18. Epilogue
Epilogue
Beautifully Scuffed
Ricardo [NOW]
"Hey Aubrey, check this shit out." Eli's voice cuts through the quiet of my uncle's thrift shop.
He's spinning around in some godawful faux fur mink thing.
His full-body collection of tattoos are swallowed up by the monstrosity.
He grabs Aubrey's arm, nearly sending a vintage lamp that's probably older than my dad crashing to the floor.
"Gross, put that back," Aubrey says, recoiling. "It's probably crawling with bedbugs."
"Mmm, is that any way to talk to your own personal hero?" Eli mocks, pulling Aubrey into a clumsy embrace. Aubrey writhes away like a cat that's been dropped in a bathtub. "Don't fight it. Let the fur love you."
"Get off me, you psycho!" Aubrey shoves at Eli's chest, his face flushed with annoyance.
"Nothing has bugs," I cut in, leaning against the counter where my uncle usually sits, counting out dusty change. "Stop dissing the family business."
"I didn't mean to offend you—" Aubrey starts, his hands up in surrender, carefully placing some ancient rotary phone back on its shelf.
"Yes he did," Eli interrupts, a smirk playing on his lips. "He's a snobby little shit."
"I am not snobby!" Aubrey retorts, getting louder. "I have standards. Unlike some people who think roadkill is high fashion."
Eli reaches out and messes up Aubrey's perfectly styled hair, and just like that, they're off.
Yelling about something stupid, the sound of their argument bouncing off the stacks of old vinyl and dusty bookshelves.
It's similar to watching a couple of toddlers go at it over some shiny piece of plastic, except these toddlers are grown-ass men with a love language straight out of some twisted textbook I've never seen.
One minute they're this close to tearing each other's eyes out, the next they'd take a bullet for each other.
"For fuck's sake," Patrick cuts through their bickering. He emerges from the record section, his face a thundercloud. "You're both embarrassing the hell out of me. Get out of the store."
"Wait, wait," Eli says, holding up a hand. "I need to buy this jacket. It's calling to me."
"No!" Aubrey yells, trying to physically pull the jacket off Eli's shoulders. Eli plants his feet, grinning like an idiot while Aubrey struggles, the faux fur flying everywhere. It's a pathetic display, and honestly, I'm surprised Patrick hasn't thrown them both out on their asses already.
"Both of you," Patrick says, showcasing the deadly calm he uses on customers who think it's a good idea to complain about the coffee temperature. "Out."
"I'll pay for this first," Eli says, digging into his wallet. "Twenty bucks for this beauty."
"It's tagged for twenty bucks? That thing's worth maybe five," Patrick scoffs, but he's already taking the cash to pass over to my uncle at the counter, his scowl softening a fraction. He's a softie under all that barista armor, no matter how much he pretends otherwise.
"Nah, it's worth the twenty," Eli says, slipping out of the jacket and tossing it over his arm. He’s way too pleased with himself as my uncle rings it up, the cash drawer sliding open.
"Oye, Ricardo, dile a tu amigo que gracias por la compra, pero que lave esa cosa cuando llegue a casa."
"What'd he say?" Patrick turns to ask me, passing me the three records he grabbed as his selections today.
He's been growing his record collection again lately, something about reclaiming his past. We spent last weekend building a new stand for them after we realized the old one was about to collapse under the weight of his rediscovered nostalgia.
"He said to wash it," I translate.
"Mi estimado, no puedo lavar algo que tiene tanto encanto, o perderá su personalidad." Eli responds, puffing out his chest like a fucking peacock.
My uncle lets out a chuckle. "Estás loco. You won't wash?"
"Hell no," Eli smirks, already rubbing his face against the collar.
"Eww. I can't believe you," Aubrey mutters, shaking his head.
"Don't be jealous just because you don't have the balls to pull it off," Eli teases, slinging an arm around Aubrey's shoulders as they head toward the door.
"You're an idiot." Aubrey shoves him off, but he's laughing now, the fight already forgotten.
"Bye, you heathens," Patrick calls after them, but there's a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turns to me after they wave back at him, shaking his head. "I swear, those two are going to give me an ulcer before I'm twenty-five."
I chuckle, pushing off the counter. "At least they're entertaining."
Patrick rolls his eyes, but he's already heading back to the vinyl, touching the spines of the records with a kind of admiration.
I watch him for a minute, the way his shoulders relax as he immerses himself in the music.
This is his happy place, surrounded by the things he loves.
And somehow, by some miracle, I'm a part of that.
I move to stand beside him, brushing my hand against his. He leans into the touch. We stand there in silence, the sounds of the street outside muted by the thick walls of the shop. It's peaceful in a way I never thought I'd find.
"You think those two are ever actually gonna make it legal?" I ask, grinning as I watch Eli and Aubrey disappear out the door, still laughing about something stupid.
Patrick snorts, still scanning the record shelves. "Not a fucking chance."
"I don't know," I say, turning to face him properly. "Eli's been dropping some hints lately. Asking some real weird questions."
Patrick's head snaps up then. "Really?" he asks softly. "Like what?"
"Hypotheticals. What Aubrey would want for a proposal, if he were to ask. Ruminating on what Aubrey would say. The kind of shit that makes me think he's not bullshitting."
I watch Patrick's face, trying to read the expression there. It's not exactly surprise, more like contemplation. "You think he's serious?" he asks.
I nod. "I mean, it's Eli. Who the hell knows? But..." I trail off, watching him for a second before looking away. "If he is, it'd be good. They've earned it."
I nod, not pushing it, even though there's a question hanging in the air between us. A question I'm not sure either of us is ready to ask yet. Instead, I reach out and take his hand, lacing our fingers together. It's a small thing, but it feels big.
"Yeah," I agree, squeezing his hand. "They have."
We stand there a while longer, browsing, occasionally pointing out some rare find or laughing at some ridiculous album cover.
The shop is quiet except for the soft hum of the old fan in the corner and the occasional rustle of vinyl sleeves.
It's comfortable, this silence between us. Easy in a way I never thought I'd have.
Eventually, Patrick pulls out his phone to check the time, groaning when he sees how late it's getting. "Shit, I gotta get back to the coffee shop. Gabriel's solo on the register today, and I promised I'd be back by the next rush."
"I'll drive you there," I offer, already heading for the door with our new records in tow.
He follows me out, and we step into the bright LA sun, squinting against the sudden glare. The street is busy, people bustling by with their headphones in, glued to their phones, completely oblivious to the world around them. It's a stark contrast to the quiet bubble we left behind.
My car's parked a few blocks down, and as we walk, Patrick's hand finds mine again, his skin warm against my palm. I glance over at him, taking in the way his hair catches the light, the way his lips curl up at the corners.
"You're staring," he says, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I am," I reply, unashamed. "You got a problem with that?"
He glances up at me, a familiar glint of mischief looking back. "Are you trying to pull that dom shit out here in public?" he says, his grip tightening around mine enough to make my pulse quicken.
I laugh. "Baby, I'd do whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted. And love every damn second of it."
He laughs then too, the sound vibrating through his body and into mine where we're pressed together. "Well, now," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. "We both know you're exaggerating.”
He pulls back, intensity in his expression.
“And I’m proud of you, Ricky. Because you're going to communicate your feelings, or risk seriously disappointing me...
Got it?" He glares, pressing closer until there's no space left between us, just the heat of his body and the steady thump of his heart against my ribs.
I can't help but smirk, my hand sliding around his waist to pull him even closer, until I can feel every breath he takes. "Yessir. I promise," I say.
He buries his face in my shoulder, his words muffled by my shirt.
I slide my arm from his grip, instead draping it over his shoulders and pulling him flush against my side. The kiss I press against his temple is quick. "I love everything about you," I murmur against his skin.
His hand fists in the back of my shirt, the fabric bunching under his grip as he leans in further. "I'm so fucking lucky for that," he whispers, the words nearly lost in the street noise.
"Luck's got nothing to do with it," I say, kissing his temple again, tasting the salt of his sweat and the warmth of his skin beneath my lips.
I breathe him in, his smell intoxicating as we walk up to the crosswalk and I hit the button, waiting for it to let us cross.
I lower my arm to around his waist and keep him pressed into my side.
"When I get home after work tonight," Patrick starts, "Maybe we can..."
"We can what? Start organizing bills for tax season? I was thinking exactly the same thing," I joke.
"No!" He pulls back with a grimace. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I like numbers."
"Yes, I know. That’s entirely the only thing that's wrong with you, and I'm not putting up with it."
I laugh, gripping a solid feel of his ass before sliding my hand down the inside of his thigh.