Some people have terrible opinions, and honestly, they shouldn't be counted, people with terrible opinions are people with terrible intellect and nobody should consider someone with terrible intellect to have opinions worth considering. Some people have the opinion that certain foods are considered lower than others in terms of class but maybe not in the way of McDonald's or (God forbid) Burger king, but in a way like simpler, less extravagant. Something that isn't au gratin or medium rare would maybe be considered lower class. Something no-fuss and homey yet speaks a subtle whisper of home and nostalgia. Like a turkey sandwich, and to be frank with you, Roxas, I think I love that about you. I wasn't certain before now, but seeing you eat that turkey sandwich in all its humble and understated glory while your friends sit around you at that lunch table eating leftover au gratin and medium rare makes everything crystal clear to me what type of man you really are.

I just feel slightly conflicted at the thought of you surrounding yourself with au gratin and medium rare types. Types surrounding themselves with piles of books that make them seem smart with well-placed bookmarks pressed between the pages but clearly no dent in the spines. They've never read any of it and if they did it was maybe the first few sentences in the prologue but that's okay, Roxas, I know you're not them. But maybe you want to be.

"Hey," I say, instantly regretting it as your friends look over at me with a condescending smile that suggests I must be lost.

You look at me like I don't belong here, but you should know that I do. We've talked about it. We talked about it at length last week. You do remember, I can see it. You have to remember. I can tell. I won't feel pressured by the silence. I'm not a man who gives in easily to making a fool of himself. You and your friends are setting a trap for me, but I won't stumble into it.

You give in, taking a strained breath, you're fighting the red flush of your cheeks and it's not working (that's adorable), "Uh, can I help you?" Oh, Roxas, that's a little disappointing. You're going to pretend you don't know me in front of all of your grossly phony friends. What are you scared of?

"I saw you across the cafeteria and I thought I'd come over and say hi." I paused for effect. I think you're the type to enjoy the effect. "Since it's been a while since we last saw each other." Your cretin friends turn their little heads toward you in mild curiosity. How could you avoid seeing such a catch for so long! That's what I hoped they were thinking, but I'm sure, given their creative status, it's something more obnoxious and degrading, creatines love to degrade.

Finally, you open your mouth and speak after carefully formulating a response, "Oh!" You squeak (that's adorable), "Axel...I remember now. Hi, sorry." Ah, I was worried about this. "It has been a little while, huh, that's a bummer!" Yeah, you can pretend you don't still feel my cock inside you when you look in my eyes. Pretending doesn't stop it from really coming to mind though, obviously, because your face is getting redder and redder the longer, I hover over your table. Roxas, it's been a week since we found each other but you really can't forget something like that so easily. A physical connection is one thing, but the emotional connection, oh god, we might as well have sealed our souls together. There was so much about the campus Remingway Artisan Furniture heir turned poli-sci major that I didn't know. There was a lot I did know, because everyone knew them. Everyone knew you. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that a great number of them were wrong. You were so much more than I thought you could be.

You thought you could just show up to the thrift store that I worked in without being noticed by anyone at the school you went to. I hate to keep repeating myself, Roxas, but that's cute. You stand out like a beacon of (obnoxiously) bright light in a desolate void of nothing. Because you're something, Roxas and that really gets on people's nerves. You got on my nerves at first, I'm not going to lie, but I was hungry (it was noon and I had been working my ass off since six) and a little horny (it's not about you, trust me) and the soundtrack in the store has a 6-song limit and it's been looping since six.

You were looking at vintage shirts in the men's section and I was looking at you look at vintage shirts. You were careful about making sure you've seen every shirt on the rack. I wondered why. You were a little heir to a big fortune, weren't you? Everyone knew that about you. Remingway Artisan Furniture was an old money established furniture company that makes the kind of furniture people don't make anymore. Old and dark wood, stained with expensive stain and crafted with artisan and craftsmen hands. It's nothing like IKEA furniture built to last just a college semester, no. Remingway Artisan Furniture is built to last a lifetime, generations, passed down after your grandma passed away. It's expensive.

You grabbed something off the rack that apparently you were happy with, and that surprised me. I hate to be the type of guy to judge, but sometimes you (me, obviously, I'm sure you've never been one) can't help being a judgy bitch. You walk up to the counter, and I'm standing there, judging you like I'm sure everyone judges you, even your shitty wannabe au gratin and medium rare "friends". You slide a shirt onto the counter and Ironic by Analis Morissette is playing for the millionth time today (at least it feels like it) and you're looking directly at me and it's weird I never noticed how blue your eyes were even though I've seen you around. I pick up the shirt and it's a vintage Mickey mouse shirt. I look at you, being a judgy bitch and you look away, fighting a red flush on your cheeks. "You collect or something?" I ask as I look over the shirt for the colored tag. This catches you by surprise, you were expecting me to pretend you were a regular customer and not the most famous kid at our school.

"Or something…" You quietly slip the words out and I look at you again, the tag is red and its fifty percent off. Maybe you're just weak to nostalgic cartoon characters or maybe it's just Disney you're nostalgic for? Maybe you're one of those weird girls on Pintrest or Poshmark that collects Disney memorabilia like you're a fucking twelve-year-old girl and you're in your mid-thirties with too many kids and a husband who's never home, so you replace the affection with Mickey fucking Mouse. I hope not. My eyebrows raised naturally in response to my tangent, and you saw it. "I just think that the way they drew Mickey Mouse back in the 90's was way cuter than the way they draw him now. I think my mom had a shirt with this on it back when I was little." Okay, that didn't help. I mean, it helped a little, but it didn't really help if you know what I mean. So, you're buying it for sentimental reasons, but you seem to have strong opinions about the design of Mickey fucking Mouse and I go off the rails again. I don't have strong opinions about Mickey fucking Mouse because I'm not someone who cares about Mickey fucking Mouse and we all know anyone who cares about Mickey fucking Mouse is someone who really cares about Mickey fucking Mouse and shit, that's not good. I'm sorry, Roxas, but I thought 'Great, I can tell everyone that Remingway Artisan Furniture boy has a Mickey fucking Mouse fetish.' That was cruel of me to think, and I didn't know you then, so I apologize. I hope you forgive me.

"Three even." I say, folding your vintage Mickey fucking Mouse shirt that (obviously) has a superior design to any Mickey fucking Mouse from the year two thousand and on.

"Oh," You look pleasantly surprised, and I suddenly feel really good about not telling you about the red tag deal. "I thought it was six?"

"Red tag." I say and point to the big banner by the entrance that says, 'RED TAGS HALF OFF!' You smile and when you turn, I smell your shampoo and it smells feminine (but not like you're trying to smell like a girl, just that you don't care if you do) and I'm suddenly feeling hyper aware of your skin.

"Wow, that's great!" Your smile is wide and genuine, and I take the three dollars from your hands and my thumb brushes against yours and I think my heart stops. I'm not sure if I like this feeling but I kind of feel like I need it. I hand you your bag and you turn to leave and I can't handle it.

I blurt out and catch your attention, "Hey, I'm getting off for the day in thirty. Are you hungry?"