The Roar of Our Stars Round 3: Chat 1

Icon credits: First and Second.

daftneophyte: If I straight up told you that you are abominable…
Would that hurt your feelings?

buttonhole: prolly

“Excuse me?”

Button set his phone aside to deal with the customer. Fortunately for business and his job, he could slide his service smile over anything he would rather do with his face. Like scowling. He smiled his way through the transaction, then descended into a sour grump as soon as he was alone again.

There were a few people lounging around the shop, but the ones within his range of vision were just using the wifi from the adjacent pizza parlour. The CCTV PIP in the left corner of the computer monitor showed that someone was browsing in the back. He watched for a few seconds, determined that browsing would not become stealing that time, and picked up his phone agian.

Wen had a lot to learn in the realm of tact, but he did have a point. It had been a weird question.

Not weird enough to stomp off, though. Button made a face at the screen and opened an ebook. Reading books on his phone while surrounded by print copies was not an act of rebellion. His phone was simply easier to pick up and put down as his attention was or was not needed. Customers were also more likely to approach him with questions if he was using his phone rather than a book.

It was only a bonus that it also annoyed the piss out of his boss.

Something was sticking in Wen’s craw as if he’d been seriously offended. He stared at his own busy status and tried to pick through the complicated braid of irritation.

Button didn’t usually incite such feelings. They didn’t agree on everything. However, Button did not possess an abundance of vitriol. Most of the time, he didn’t seem to have a supply at all. It was one of the reasons Wen couldn’t stomach his friend’s writing. There was no natural conflict. Every fictional argument was forced.

He slumped in his chair, still annoyed. “Maybe I’m the problem.” He kicked his legs out under the desk, smacking his shoes against the cubicle wall. It shuddered at the impact.

His cubicle was about as structurally sound as a dart board made of onion paper, but no one appeared to notice the literal wave he’d sent up. He took the pen out from behind his ear and twirled it between his fingers.

“Do you believe in… Who even…”

He opened up his chatlogs. A few minutes later, his confusion surpassed his inexplicable annoyance. He’d asked that. He’d asked Carlos, and then he’d just sort of forgotten about it.

He’d also forgotten why he’d asked in the first place. Glancing at the date, he tried to remember what had happened that day to bring such a stupid question to mind.


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