This was written for brutalbusiness' (the Nathan/Charles LiveJournal community) November theme month prompt, "Beginnings are Brutal". Two of my favorite mental images are Nathan wearing his glasses and Nathan working fast food, so that is where this nominally sprung from.
Summary: Nathan has the chance encounter of a lifetime. Rated PG. Pre-slash; pre-Dethklok.
Burzum's Boy
He gets a job at the local Burzum's after he drops out, because Chem class pisses him off, and the Principal tells him apologetically that he won't be able to get out of taking the junior-level standardized state exam, no matter how big of a football star he is. His mom hints for the first couple of months afterwards that he can "always go back", but they both know he won't. He's made up his mind, and that's all there is to it. Naturally, his mom will politely pretend to understand his decision. This is how the Explosion household operates.
Burzum's isn't so bad. The manager doesn't drug test, and he likes football players. Nathan spends most of his breaks either by the dumpsters behind the building, or sitting by himself in the restroom when it's not too disgusting. The other employees are a few years older than him; many of them are high school drop-outs like he is, and most of them party, so Nathan parties, too.
He's behind the counter in the slow sludge of mid-April in Florida when it happens. It's mid-afternoon, after the lunch rush and a couple of hours before Burzum's becomes the premiere hang-out for under-21 jag-offs. Nothing exciting happens at this time of day - it's usually when someone pulls out a bag of weed and then they pass the time talking about "The Simpsons" and how they should score more drugs.
When he walks through the doorway, Nathan is inclined to hate him. For one thing, he's wearing glasses - Nathan has glasses, too, because his freshman English teacher thought they might help him do more than just sit at his desk rubbing his head and looking confused. He doesn't wear them now, and hates anyone who does on principle. In addition, he's wearing a full suit, in Florida humidity. It's hot as balls even inside the restaurant, but it's like this douche bag doesn't notice. His face shows no signs of perspiration; even his shoes have managed to avoid getting dirtied by the dusty asphalt outside.
Nathan's pretty sure this guy's a unicorn.
His hair falls in his face as he looks down and mumbles a greeting. "Welcome to Burzum's. How can I help you?" The manager has snapped at him a few times to pull it back, but he thinks guys with ponytails are pussies, and he's bigger than the manager, so it hasn't happened yet.
The guy's voice is flat; Nathan can't place the accent. "Hi. I need a ... number one, please. No onions." He looks at Nathan with polite curiosity. Struck with sudden embarrassment, Nathan busies himself with trying to remember how to request 'no onions' on the keypad. He's bad at this job, especially the handling money part - the manager is always getting on his ass about short-changing customers and vice-versa. He especially hates the asshole high schoolers who stop by from his school, mostly with updates he doesn't want and questions he doesn't want to answer.
Still, the suit is patient while he fumbles with the cash register. "That'll be, um, $6.97," Nathan tells him. The man fishes out a ten and presses it into his giant palm, glancing at his nails, freshly painted black. Nathan spends another minute or so fumbling around in the drawer for the correct change. The man watches him. Nathan feels himself getting anxious about it. He's about to make an excuse and duck into the kitchen for a couple of minutes, but the man seems to have something to say.
"So. Nathan, is it?" Both pairs of eyes glance briefly at the required name-tag pinned just above his right breast. Nathan grunts. "Nice. Nathan, I apologize if this is a strange question, but ... are you in a band, by chance?"
Nathan blinks. "I uh, I've been in bands before," he mutters.
"Really? What kind of music?" The man seems to be asking out of genuine interest. Nathan is used to people looking or sounding impatient when they need information from him. It hasn't happened yet with this guy.
"Um, mostly metal," he shrugs. He expects that to be the end of the conversation. Behind him, he can hear a wrapper crinkling. He pauses, and then adds, "I'm not in a band right now."
"Ah." The man seems well-practiced as he tugs a business card out of seemingly nowhere and flashes it in front of Nathan's face. 'Charles Foster Ofdensen," it reads. "Artistic Management, Legal Services." The phone number isn't local. The man - Charles - flashes him just the barest hint of a smile. "Would you like to be?" he asks.
Nathan takes the card, stares at it, blinks. "You manage bands?" he asks. "What kind of music?"
"Mostly metal." Nathan could swear Charles' eyes just twinkled but his face remains nonplussed. Maybe it's just the shitty restaurant lighting. Nathan knows he always feels sick when he sees his reflection somewhere, hulking, wearing Burzum's trademark orange polo and hat combination that passes as a uniform.
Charles' order is called, and Nathan strides from the counter to the food, which he puts in a bag. "I'm in town for a couple of days. Give me a call. We'll run some demos and see what you've got." Charles takes the proffered bag; their hands touch for the briefest of moments. Nathan looks away. Then he looks back at Charles.
"So is that why you're here?" he frowns. "Band stuff?"
Charles nods. "For the most part. I grew up in the south, though. Have you lived here for long?"
Nathan grunts. "All my life."
A car horn sounds. Charles arches an eyebrow. "My latest prodigy awaits," he says. He waves the bag a little. "He must be hungry."
Nathan's brow furrows. "That's not for you?"
"Nah. Maybe I should get something for the road, though." Nathan's eyes follow Charles' up to the overhead menu. "What's good to eat here?"
"Nothing," Nathan rumbles, similarly deadpan. "It's all shit." His manager would shit bricks if he heard Nathan say that, but Charles barks out a short laugh. It surprises both of them.
"In that case," Charles responds, "Maybe just a soda." It's a quick transaction. Neither of them seem to want to part, but Charles tsks when a tall, towheaded youth pops out of a car near the restaurant's front windows, scowling. "Skwisgaar's going to pitch a fit if he doesn't get his hamburger soon," he says. He raises the soda in a mock salute and walks backwards to the door.
A million unanswered questions fumble around inside of Nathan. He settles on blurting out only one: "Is this a joke or something?" When Charles doesn't say anything, he adds, "I mean, I just wanna know if you're pulling my leg."
Charles looks thoughtful. "No joke. I want you, Nathan. Call me when you're ready - I'll be waiting." He flashes Nathan another small smile, this time accompanied with a slight wave of his hand. "See you." It's the same hand that Nathan shakes when he turns up for an appointment at Charles' hotel two days later.