Chapter Text
$150/week to clean tank
Mitchell cocks an eyebrow as he reads the title, scrolling past it initially. But he quickly scrolls back up again and stares at the craigslist ad. While not enough to support himself entirely, $600 a month could definitely help pay the bills. And Mitchell certainly could use the extra cash. Curiosity gets the better of him and he clicks on the link.
Looking for a male, in decent shape, to clean a large tank of water. Pay is $150 a week, non-negotiable, but if the job duties carried out are more than satisfactory, there is a great possibility of receiving a large tip.
Mitchell glances up from his phone. Several hundred a month and a tip? He wonders if it’s a scam. It’s gotta be a scam. His eyes flit back to the screen and Mitchell nearly chokes on an unfortunately timed sip of beer.
Speedo is negotiable, but greatly appreciated and might be considerably in your favor if you’re looking to get tipped.
Mitchell can feel the tears welling up in his eyes as he coughs, trying to clear his lungs of alcohol. He wipes at his eyes and finishes the rest of the ad, vehemently ignoring what he just read.
If interested, send an email with your name and availability. Candidates will be selected on a first come basis (among those who are qualified).
“I’m not putting this on Craigslist for you, Anders.” Dawn looks up from the sheet of paper that had been abruptly shoved into her hands while she was working on one of many spreadsheets Anders refused to help on.
“Why not? What’s wrong with it?” his voice is entirely too sincere and Dawn eyes him with apprehension.
“You can’t tip people in sex.” She stares up at Anders, her voice completely unamused. “And asking people to send in photos of their –“ Dawn takes a breath and shakes her head. “In all honesty, Anders, this looks like a scam. And quite possibly an ad for prostitution.”
Anders gives a little shrug. “Well, when you say it like that,” he grins and snatches the piece of paper back and plucks the pen she’s holding right from her hand. With a tiny hum, he puts in another sentence and a few words, crossing out several of the things that Dawn had objected to. When he’s finished, Anders hands the paper back to her.
“There. Less like a scam?”
Dawn heaves a sigh as she reads it over. “Hardly.”
“That’s the spirit, Dawnsie.” Anders smiles brightly at her and hops off her desk. “Oh, yeah, this is yours.” Anders holds out the pen for Dawn to take.
She eyes it suspiciously and sets the paper down next to her computer. “You know what, you just keep it.”
Mitchell taps his fingers against the side of the couch as he tries to decide how to word his email. Should he send a resume? The job seems entirely too informal to send a resume. And if it’s a scam, it’s not like Mitchell wants whoever put the ad up to have all his contact information.
After a few moments of deliberation, Mitchell types out his reply.
I just saw your post on Craigslist. My name is Mitchell. I’m very interested in the job you posted and would like to know more about the position. I have a resume if you want to check it out, and can send it if you’d like.
I don’t have any experience in cleaning pools, but I can swim and hold my breath for a long period of time.
Thank you for your time,
J. Mitchell
Anders scrolls through his inbox, glancing at several of the messages responding to his ad. Some seem promising, but don’t speak to him in the way that he’s looking for. They’re all formal, barely any information, all with a resumes that Anders thinks are far too long to give more than a glance to before deleting the email.
The replies slow a little after lunch and Anders turns his focus back to his work. It’s a little after two in the afternoon when his computer pings again, alerting him to a new message. Anders opens it and cocks an eyebrow. His lips pull into a smirk as he reads the email.
Anders types back a quick reply before he powers off his laptop and packs it away in his briefcase. He stands from his desk and cleans up a little, checking his watch as he pulls the jacket of his suit back on. “I’m going to head out for today, Dawn. I did the last three spreadsheets, so you can take off if you’d like.”
Dawn peeks at him from around the corner, her face surprised. She cracks a tiny smile as Anders turns his back to collect the rest of his things.
As he heads to the front door, Dawn looks up at him from her desk. There’s an all-too-happy smile on Anders’ face, one that just speaks of mischief and trouble. She closes her laptop and picks up her purse.
“What are you so happy about, then?” she asks as she fishes her keys from her bag, her voice sounding nothing short of bored.
Anders’ smirk turns into a shit eating grin. “I think I just found myself a pool boy.”
J. Mitchell,
No resume needed. Meet me at Imperial Lane Café on Fort Lane at 3:30 if you’re interested in hearing more about the position.
Anders Johnson
JPR | Public Relations Manager | [email protected] | +64 9-929-5555
Mitchell stares at the email, his eyebrows drawing down in a mixture of confusion and wariness. Never has anyone not asked for his resume. Not that he’s ever applied for a job like this, but even the odder jobs he’s taken in the last few months since moving here, everyone has wanted to see his resume.
Locking the screen, Mitchell rests the phone on his stomach and tries to figure out if he should go or not. At least the guy has a name. Mitchell unlocks the screen again and searches the company listed in the guy’s signature. To his relief, it comes back as a real place. The mobile website is sleek and well designed, but it gives very little information as to who Anders Johnson is.
With a sigh, Mitchell resigns himself to going. A job is a job, regardless of how sketchy it sounds. And it’s not like the dude was asking him to meet him somewhere completely private; Imperial Lane Café also checks out clean.
There’s really no harm in going. The worst case scenario is Mitchell sitting alone with a coffee and looking like a creep for an hour. With a grunt, he hauls his ass off the couch, deciding a shower would do him good. Nothing quite like smelling of old pizza and two week old unwashed jeans to ruin a potential job opportunity for him.
Anders orders himself a Flat White and scopes out a table away from everyone else. He checks his watch, 3:25pm, and sits down to wait.
A rush of anticipation moves through him as he wonders who is going to show up, what they’ll look like. J. Mitchell was hardly specific and nothing popped up on his cursory search on the way over to the coffee house. Not that Anders minded, always up for a good mystery to solve.
People pass by on the street, none of them catching Anders’ eye at all. He nearly has a scare when a man around the age of sixty walks towards him, cane in hand. Anders sits up a little straighter, ready to ditch, but the man walks past him, and to the table several feet away.
A sigh of relief leaves his lips and Anders settles back against his chair, sipping his coffee as he waits. He checks his watch, 3:35pm, and frowns. While punctuality was never something Anders valued like Dawn, Anders would never be late to an interview. Which, for all intents and purposes, is what this meeting is.
He glances down at his watch once more, and that’s when he sees a pair of worn work boots in his field of vision. Anders wrinkles his nose slightly at the sight and lets his eyes trail up skinny, long legs to a trim waist. They linger there for a moment before they make their way past the ugly plaid shirt and up the man’s face.
And what a face.
Dark hazel eyes stare back at him in curiosity, the most intense pair of eyebrows furrow down at him and Anders can hear Bragi whispering already about unruly curls, windblown and tangled, and as wild as the energy Anders swears he can feel rolling off the guy.
“Mr. Johnson?” His voice is deep, soft, almost timid and somehow both fitting and clashing terribly with the untamed look of who Anders now can safely guess is J. Mitchell.
“Just Anders,” he replies, keeping his tone light as he gestures to the seat in front of him. “Please, sit.”
The man pulls the seat out and sits in it hurriedly. He places his hands in front of him on the table and folds them; a tactic Anders knows is meant to combat nervous fidgeting.
Anders watches as hazel eyes stare at him, trying to look confident without looking intimidating. He can tell the guy has done his fair share of googling interview techniques and tricks. “So, J. Mitchell –“
“Just Mitchell, please,” he cuts in, his tone polite and yet finite. Anders smirks.
“Mitchell, it is. Should we start or would you like something to drink?” Anders nods his head towards the counter, watching Mitchell’s eyes follow his movement. He seems to deliberate for a few seconds but shakes his head and Anders pays more attention to the way his curls bounce, than Mitchell’s reply.
“No, thanks. I’m already late enough as it is, so let’s just start, if that’s okay?”
The accent is definitely not from here, and Anders tries to place it as Mitchell speaks. Irish, Bragi whispers helpfully in his ear and Anders nods, more to himself than to Mitchell. “That’s just fine. This is hardly a traditional interview. I’m not fussed that you’re a few minutes late.”
Mitchell nods, but Anders can tell that he doubts his words and Anders gives him a reassuring smile, though he can’t quite place why. Just a few moments ago he was already preparing a small lecture on punctuality.
“I know I didn’t ask for your resume, but can you tell me a little bit about yourself and your job experience? I don’t need the whole history. Just tell me the things that jump out at you as being the most beneficial.”
Mitchell hums and the sound is almost sweet in Anders’ ears, like the ristretto in his coffee. “Well, I moved here a few years ago. From Ireland if you couldn’t tell by the accent.” Mitchell’s eyes give nothing away and Anders listens to the cadence of his words more than anything. “Mostly I do odd jobs. Bussing tables, delivering parts, cleaning things.”
Anders nods. “So what you’re saying, is that you don’t like working with people.”
Mitchell frowns a little. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. I do work better by myself than with a team.” He bites his lip as if he’s said the wrong thing. And if Anders were looking for a team, it would be. But the look of worry on his face is almost cute and Anders takes a sip of cooling coffee to wash that thought down and away.
“That’s fine. I’m only looking for one person.” Mitchell nods and lets go of his lip in relief. “I’m looking specifically for someone to clean a tank. I want it to look good and it needs to be clear and done properly. I have all the supplies you’ll need, so you don’t have to worry about that. Does that sound like something you could do and would be interested in doing?”
Mitchell nods quickly. “Yeah, yes. I’m absolutely interested. I’ve never actually cleaned any pools or anything, but I’m a quick learner and I pretty much only need to be told something once.”
Anders gives him a sly grin. Quick and eager to please. “That’s alright. No experience needed. It’s better if you don’t have previous experience. I want the job done a certain way and it’s far easier to train you for the first time, than retraining you entirely.” Mitchell blinks, his eyebrows furrowing just slightly. After a few seconds his features soften again and he seems to relax as Anders takes another drink of his coffee. “And if I were to extend the job to you right now?”
Eyes brighten and Mitchell visibly perks up. “I would accept, of course.”
After another sip of his coffee, Anders sits up a little straighter and extends his hand. “Well, Mitchell, it looks like you’ve got yourself a job.”
A grin breaks out over his face, revealing slightly crooked front teeth that Anders can’t help but stare at for a moment. Mitchell reaches his hand out and hesitates for a moment, but he takes Anders’ and shakes it quickly. Anders quirks his brow at the coldness of Mitchell’s skin, but shrugs it off. It’s certainly not a normal temperature by any means, but Anders finds no cause to be concerned. They’re definitely warmer than Ty’s. And the guy certainly seems to have a confident grip.
The grin fades into a tiny smile that seems almost apologetic and Anders finds himself giving yet another reassuring smile of his own Mitchell retracts his hand after the perfunctory shaking time and places both of them in his lap. “So, when do I start?”
Anders reaches into his wallet to pull out one of his business cards. “Gotta pen I can borrow?” His eyes meet Mitchell’s and he can’t help but notice it takes a moment for his brain to process the question.
Mitchell straightens up a little and starts patting his pockets, pulling one from his tight black jeans. “Always be prepared for an interview, right?”
Anders takes it with a small grin and scribbles his address on the back of his business card, sliding it over to Mitchell along with his pen. “Right. How does tomorrow at 2:30 sound?”
With a nod, Mitchell plucks both items off the table, pocketing the pen and placing the business card in the breast pocket of his plaid shirt. “Tomorrow sounds good.”
Anders stands up from his seat, watching as Mitchell follows his lead and does the same. Anders’ eyes flick down to Mitchell’s hands quickly sliding into the pockets of his jeans, more than likely trying to dissuade another handshake. Anders doesn’t push it, instead giving him a little nod. “I’ll see you then, Mitchell.”
“Yeah, see you then.”
Mitchell shuffles a little as if waiting to be dismissed and Anders’ lips break out in a sly grin. Anders puts his wallet away and pulls his sunglasses from the front of his shirt. As he puts them on, he turns towards Mitchell. “And don’t forget what the ad said if you’re looking to get a tip.”
Mitchell looks almost shy as he gives a tiny nod and Anders can’t help but find the expression practically endearing. He’s interested to see how far he can push and Anders tilts his head a little. “And one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Mitchell asks quickly, his voice eager and ready. It makes him lick his lips.
Anders gives him a cocky, little grin as he shoves his own hands in the pocket of his slacks. “Tomorrow I won’t be so forgiving if you show up late. Again.” Anders watches in amusement as Mitchell makes a tiny wince of embarrassment.
“I won’t. I won’t be,” he promises, the calculating look on his face probably determining how early is acceptable to show up for his first day.
“Good,” Anders’ grin grows wider, “then I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening, Mitchell.” Anders doesn’t wait for Mitchell’s reply, walking right past him and out of the café, leaving Mitchell watching him walk out in a state of confusion and curiosity.
Mitchell breathes out a sigh of relief when he’s left alone, feeling the anxiety of the interview ease out of him slowly as he leaves the café. He knows new anxiety will creep in behind it soon enough, so he enjoys the easiness he feels as he walks down the unfamiliar street.
Despite being here for a little under two years, Mitchell has never been down this way. He generally doesn’t leave the house outside of needing to pick up groceries or go to his job of the month. He takes a moment to step off the pavement, making a quick search on his phone for places that sell speedos. Mitchell feels embarrassed just looking at them online and he hasn’t even gotten to a shop yet. He takes a left at the corner and heads down to the bus stop, trying to figure out the best route with his limited knowledge.
As he waits, he considers how much money he would need to save up to get a vehicle.
The bus takes him a little farther than he wants, but he supposes the walk is nice. While his feet move and his eyes take in the street around him, his brain doesn’t have quite as much time to dwell on the task at hand and what tomorrow will be like.
Mitchell avoids eye contact as he walks into the sporting goods store, trying to put off an air like he knows exactly where he’s going. No one seems to approach him and he’s absolutely okay with that as he makes his way across the store in search of the swimwear section. After a few minutes he finds it and grimaces the instant his eyes fall on the small selection of tiny speedos.
With a glance around, Mitchell picks one off the rack and holds it up. Should he go with classic black? Or maybe something a little more daring? Mitchell takes another cursory glance around and holds the speedo up to his waist, trying to discern if it will fit. Mitchell feels like staking himself with the metal rack when someone walks by, their eyes catching his. They hurry away, clearly trying to put as much distance between him and themselves as possible.
Mitchell hopes the tip is worth the embarrassment he feels when he takes the little black speedo up to the counter, hoping beyond hope that it will fit and he won’t ever have to come back here.
The second he’s out of the store, Mitchell pulls a cigarette from the metal case in his pocket and lights it. The curl of smoke in his lungs helps set him at ease once again as he makes his way back to the bus stop, his mind going through the things he has at home and if there’s anywhere he needs to stop before heading back.
It’s hard to keep his mind from drifting to tomorrow, but he keeps himself focused on the scenery outside his window, instead of whether or not he’ll fuck up his new job, and more importantly, how awkward he’s going to feel. His mind flashes to Anders’ blue eyes and, fuck, he hopes he won’t be sitting there watching him clean. He hadn’t thought of that until right now and his skin feels strangely clammy as he thinks of those eyes watching his every move.
Mitchell shakes his head and puts it out of his mind.
When he gets home, he leaves the speedo in the shopping bag and sets it on the cluttered table, deciding to try it on first thing in the morning so he can avoid tomorrow as much as possible, until he’s forced to face it. He pushes the bag a little further along the table until it’s mostly out of sight behind a stack of books. Mitchell moves into the kitchen and grabs his leftover takeout from the fridge and heads back into the living room, ready for a night of binge watching trash television and ignoring his responsibilities for as long as possible. Mitchell eats the take out cold and surfs the channels, letting his couch, tv, and a cold six pack of beer ease the anxiety nibbling at his stomach.
After a few hours Mitchell stands up from the couch, the alcohol leaving him tired and sedated. The coffee table is littered with empty boxes and bottles and Mitchell ignores them in favor of warm blankets calling to him. He drags his ass to his bedroom and barely remembers to set his alarms after he falls into bed, not even bothering to change his clothes. Mitchell manages to kick out of both boots without sitting up, losing a sock in the process for his laziness. His foot immediately feels cold and he whines into the pillow, mourning his loss. But the thought of getting out of bed to retrieve it sounds like more work than it’s worth and Mitchell heaves a martyred sigh and resigns himself to a night of cold toes.
His mind inevitably reminds him of his new job tomorrow the second his eyes shut, no longer distracted by anything else, and Mitchell groans and buries his face in his pillow. He pulls the blanket tighter, stretching out on the bed and reminding himself not to worry about it for what feels like the millionth time. It’s not going to be as bad as he thinks. No one will probably be there. He’ll just clean the pool, do his job, get paid, and leave. That’s all he has to do.
Wearing a speedo and playing pool boy for some guy who clearly has too much money on his hands is certainly not the worst thing Mitchell could do for cash.
It’s with that vaguely reassuring thought that Mitchell’s mind finally lets him fall sleep.