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Roisin Records. That’s what the record shop is called.
The whole store is probably the flashiest thing in town, with its bright neon lettering and colorful LED lights in the window. While the rest of Bugswick looks worn down and well on its way to being reclaimed by nature, Roisin Records is vibrant and electrifying, breathing life into whatever and wherever its light touches.
He can hear the music playing in the store from outside, can feel it thumping inside his chest. (He doesn’t recognize the song. He’s never heard Jazz play it, and if Jazz doesn’t introduce it to him, it’s unlikely to end up on his radar.)
It’s gray and muggy outside, making the orange glow of the shop’s interior even more inviting.
Then he enters the store.
The music roots itself into his lungs. It invades his senses in the best possible way, drowning out every worry. It’s a solid weight in his body that feels like warmth. Like comfort. Like safety.
He lets his eyes flutter shut, breathing in.
“Can I help you?”
He doesn’t recognize the voice immediately. He squints his eyes open, and it’s like missing a step on the stairs, the way Malcolm’s stomach swoops so violently at the sight of the man in front of him. He blinks slowly, praying for the universe to lend him some patience.
“Are you following me?” Malcolm asks Peter.
Peter lifts an eyebrow, which Malcolm refuses to be jealous about. (He’s spent countless hours practicing a single-eyebrow-lift in the mirror, but it only ever makes him look like he’s trying too hard.)
“I work here,” Peter says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Malcolm feels his neck prickling at Peter’s condescending tone. He’s suddenly very glad that he’s wearing shoes that give him an extra inch in height; he’d explode if Peter were looking down at him figuratively and literally.
“Well, how was I supposed to know that? It’s not like you’re wearing a uniform,” Malcolm says, waving his hand flippantly at Peter.
Peter looks down at his outfit. He has this whole vintage aesthetic going on, a loose green sweater French tucked into a pair of black slacks. A white button-up peaks out of the collar and sleeves of the sweater. Malcolm wishes that it didn't work so well on him.
“So, your next guess wasn’t that I’m shopping, but that I’m...stalking you?” Peter asks, almost smiling. He’s obviously holding in a laugh, and Malcolm feels his cheeks color.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“No, you’re right, that’s a very reasonable assumption,” Peter says, nodding.
Malcolm folds his arms together. “What kind of name is Raisin Records anyway?”
“Roisin,” Peter corrects. “It’s Irish.”
“It’s dumb.” It’s not that dumb, but he can’t come up with anything clever to say. “Why is it Irish? Who came up with that?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’m not the owner,” Peter says.
“Who is the owner? Are they Irish?” Malcolm looks around at the empty store. “Are they even here? Is anyone here?”
“No, it’s just me right now. Travis works in the back usually, but he’s not in today.”
“Travis,” Malcolm says, testing the name out. “He sounds like a prick.”
Peter sighs, but it sounds more amused than Malcolm was expecting. “He’s nice enough, just a bit of a dip.”
They stand for a moment, both looking around at anything but the other. Malcolm isn’t entirely sure what to do. This is the most they’ve ever actually talked before, and he wasn’t prepared to find them sitting in this—what even is this? Would he call it a friendly atmosphere? It’s amiable, at the very least. He doesn’t know what to do with an amiable Peter Tollemache. The world might implode.
“So, are you in my store for a reason, or...?”
Malcolm presses his thumb to his temple, his irritation returning as quickly as it had vanished. “Well, obviously I’m here for music,” he says, gesturing at the rows of records and CDs.
“Right,” Peter says. “Very specific.”
“Oh, buzz off, Peter,” Malcolm finally says, storming off. Unfortunately, the store is very small, so he doesn’t get very far.
He looks back once just to see Peter roll his eyes, and his whole body moves with it as he walks back behind the counter. He starts flipping through a magazine, his chin propped up in his hand. Malcolm forces himself to look away.
He spends a long time browsing through the records, coming back to a few that seem like Jazz’s style. After a while, though, he realizes just how lost he is. He knows Jazz, he knows what she likes, but which one should he pick? He can’t remember if this album from The Who was one that she liked or if this was the album she refused to listen to because it didn’t have their lead drummer in it anymore...or maybe it was the guitarist. Or was that Pink Floyd?
He doesn’t know music like she does. There are so many options to choose from, far more than he was prepared for, and he can only afford one or two right now, and he sucks at making decisions. He doesn’t get paid until next week. Maybe he should have waited. Maybe he should have—
A record is suddenly shoved in front of his face, and he takes a surprised step back. He looks up, eyes wide. Peter is in front of him, holding the record. His face is the epitome of neutrality. When Malcolm continues to stare at him, his eyes wide and calculating, Peter gives him an annoyed frown.
“You kept coming back to the Modern Lovers,” he explains. “This is their best album. You should get this one.”
Malcolm looks down at it. It does look familiar. He thinks he’s seen Jazz pull up this exact album on her phone to play in the car once.
“And this, if you’re looking to buy a few,” Peter says, holding out another record. His slender fingers wrap delicately around the album.
“Buzzcocks,” Malcolm reads slowly, holding back a snort. Goby is definitely rubbing off on him; they’d be on the ground laughing right now.
“God, you’re one of those people,” Peter grumbles to himself. He sets the two records down next to Malcolm, then walks back towards the front counter. “Get them or don’t, I don’t care.”
Malcolm spends a few more minutes browsing just out of spite, but in the end chooses to buy the records Peter recommended. If Jazz doesn’t like them then at least he’ll have someone to blame.
“Good choice,” Peter mutters cheekily when Malcolm brings the records to the counter. Malcolm makes a disgruntled noise and looks away, fiddling with his hoodie sleeve as Peter rings him up.
“Are these for someone?” Peter asks.
“Yeah,” Malcolm says, handing over his card. “My friend, Jazz. She really likes music.”
“Ah. I figured you were a bit too clueless to be shopping for yourself.”
“Hey!” Malcolm starts, straightening up. “I’ll have you know, I own a record player.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Wh—” Malcolm falters. “Why? What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you own one? What do you like about record players? About records?” Peter says, sliding Malcolm’s records into a sleek yellow bag.
“I—” Malcolm shifts, shuffling his feet. He chews at his cheek for a second, wishing he paid more attention to any of Jazz’s rants about how record players preserved the authenticity of music or whatever. “They—they, y’know, preserve the authenticity of music.”
Peter purses his lips and squints at Malcolm. He holds the bag of records in one hand, not moving. Malcolm reaches for it and Peter pulls the bag away. Malcolm tries again, and Peter shifts the bag over to his other hand.
Malcolm groans, dragging a hand through his hair before snapping, “They look cool! They look really fucking cool, okay? I genuinely cannot tell a difference between listening to music on Spotify and listening to it on a record player but owning one makes me feel cool as fuck, so. Yeah. Fuck off.” (The last remark was made as more of an afterthought, but he needed to feel like he got the last word somehow.)
Malcolm takes a deep breath at the end of his rant and huffs it out, his cheeks slightly more flushed than they were before. The smallest of grins pulls at Peter’s lips, and Malcolm knows he’s mocking him. (There’s a thin scar along Peter’s top lip that Malcolm deliberately doesn’t focus on.)
Peter hands over Malcolm’s bag, his expression returning to its infuriatingly neutral state.
“Have a good day, Malcolm.”
Malcolm grunts, turning away quickly, but he stops when he gets to the doors. The blare of the music in the store had masked the sound of the pouring rain outside. Malcolm curses and turns back around.
“Do you have an extra umbrella I can borrow?” Malcolm asks.
There’s a folded umbrella sitting on the counter, and Peter slowly drags it off the counter and out of sight. “Nope,” he says, his face the picture of customer service.
Malcolm rolls his eyes harder than he thought was physically possible and turns to brace the storm.