I'm sitting here eating chicken soup because I wanted chicken soup and bam. Idea. It starts out small and stupid, and then it turns into...nevermind, it remains small and most definitely, stupid. So this has been fun, writing this (no it hasn't because I am so out of touch with writing it isn't even funny). I don't own them at all. Or Panera Bread. And they're teenagers because...um because...yes.

Chicken Soup for the Rowdyruff's Soul

The walls of Panera Bread were a soft orange color like the leaves that rustled and crunched about in the now auburn park, he noticed, and the lamp that shimmied above him was red. The chair he sat on creaked as he fiddled with the sugar packets, and the number of tissues that adorned the table kept multiplying as the minutes ticked. It smelled like sunbaked apple and sour dough bread, with a wave of cheap champagne; but the boy's nose was congested, so the smell just danced in the air around him.

"Ah-choo!" He sneezed and slumped down in his chair, tugging his red hat over his face. The waitresses kept glancing over at him, and the people that walked in - the bell above the door singing to the staff - would take one look at him and make a 180 out of the place. It wasn't like he was causing a disturbance. He was just sitting there, actually, ripping apart sugar packets and dumping out the contents on the table.

A few minutes ago, a small blonde with frail fingers and seashell colored eyes was brave enough to get in a five foot radius of him to gently hand him a box of tissues. He kind of just tossed her a glare, not exactly sure how to thank her. She sucked in her bottom lip and scurried off with her pen falling to the floor with a click.

He felt another presence slide in the chair across from him, but he chose to ignore them, because after all, he was a Rowdyruff; even the name wasn't welcoming.

"Bless you," the voice was feminine, soft like the orange walls of Panera Bread and the bow he knew was tied in her hair.

A moment passed before he groaned, "Go away."

She scoffed, "Funny, I believe the polite response is 'thank you'."

"Sweetcheeks, how many times do I have to tell ya," he sniffed. "I am never, under any circumstance, going to be polite. And if I were to ever be such," he lifted his hat up slowly, his red eyes flitting to her lighter ones, "I most definitely wouldn't be to you, of all people."

"Hm. That's completely understandable," she nodded thoughtfully, her array of curls shining like the morning sun. "I mean, I did kill you once by merely kissing you. That wasn't very polite of me."

"Ha, real funny, but didn't your daddy ever teach you? What goes around comes back around, baby," he smirked.

"So, you're saying you're going to kiss me?" She cringed.

He scoffed, "In your dreams, babe."

"Any dream I have with you in it, isn't a dream. That's a nightmare," she hissed.

"I'm flattered, really," he leaned closer. "And for the record, in my dreams," his calloused hand brushed against her bare neck, "you're naked."

Blossom gasped and her rosy eyes flared, her flushed cheeks puckering out like a blow fish. Her frowning lips were a deep wine-red, like the lamp's light that hang above them, and her red hair spiraled down around her shoulders, her bangs kissing her curly eyelashes. It seemed to set aflame now that her temper spiked. She wasn't bad looking, no, her attitude, however, was a different story.

She stood up and Brick swept his red eyes lasciviously over her figure. The khakis she wore hugged her swollen curves and her black polo was covered by a Panera Bread apron.

If he knew beforehand that she worked here, he wouldn't have come.

Blossom rolled her eyes, "I brought this for you." She reached to the table behind her and slid chicken soup over to him. "You look sick, you know," she remarked.

"I'm not sick," Brick corrected. "I may look like it, but trust me, us Rowdyruff's don't get sick." His eyes flicked to the steaming chicken soup.

She had a knowing glance in her eye, "Mmhmm, whatever you say, Red."

"I'm serious, this is just allergies," he whined.

"Ok," she grinned. She strutted away, hips swaying to what seemed like the slow beat of the song that shimmied above them.

"Bitch," he muttered. "I'm not sick," he sniffed.

"Ah-choo!" His sneeze echoed in the nearly empty restaurant.

"Dammit..."