This is a sort of companion fic/slight sequel to the last fic I wrote, “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.” That one was named for/inspired by a Pearl Jam song. This one is named for a Radiohead song and inspired by a Kesha song, “The Harold Song,” which I had to scrap for the title (because it made a terrible title,) but which still plays a role in the fic. I don’t actually hate Starbucks, by the way; Soul doesn’t speak for me, though I sometimes speak for Soul.
This one is just as angsty as the first, for which I’m sorry. For those of you who asked for more, here it is. Two paragraphs at the very end also brush up against smut—they aren’t explicit, but NSFW just to be safe.
Thanks, as usual, go to rebornfromash for reading through the thing. Mwah.
And true love waits
In haunted attics
And true love lives
On lollipops and crisps.
Just don’t leave
He really hated Starbucks, but it had been a rough morning and he needed his caffeine fix. He’d dreamt of her again last night. This time, he was at her funeral, looking down at her cold body, lifeless, frozen in time.
She looked just like she had then, holding his hand so tightly, wearing his jacket as she declared that people always disappointed.
Even him. He was not her exception. He wasn’t her one, even if she was his.
He’d thought, then, if he didn’t go back, he could get over that, get over her.
He was wrong.
The line was interminably long this morning, full of people in suits and ties in far too big a rush. And the music!
The indie-emo crap they generally played was bad enough, but today it was straight out pop. He cringed. Fucking Starbucks.
He tried not to listen, but music had a way of invading his headspace no matter what he did. It always had.
At least the singer had a decent voice.
"We promised that this would last forever but now I see," she crooned over the speakers to a mix of subdued instrumentals. "It was my past life, a beautiful time. Drunk off of nothing but each other ‘til the sunrise."
Well, that wasn’t apropos or anything.
"They say that true love hurts, well this could almost kill me. Young love murdered, that is what this must be. I would give it all to not be sleeping alone. Alone."
And certainly not painful. His palms itched as he waited, two people still ahead of him. He thought he recognized the singer’s voice—someone his daughter was a fan of he was pretty sure. The fact that she would have probably liked the song, too, wasn’t helping.
"The life is fading from me while you watch my heart bleed. Young love murdered, that is what this must be. I would give it all to not be sleeping alone—"
Fuck it. He really couldn’t take listening to some teen pop star expose his bleeding heart any longer. Rude or not, he shoved in his ear buds and sighed as Miles Davis’ trumpet crooned sweetly into his ear.
Much better. Even if the words still haunted him. Young love murdered—that was the story of his life in a nutshell.
Thirty years later, it still hurt just as much. He was certain it would still hurt on his death bed.
Young love murdered. His heart murdered.
It was his turn.
He didn’t even bother removing his headphones, kept Miles firmly in his ear as he asked for a tall Americano, threw down a ten, and told the cashier to keep the change.
"What name?" The cashier mouthed as Miles played on.
"Soul. My name is Soul."
When the coffee came up, he left quickly.