It's brisk outside, goosebumps rising even beneath your windbreaker that make you shiver. Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you keep your head down as you leave school grounds. You trust Mrs. Maryam, you won't ask any questions as you head to the cafe she gave you the address to. Walking in silence down 17th, passing places you would normally stop to window shop as they are right near your home. Taking a turn your sense of familiarity doesn't diminish one bit and you're starting to wonder if she's actually sending you somewhere you already know. There's that little Starbucks-like place a few blocks down with the pumpkin on the logo. What-Pumpkin, maybe? You don't really remember, you've never been yourself but you know your brother loves to flirt with one of the baristas there.
Looking up at the sign as you wait at a crosswalk you realize it's South 19th St. and you passed Andrew Ave. awhile back. You pause, rolling your eyes behind your shades as you backtrack down the sidewalk. You'd been so caught up in your thoughts you'd actually missed the turnoff. You make the right turn this time, and right on your left is a little cafe decorated in dull rainbows.
'Alternia Cafe'
You glance at the card before pocketing it again, walking into the place quietly. It's no different from any other cafe, except the theme is a little offbeat: darkly painted walls that almost look like stone, splattered with thick paint of various dull colors mixed with gothic/medieval furnishings. The patrons are all completely normal looking people, with the exception of the barista wearing grey makeup and weird candy corn horns. You immediately don't like it here, your brighter colors contrast and you stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone looks at you but you're having none of that. You take a seat in the back, at a table completely alone, and the attention slowly shifts from you as the handful of patrons go back to their conversations.
The grey barista smiles lazily and saunters over to you, handing you a menu. He's wearing the weirdest combination of clothes you've ever seen. Black and gray polka dotted slacks with indigo converse, a black tee shirt with a purple capricorn sign on it and a violet bow in his messy black hair with wavy horns sticking out of it that range from a red-orange-yellow gradient. He's wearing contacts that make his irises a deep indigo and his sclera yellowish, and his teeth are all ceramic fangs. He's also wearing white clownish makeup overtop of the grey, making him look even more ridiculous.
"How's it goin', mothafucka? What can I get you?" His voice is deeper than you would have expected, with rough gravel in it but he seems pretty friendly. And stoned to high hell. You shrug, barely glancing at the menu before looking back up at him.
"I'll have a white chocolate mocha with a peppermint stick."
He blinks. "Uhh.. I don't think we have any o' them peppermint sticks, brotha."
"Three pumps peppermint, then."
"Alrighty, then. My name's Garrett, you need somethin' you just call for Gamzee, cool?"
You nod, looking back down at the menu for something to eat. "Cool. I'll be ready to order when you get back with my drink."
He grins again, walking off to make your order and leaving you with your thoughts. All of the food is described really weirdly, using words that you don't really think should be associated with anything that's supposed to be tasty. You settle on what you're sure is a brownie a la mode, which is called a 'Endothermic Yeast-Baked Cacao Bean Square' topped with a scoop of 'Frozen Churned Milkbeast Harvest'.
You look up as the door opens, and you have to do a double take. It is not, in fact, the young adult with dazzling green eyes you've seen more than you really want to of traipsing around your apartment once or twice a week that Dirk still hasn't told you the name of. Instead it's another messy-haired, bucktoothed boy with wire framed glasses, his theme seems to be blue instead. He doesn't have that same energy, either, his sapphire eyes are dull and clouded and though he doesn't slouch his yellow converse drag across the ground as he sits at a table alone by a window. He's wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and black slacks, an earbud in one ear as he looks down at the table. The stoner barista takes his order with a smile, joking something that makes him laugh quietly. You can't help it, behind the shades you're staring and somehow you think he knows.
You rub the still-tender burn marks on your arms through your coat as you look down at the menu again, suddenly you're not hungry but you know you should eat something.
"Yo, Earth to coolkid. You okay there?" The stoner dude - Gamzee - sets a cup down in front of you while snapping his long fingers between your eyes. You shake your head, looking up.
"Hm? Fine, thanks. I'll have that." You point to the technical-brownie thing on the menu, he nods and takes it with his lazy grin.
"One plate of miracles comin' right up, brotha."
He walks off and you're left to stare at the dark-haired boy again for a few minutes before you shake your head slightly to yourself, pulling out a book. Fiend by Peter Stenson is your favorite read right now, it's intense and sucks you in every time you part the pages. You don't look up until the barista places your plate in between you and the book, and you're startled to find the blue eyed boy sitting across from you. He's watching you curiously, as if you're the most interesting thing in the world right now. You feel slightly unnerved by the intensity of his seemingly innocent staring, but you don't back down as you begin to eat your food. You get about halfway through before you set the fork down on the plate and push it over to him. He seems surprised, looking down at it for a few moments before he takes a bite, looking back up at you as he chews. As you look at him up close you see many of the same features as in yourself, the dark patches under his eyes and slight paleness of his skin despite his obvious efforts to take care of himself, shown by the perfection of his layered hair. Or maybe it's just like that. Whatever the case you sip your drink as you watch him finish your brownie, taking slight glimpses of his wrists when his sleeves ride up. You don't get any conclusive evidence, so you don't say anything. The barista casually places the boy's drink on your table as he passes by, he's thanked and you get a snippet of his tired but grateful voice. You get to about halfway finished with your silent coffee-drinking when he heads to the restroom. You pull a red sharpie from your pocket and scrawl your number on his cup, not leaving a name or anything before you leave enough for both orders on the table and head out, drink in hand, to walk back home.

DAMN IT. I still refuse to apologize for shameless JakeDirk allusions and shitty stoner Gamzee.