Chapter Text
At precisely 3:20, John springs over the counter of the Chipotle and covers your eyes expertly.
“Egbert, I know it’s you. You’ve been sitting in the food court for an hour while all I’ve been doing is feeding these ravenous tacos meat so they can be murdered by their eventual owners. I’m telling you, it’s inhumane. Their lives are so short. But at least they’re well lived. I mean, their only human contact is me. I believe that makes for a quality life for a taco, or even a burrito. Also, I’m pretty sure jumping over that counter is unsanitary. Think of the tacos.”
“Okay, um, I agree? But remember, we had plans?” John gestures excitedly towards the expanse of the mall, hitting a middle-aged woman in the breast. She promptly gives John a death glare while he attempts to apologize profusely. You try not to smirk. “I was just—I mean—I’m sorry!”
She turns heel and walks away sharply, focusing her evil gaze on you, now openly giggling. (Giggling? Smooth.)
“Dave. Dave! Don’t laugh at me; that was humiliating! Does she really think teen boys want to touch her boob? I didn’t want to touch her boob!”
“Yeah, I’m sure she was really just looking for an excuse to have a teen homosexual accidentally fondle her. Don’t think I won’t press charges for this heinous conspiracy to force you to touch a boob. Which means we can’t go shopping any more. We have to file our complaint immediately.”
“Not just a boob, Dave! A saggy, old, unexpected boob! And then blame me? And no way are you getting out of shopping!”
“I don—“
“You have been wearing the same shirt for four days!”
“Maybe if—“
“What? If I were your 50’s housewife and did your laundry?” He took a pause and reconsidered his statement. “Actually, if it meant you didn’t smell like sweat and beans all the time, I might do it.”
“This is my uniform! I don’t need to wash it every day! But if you’re agreeing to wash all of my purchases, okay, then, let’s “go shopping.””
“I don’t like those air quotes—no, we’re definitely shopping.”
“You see, your resistance there is what Lalonde would call “foreshadowing. John, have you ever heard of an underground little store called Hollister?” You get even closer to his ear and attempt to lower your voice in a sultry way, “well, let me tell you: their clothes are absolute shit, but you would not believe how dark their fitting rooms are.” Surprisingly, your come-on’s effectiveness is deadened by the fact that you are suggesting sex in a Hollister fitting room.
John pushes you away playfully, but says nothing. He stops mid-step to peruse the huge mall directory, as if this is an adventure that needs to be planned meticulously and not your local mall at which you work and have to come to nearly every day.
You rest your head on his shoulder. “Hot Topic, man. If we brush by Hot Topic, my irony quota for the day will be so overfull, I probably won’t even need to try anything on at Hollister before I ravage you.”
“Number one, please never say ravish ever again or you’re not getting anywhere near my butt. Number two, I’m looking for clothes where I won’t have to ashamedly tug my boyfriend around because he’s wearing an Invader Zim hoodie in 2012.”
You deftly squeeze his butt in a way that is less sexual than obnoxious. “You cannot keep me away from the booty,” you say, and kiss his ear.
Eventually, you do end up going to Hot Topic, where you buy a ridiculous Fluttershy hoodie and prod John to buy a matching Rainbow Dash one. He holds up a hand, blue sleeve enveloping his arm in fabric. “Why would they even make a hoodie for adult men out of this poor pony?” he says. He sounds almost legitimately disheartened as he leans against you and whispers a pained, “yiff, yiff.”
You also manage to score a six-pack of cupcake earrings from Icing (not Claire’s—no, this is more blinging and way more mature than Claire’s), and a High School Musical throw pillow (didn’t that movie come out like 23 years ago? Zac Efron went from twink to mustachioed scary older dude in a disappointing amount of time).
At some point, you even manage to hustle John into a Victoria’s Secret, where he is promptly accosted by women with measuring tapes asking if he knows his girlfriend’s bra size, what is the occasion, what her tastes in lingerie are…. In the confusion, you manage to slip two corsets into a dressing room, snapping a few quick photos and sending them to John. He finds you in a minute flat and kisses you hard, but then chastises you for “getting off target.” Friendleader John really is No Fun. You’d think an average hormonal seventeen year old guy seeing his relatively attractive boyfriend in gaudy corsets would, you know, react a bit more. Taskmaster John has no time for boners or public sex.
Once you’ve also stocked up on the Real People Needs, like usable jeans and shirts that don’t smell like beef and salsa, you nod toward the Hollister. Hollister seems to make most of its business by plastering young effeminate males everywhere, so you figure two more won’t hurt.
You scan the teak shelves of hundred-dollar hoodies. “I could buy ten thousand Ramen noodles for the same price. Ten thousand single serving cheap noodles with snortable flavor packet.”
“You’ve done it, Dave. You’ve solved world hunger. And cocaine shortages.”
“I think there’s something you could solve,” you say, winking and throwing an intentional glance at your dick.
“Jesus Christ, you’re incorrigible. I am NOT having sex in a Hollister fitting room.”
“Oh, no, feel free to choose any fitting room whatsoever. I’m just saying, based on prior research, that this one will be the most discreet. Definitely not Old Navy. Victoria’s Secret is comfy, but good luck getting into one of those, Macy’s is tacky—“
“Dave, please do not tell me you’ve run an in-depth analysis of where we can have sex in this mall.”
“Fine, I will not tell you I’ve run the analysis, but we both know it is true.” You wave your bags in the air. “Mission accomplished, though! I will not smell like beans afterward. I will change out of this uniform if you have sex with me.”
“Yes, because the stench of beans has really historically been the hugest problem with having sex in a fitting room. And I'm pretty sure that's sexual abuse to pressure me into sex with the promise of a clean boyfriend.”
You snatch a pair of jeans off a nearby table. Arguably, the stench of whatever Hollister thinks a Real Man smells like is more awful than the beans of the upper-middle-class. After a few minutes of doing absolutely nothing, you call John into the fitting room. “Hey, do these jeans make my ass look big?”
“You’re wearing the same jea—mmmph!”