blue scooter


This afternoon this guy in the pink shirt, riding the blue scooter, got behind us on our way to Sam’s. He pulled into Walmart. We went to Sam’s and Kroger. On our way back, about an hour later, David told me, you’ll never believe this, but do you know who’s behind us now? The guy in the scooter!! We laughed. I don’t know but we thought it was funny as he was a funny looking guy in his scooter.

Two Guys, One Scooter--A Secret Santa Fic

This holiday fic is a gift for my non-fandom secret santa recipient @paintmeahero. It is late, for which I’m sorry, but hopefully it is both intelligible and enjoyable nonetheless.

Thanks go to @ilarual and @bendandcurl for the eyes, as well as @therewithasmile who looked at the beginning. Also, Salt Chat gets credit for LYLAS.

This is a silly, cracky, fluffy HS AU inspired by nothing more than my actual real life amusement at recently having seen two guys on a tiny motor scooter.  TWICE.

You can also read it on FFN and AO3.

It begins innocently enough. Soul has broken his pencil, and his good friend (who he maybe kind of sort of really likes in a not friend sort of way) has finished her exam predictably early and excused herself to the restroom, so he helps himself to her bag to find something else to write with.

Instead, he finds something wrapped in festive holiday paper with a card taped to the top, his name scrawled on the envelope with a heart drawn around it. A heart. What does that mean? Hell, why has she gotten him a gift? Sure it’s the last day before winter break, but they never exchange holiday gifts.

Except, apparently, now they do.

Well, shit.

Soul manages to stop gaping into her bag like a hooked fish long enough to find a pencil and return to his half finished test.

Desperate times–he hasn’t studied anyway, so he employs the Star method of exam taking and makes patterns in the bubbles, finishing quickly. He is handing in his own exam and excusing himself to the restroom when Maka returns. Offering her a small wave, he goes to seek the one person who might be able to get him out of this mess.

Blake “call me Black Star” Barrett is, rather predictably, in the boys bathroom, flexing in the mirror. With his eye-searingly blue hair, he is hard to miss. The kid spends half his time away from class, his inability to focus legendary, and the toilets are a favorite hangout for whatever reason. Personally, Soul hates them; they always reek of urine, shit, and cheap pot– foulness incarnate–and he’d rather hold his piss all day than step foot inside when he can help it. Most days, he can help it.

But again, desperate times. He has three classes until lunch, three classes to try to get Maka a present without her realizing he didn’t have one to begin with, and Blake is the only person he knows with both a propensity to ditch and his own transportation.

“Eater, my man!” Star greets him with an overly enthusiastic clap on the shoulder, causing Soul to wince, “What brings you into my office this fine afternoon?” 

Soul doesn’t beat around the bush–doesn’t even scoff at his friend equating the shitter with a workspace like he’s fucking Fonzi–with Black Star, he’d be wasting his breath.

“Wanna ditch?”

“Seriously?” Star raises both eyebrows. “Won’t Mak–”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He grins sharply, and Star guffaws.

“Now that’s what I like to hear!” he shouts. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand!”

They leave the bathroom as the bell rings, and Soul purposefully steers them away from Maka’s regular path on their trek to the parking lot. They arrive soon enough, looking like they have every right to take off as they please as they approach Black Star’s ride.

It’s an electric blue motor scooter emblazoned with a yellow star emblem. Soul has given him shit for it a thousand times, and Star has defended it as a vehicle worthy of an aspiring deity just as often, and now Soul is about to ride bitch on the tiny thing like the little bitch he so clearly is.

Desperate, desperate times. If only Kilik were the ditching type–he actually has a car. But no, it’s scooter or bust, so Soul swings his leg over after Star and fishes behind him for something to grip because no way in fuck is he gripping Star’s waist; that would be crossing at least half a dozen lines he has no interest in being anywhere near. Just no. He doesn’t even like hugging his own brother. Hugging Star, even out of necessity, would be tantamount to needing a dozen showers.

He finds the rack on the back and holds on tight, arms twisted awkwardly behind him. He knows they must look absurd–hell, Star looks absurd when he drives it alone–but his choices are this or no gift.

Soul takes his punishment like the masochist he is, sacrificing his cool card in the name of green eyes, ash blond pigtails, and a wide smile.

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