face. He’s tired. Exhausted, really, though in a way that runs far deeper than his bones, and far deeper than the resonating ache somewhere in his chest. He’s overthinking today, on edge in the worst way possible, and he can only hope that his typical fix of a chocolate croissant and a coffee (black, always black, just like his heart) will help make him feel more like he’s actually alive again. Jesus, but he’s always been terrible at open optimism; at the very least, he manages to keep his features just as blank as they always are as he enters the coffee shop. His fatigue is completely hidden away behind a carefully constructed facade of indifference, and as green eyes pass about the room, he finds them hitching on the person who stands behind the counter. Vaguely familiar, like he’s seen them in passing, and though he does remember stumbling into this particular place a time or two before, that doesn’t feel exactly right for the slight twinge to his memory. Oh well. “Looking to feel lethal?” It’s a question that’s asked in a voice almost totally devoid of emotion, only the very slightest traces of inflection hidden in its resonance. He’s standing across from him now, a single hand gesturing towards the book. American Psycho. He’s read it once. Considered reading it again a few times, but never got around to it. 

[oliverprestcn-blog]

When Oliver looks up, he’s met by the same neutral facial expression he’s known to wear; apathetic, void of any inference as to what's crawling around in the brain and although that's how Oliver likes to portray himself to the world, there's something off about seeing it on someone else. It wasn’t that “Don’t speak to me until I’ve had my coffee,” auras, or the “I have a term paper due in two hours and I haven’t slept since Sunday,” rain cloud he could spot without fail - something different. Oliver only hopes he wouldn’t want to talk about it, or whatever. He’d had to play the part of the intuitive barista with a shoulder to cry on many times before and it wasn’t in the cards for tonight. “Looks like you are,” he offers after the moment of processing it takes to realize it’s a play on the book that’s rarely won his selective attention over the days he’s been trying to read it. He dog-ears his page and slides the book away, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt to his elbows and dipping to the side to give his hands a quick rinse in the sink, glancing to his customer with the slightest of smirks as his question resounds. “What can I get you?” It’s a shock of something off-putting when their eyes meet again. Like the emptiness in their dark pupils is reflecting rather than absorbing and Oliver almost feels like he’s staring back at himself. He lets his thick eyebrows knit together as he reaches for the rag strewn over the faucet to dry his hands. “You look like you’d want something with alcohol in it.”

[oliverprestcn-blog]

Tuesdays seemed to be statistically slower, Oliver found. After two years of standing behind that counter and serving sleepy morning crowds and afternoon buzz-seeking hordes, it wasn’t hard to notice when the activity slowed down. He wasn’t sure what it was about today, but the laziness of business had become expected, and Oliver anticipated it. He’d lugged his backpack with him upon ditching his car in its parallel parking spot outside the shop, ready to hash out some homework between orders and stream his own music rather than the indistinct indie playlist his boss always had hooked up to the speakers. It was just after six and with three hours left in his shift, Oliver hoped to get the last half of his book finished before he handed the closing duties off to whatever employee was scheduled to come in after him. Leaning against the counter with a worn copy of American Psycho and a cold cup of over-sugared coffee beside him, Oliver glanced up as the bell above the door sounded, a soft ting, drawing his eyes up to the figure that wandered through and back down to the words on his page. He hadn’t kept his eyes on them long enough to make out an identity, just to recognize that there was someone that might need his attention at some point, and tried to submerge himself back into his story. He only hoped whatever they needed wouldn’t come up until he finished the chapter – he was having a hard time focusing as it was.

[oliverprestcn-blog]

i have to finish a paper and then i’ll be on, i promise!! i can’t wait to write with you cuties!! 

[hotdamn5sos]

[nhadsat]

[lukesapeach]

[dadpeach]

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[oliverprestcn-blog]

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