AN: Hey, y'all! I wrote this entire story while on vacation in Melbourne, Australia. This city has a special place in my heart since I lived there as a teenager and I felt the need to craft this little story for you. I named this fic after the song A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman. As you read it, I think you'll find the lyrics fit nicely.

-oOo- Chapter 1: The Barista and The Goth -oOo-

"I close my eyes and I can see

The world that's waiting up for me

That I call my own..."

Melbourne glistened as the morning sunlight hit the skyscrapers. There was a chill in the air, the promise of a crisp autumn and a rainy, dreary winter. Chase could hardly believe it was cool enough for a jacket and he pushed down the sleeves of his hoodie as he walked to work. The little bell rang as he pushed open the coffee shop door and his coworker turned away from the register, lime green contacts sizing him up.

"Well, look who finally decided to come in," Wuya said with a smirk, tossing her wavy red hair over her shoulder. "Chase Young, fashionably late as always."

Chase rolled his eyes; he was right on time, five minutes on the dot before his shift, as he always was.

"Good morning, Wuya." He grumbled, stepping behind the counter. He made an espresso, downing it like a shot of vodka with a grimace.

"If you hate the taste, why bother?" Wuya sniffed.

"Because, unlike you, I start every morning at the gym at 5. I don't have an endless surplus of energy, especially when I have to share an hour of my shift with you. Therefore, coffee."

"Why are you such an asshole?"

"25 years of practice."

Wuya snorted, turning to ring up a customer. Chase left for the break room to clock in. He unlocked his locker, hanging up his gym duffle bag and pulling out a tan and brown apron with the coffee shop's logo on it. It went well over his tan pants and denim button-down but he didn't feel like himself in them, like he was wearing an elaborate disguise. Unfortunately his preferred profession didn't make much and he had to pay the bills somehow.

He rolled up the sleeves to his elbows, partially showing his tattoo. It was a tribute to his Chinese heritage he'd gotten done on his 18th birthday, a dragon that wound up his left arm all the way to his shoulder. The golds, greens, and reds all intricately patterned with black line-work on his skin was something he was proud of; it was quite large for a first tattoo. His father had been pissed. But since Chase was legally an adult, he technically couldn't say shit.

Tying up his long black hair, he walked out of the break room. Another thing he'd fought his father over was the undercut at the nape of his neck. It was hidden when his hair was down but was on full display whenever he pulled it up. Which was often; the Australian sun was too brutal for long hair.

Chase didn't have a good relationship with his father. Well, step-father. Hannibal Roy Bean couldn't control him. Hence why he'd been cut off as a young adult. Chase didn't care one iota; he'd rather be living on his own, broke as hell, than live with that tyrant of a man.

Not a man. A monster.

The coffee shop was a decent enough size with an exposed brick wall and planters hanging from the ceiling. The black geometric chairs and wood tables made for a soothing atmosphere, especially with the natural lighting spilling in from the front windows. The name was The Haven and for many of the clients, Chase figured it was just that. They didn't play music and kept the TV behind the counter mute with captions, keeping the noise pollution to an all-time low and allowing for conversation to flow freely. As much as he hated the uniform, Chase had to admit that he could have far worse jobs.

He was handing a caramel latte (half sugar, made with almond milk) to a regular customer when the bell chimed. Chase half-turned to see who came in (as he usually did)… And did a double-take.

A very strange person had just stepped into The Haven. He was dressed head to toe in black. Black hoodies, black skinny jeans, black combat boots. His skin was white and that was no exaggeration. Chase had never seen anyone in Melbourne that pale before, he had to be a straight-up ghost. His hair was bright red, like fire.

The person approached Wuya to give his order. Large mocha frappuccino. Chase set about making it, blending the ice and coffee beans with cocoa powder and milk, adding whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle.

"Large mocha frappuccino for Jack?" Chase called out, pausing momentarily to check the name on the cup. The person came up to the counter, taking the drink with white fingers poking out of black fingerless gloves. His eyes flickered up to Chase's momentarily and Chase blinked in shock; they were crimson, red as freshly drawn blood.

"Thanks…" He (Jack?) muttered. He took his frappuccino to the table in the corner farthest from the window, dropping his backpack on the floor. It fell with a heavy thud and Chase was curious of it's contents. Luckily for him, he found out as Jack procured a very large textbook with a spiral notebook from it.

Now Chase was a man of routine. He went to the gym five mornings out of the week, worked the 8 AM to noon shifts at The Haven every day, napped from 12:30 to 2, did grocery shopping on Sundays, and went out in the evenings. He liked routine and routine suited him.

Jack Thomas Spicer, as Chase would soon learn was his full name, was not something he'd expected. Not in a million years, not in a million dreams.

-oOo-

Before Chase could quite wrap his mind around Jack, the kid had become a regular at The Haven. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 10, Jack came in, almost always in an all black ensemble, ordered something with chocolate in it, and sat at the corner table. Then he pulled out an impossibly heavy textbook and took notes in a spiral notebook while chewing on his nails. Nervous habit, Chase supposed, as his eyes always creased with stress at the corners the he did so.

Jack never had friends with him; he always seemed to be alone. After about a month, Wuya started interacting with him, obviously forming a soft spot, asking him how he was, how school was going, etc… Chase was secretly grateful for this. He was learning things via an ancient tactic: eavesdropping.

"I'm working towards my Bachelors in Robotics."

"Oh, this?" (In reference to a nasty bruise on his forearm.) "Skateboarding incident. It's fine, doesn't really hurt."

"Yeah, I'm American. Dad's job moved us here when I was 16."

Chase paused while foaming up milk for a latte. He was an American? He sounded almost Aussie. But now that he thought about it, there was a certain lilt to Jack's voice that didn't sound quite local. It would make sense for his accent to change slightly later living in a different country for however many years.

"That's interesting," Wuya commented, wiping down the table beside Jack's. "Any reason why you didn't move back to the States after graduating Senior School?"

Jack shrugged, stirring his half-empty iced mocha absentmindedly.

"I guess I kinda like it here."

"That's a lie if I ever heard one."

Chase hadn't meant to speak up but he had. Jack's eyes flickered over to him, wide with surprise.

"Holy shit, so you do talk?"

"I call your name every time I finish your order," Chase pointed out, raising an eyebrow as he wiped down the counter.

"Yeah, but…" Jack trailed off, hesitating before continuing, "But you've never actually talked to me."

"I did not find it necessary to do so until now."

"Ignore him, darling," Wuya advised with an eyeball. "Chase here is what we call a selective mute."

"Meaning what exactly?" Chase huffed, crossing his arms.

"Meaning you only talk when you want to be a little shit."

Chase couldn't help but smirk.

"Why, Wuya," He chuckled. "I didn't know you cared so much."

"Oh, shove off, you wanker."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Chase," Jack greeted with a nod. "Officially, I mean."

"Likewise. Jack, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Jack Thomas Spicer."

"Quite the name. What did your dad do to move you this far?"

"He's CEO of SpicerTech."

"Your father is Michael Spicer?"

Everyone knew that name. SpicerTech was a massive robotics company, intimidating in every sense of the word. Michael Spicer had his claws in almost every well-know brand in the world and had their support in return.

"Yeah," Jack wrinkled his nose in distaste, taking a sip from his straw. "He wanted to oversee his new Australian branch himself. So we left California. Now, what was it you said to me about lying?"

Shit. Chase had forgotten that's why he'd broken his silence. But he wasn't a man for pretending not to say something he had.

"I doubt the reason why you decided to stay in Melbourne was because you liked it here," Chase said bluntly. "That being said, you are not entitled to tell us the reason why. But at least have the courtesy not to lie to our faces."

Jack's eyes were wide again as he gaped at Chase. Crimson and innocent.

"How old are you, Jack?"

"22."

Chase found the tense knot in his stomach unclenching in relief; admittedly, he'd been lusting after Jack for a while at this point and it would've sucked if he'd turned out to be a teenager. That first glance over a month ago had sparked interest. Maybe Chase was attracted to mystery. Maybe intelligence. Either way, he couldn't help himself.

"Why?" Jack asked. Chase shrugged but smirked all the same.

"Curiosity."

There was something in the way he said it that made Jack squirm a bit, flushing slightly.

-oOo-

After his shift, long after Jack had left The Haven, Chase went by his favorite sushi place for a quick avocado and salmon roll. Then he headed for Flinders Street Station. He boarded the above-ground Metro, slipping on his sleek silver Skullcandy headphones. He rested his head against the window, watching the suburbs of Melbourne fly by. He disembarked after 20 minutes of so, walking the rest of the way home.

Home for Chase was an older house with a garden in the back and lace trim on the porch. Icy crept up one corner, spreading out along the walls. Chase walked through the privacy fence gate, letting it latch behind him before unlocking the dark green door.

He hung up his keys on his hook beside two others. It seemed at least one of his roommates was home.

"Hey, Chase," Dashi called over his shoulder as Chase stepped into the kitchen. He was cooking something, likely fried rice, a favorite in the household.

"Hey, Dashi. Fried rice?"

"Yup. Want some?"

"No thanks. I had sushi." Chase opened the fridge. He retrieved a blue Powerade from his shelf in the door, uncapping it and taking a swig. "Is Guan down the street again?"

"Where else would he be?"

Guan, Chase's second roommate and Dashi's younger brother, was notorious for day-drinking, particularly at the bar down the street. Chase and Dashi would've been a bit concerned if not for the fact that he worked a graveyard shift as a security guard downtown. So Guan would likely be home around 2, sometimes completely sloshed, sometimes not, and ready to pass out until 10 PM.

Because of that, Chase really only saw him when he didn't have work. During those times, all three of them would go out for burgers, hot pot, curry, anything really. Needless to say, they were all decently close, Chase fitting comfortably into the scene like a third brother.

Chase sighed, shutting the fridge door with his hip.

"Did that kid come in for coffee again?" Dashi asked slyly. Chase choked on his Powerade.

"Pardon?" He coughed, wiping his mouth on his arm, cheeks reddening.

"Thought so," Dashi laughed. He ducked out of the way of Chase's swipe, going back to his fried rice as Chase stomped up the stairs.

As he ascended, he heard a very distressed meow. He turned full-circle on the landing. With a sigh, he opened the bathroom door, an orange tabby cat streaking out and rubbing insistently against his legs, meowing.

"Dashi!" He yelled down the stairs. Dashi's drawl answered him.

"Yeah?"

"Did you lock Pumpkin in the bathroom?!"

"Not me! Maybe it was Guan! You know she doesn't like him!"

Chase huffed, bending down to stroke Pumpkin's head. She pushed up against his palm, purring. It was true; she didn't like Guan. Then again, the man was a bit more brash and loud than Chase and Dashi so he had a habit of startling a hiss out of the cat.

Chase opened his bedroom door, Pumpkin bumping against his calf as she slinked past him. He dropped his messenger bag on the dresser, removing his headphones from around his neck before stripping down and switching on the free-standing fan. The soft buzzing filled the room as he crawled into bed. Collapsing against the gray and black plaid duna, he freed his hair from the tie. Pumpkin jumped up onto the bed, settling on his chest and purring.

This was typical for them. He pet her absentmindedly, one arm behind his head as he reflected on the day.

Jack was fascinating. What did Chase know about him? He was a 22 years old University student who was working towards a degree in Robotics. He skateboarded. Professionally or casually, he didn't know. His dad was Michael Spicer, CEO of SpicerTech. He was an American. He liked chocolate. He wore black clothes.

Chase wanted to see them on his bedroom floor.

Chase dozed off to the sound of the breeze in the trees outside his window and the soft buzz of the fan, Pumpkin a warm, vibrating mass on his chest.

"Through the dark, through the door

Through where no one's been before

But it feels like home..."