[stirringupsunshine]

open: to everyone !!

where: rossi's

The kitchen at Rossi's was loud, but in the way Ollie liked. The ovens roared, timers consistently beeped, and someone was yelling for more dough from the back like they might die soon without it. Flour dusted the front of his black shirt despite the apron he donned. Ollie pushed back his curls with the back of his wrist as he slid a pizza into the oven with practiced ease. The jingle of the bell sounding out over the door quickly stole his attention.

"I'm gonna be honest with you," Ollie called out from behind the line, not even waiting to see who had walked in yet. "All of the ovens are full, so it might be a little bit of a wait. I'm on a roll tonight though, so I'll go as quickly as possible! And throw in a drink for free while you wait." Ollie wiped his hands on a towel and then finally looked up properly to greet them with a bright grin.

"So, what are we thinking? The usual, something new... or do you want to be surprised?"

[staticvoids]

Arden pushed through the door of Rossi’s, the bell jingling like it was announcing trouble. The heat from the ovens hit him first, then the smell of dough and sauce and that faint char of pepperoni crisping up. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, shoulders hunched a bit against the noise, but his eyes flicked straight to the bloke behind the line—Ollie, curls wild, flour everywhere, grinning like the place wasn’t on fire. He let out a low chuckle, dry and a touch sarcastic, stepping closer to the counter so he didn’t have to shout over the chaos. “Evening, mate,” Arden said, words clipped and rolling off the tongue easy.

“Usual’s tempting, innit? But I’m feeling reckless tonight. Surprise me. Just don’t make it one of them pineapple monstrosities, yeah? I’ll walk right back out if I see fruit on my pizza.” He leaned an elbow on the counter, dark eyes scanning the menu board like he hadn’t already memorised half of it in the six months he’d been haunting this town. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his rebellious edge still there even in something as simple as ordering food, “And cheers for the free drink. I’ll take a Coke if you’re offering. Proper cold,—none of that flat, lukewarm rubbish.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “You look like you’re about to conquer the world back there. Or at least feed half of the town before it closes. Is it usually this chaotic?”

[staticvoids]

ARDEN ASHCROFT has been spotted in town. They have been living here for 6 MONTHS in THE OUTSKIRTS TRAILER PARK. They are COURAGIOUS and REBELLIOUS, as far as newcomers should be concerned when approaching them at THE MUSIC INN where they work as CLERK. 

name: arden “ren” ashcroft age: 33 (10/31) sexuality: bisexual hometown: walthamstow, london current town: ennora, new york ( 6 months) muse inspo: various songs from green day

🅿🆁🅴🆂🆂 🅿🅻🅰🆈

arden grew up in walthamstow, in a rougher pocket of east london—tower blocks, grey drizzle, the kind of estate where the lifts were always broken and the corner shop sold everything except hope. his mum worked nights, his dad drank the days away, and the radio was the one thing that ever felt like it belonged to him. he was restless from the start. usually kicking footballs against walls until the neighbors yelled, scribbling lyrics in the margins of schoolbooks he barely opened, teaching himself guitar on a cheap second-hand one he saved up for.

by his mid-teens he was sneaking into pubs to watch local bands, lying about his age, soaking up the noise and the sweat and the feeling that maybe he wasn’t the only one who felt like the world was too small. he played in terrible garage bands through his late teens—loud, sloppy, full of energy and not much else. they’d play to ten people and still feel like the most important thing in the universe. he chased free-spirited people, chased nights, chased anything that drowned out the quiet that creeped in when he was alone. fights, fast laughs, loud chords, nights that smelled like beer and smoke.

at nineteen he packed a bag and left walthamstow behind, moving to the states—first la because it sounded like where things happened, then drifting through smaller cities, never quite settling. he worked whatever paid: barista, record-store clerk, delivery driver, anything that left him enough hours to write half-finished songs in notebooks he never showed anyone. got clean-ish, relapsed, got clean-ish again. the years blurred and suddenly he realized he wanted to anchor himself. somewhere. somehow.

six months ago he landed in ennora on a whim. he’s been working at music inn for five months and loves it. most days he’s scribbling random inspiration in the notepad he carries everywhere, or sneaking behind the shop to smoke a joint and watching the sky for a moment.