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The disgustingly cheesy melody of Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" buzzed out of the jukebox in a rickety, muted glory.
Immediately, Shane lifted his eyes from his beer and knew he'd meet the farmer's.
"Give up." he said, blunt as usual. That had yet to deter them - which was insane considering every other person he'd met thought he was rude as hell.
"Can I buy you a drink?" The farmer asked, flirtatiously tracing circles on the slightly sticky mahogany bar. Shane lifted his already full glass in a silent reply.
"Right," they said, "What about uh..."
Shane let them trail off in favour of starting his own conversation with an early death. He stared into the beer in his glass, torn between being pissed off and immensely curious as to why this new person was trying to chat to him.
Why him, anyway? Surely it's not that hard to realise he's the town drunk. Everything about him was...gross, to say the least. He still lived with his Aunt, for god's sake - what could be more unattractive?
Maybe the choppy shaven chin. Or the alcohol addiction, or the ratty Joja jumper. Jeez, you arrive in a tiny town and of all the attractive men and women there, you go for the sweaty loser in the corner who can only be relied on to keep bottles empty and faces frowning-
"What about a pizza?"
Shane's gaze snapped up to the farmer. ...Fuck he could really go for a slice.
"Extra cheese?" the farmer added, raising an eyebrow.
"Ye-" Shane paused. Either they'd been listening in to his dinner orders or they were a prophet of Yoba. "How'd you know?"
Already passing Gus some coins, the farmer shrugged. "Word gets around. Small town."
Bullshit. They were totally creeping around for details on him.
Which, in a really weird way that he'd think about later, was kinda sweet? It was certainly the most a stranger had ever done for him.
Gus' pizza was far from good, but it did the trick and cost way less than takeaway from the city.
Shane felt weird eating it by himself when he was being so intensely watched, so he chose to awkwardly slide the plate to the farmer, who happily obliged.
"So," they began through a mouthful of cheese, "Where do you work?"
"You're not very observant, are you." he replied, shrugging his Joja-brand jacket onto his shoulder. "And stop prying. Don't you have a farm to be working on?"
"Not at 9pm I don't." they chuckled. "Was wondering why the mysterious regular was out so late."
Shane grimaced. "Please tell me you're on about Sebastian and not me."
Waving a dismissive hand toward the pool table where said Sebastian was, the farmer scoffed. "I'm not into the whole emo thing."
"Oh, but the roughed up loser reeeally gets you going?" Shane droned, taking a swig of beer.
The farmer graced the remaining pizza with a sudden splutter and cough.
Shane scoffed. "Yeah, glad someone's into it." he muttered, deadpan. At the lack of laughter from the farmer, he began to question if that cough was actually a joke. He gave them a weird look. ...Were they always sunburnt? There was no way this idiot works on a farm and doesn't know about sun safety. "Wear sunscreen." he gestured to their face with his glass. "You look like a blushing teenager who-"
Ah. Okay.
"You're serious." he snorted. "Me? Yeesh. I should be buying YOU drinks, 'cause I'd wanna forget this."
"Look, Shane, I think you're hot." The farmer blurted. "And like, yeah, I've been joking around with the jukebox the past couple nights, and maybe I blow a little too much on beer, but-"
"Hold on." Shane interrupted, placing his drink onto the bar in disbelief. "What did you just say?"
"I spend my money on beer? What, like you don't??"
"No, I- Watch it." he began, "I meant the thing before. The jukebox."
"Oh." The farmer seemed to flush, tugging at their shirt collar. "Yeah, I've been...tampering with the nightly song suggestions."
"Cute. Real cute." Shane said, voice dripping in sarcasm. "But George Micheal needs to leave me the fuck alone while I drink, got it?" He picked his beer up, chugging the last half of it.
The farmer shrugged. "Easy. Can do."
"Great. Glad we're at an agreement. Now go away."
"I don't remember my name being George Micheal?"
The glass nearly shattered in Shane's fist. "Look, farm-freak. I don't know how 'crushes' work in your old place, but here, you give me a bouquet and I get to stomp on it. Capiche?"
"A bouquet already?" The farmer grinned, "I was just gonna get you some peppers, but sure, if you wanna get floral with me-"
Shane slammed his glass onto the bar, earning a concerned look from Emily by the fridge. "I don't want your peppers, and I don't want you anywhere near me. Go giggle around someone else. You don't want my problems." he mumbled, finally feeling the familiar slip into self-doubt.
"You're right, I don't." the farmer said suddenly. "But your company'd be nice." They slid off of the barstool, wiping their hands clean down denim jeans. "You're a good man Shane. I just have that feeling about you. We could be friends."
"You just wanna be a hero." he mumbled, waving them off.
"Or," they began, bouncing on their heels, "I wanna hear more of that dry humour of yours."
Shane cocked an eyebrow. "What, me insulting you?"
"Sure." The farmer said, "I think you're funny. You give me a laugh."
Okay, the alcohol was definitely hitting, because Shane felt his body relax from its scrunched up lean against the wall. "You don't get....like...offended?"
"Not easily. I'm covered in dirt most of the time, I hear a lot of insults. None as witty as yours, though."
Witty.
Probably the last word Shane would call himself. It sounded like something out of Elliott's book previews he kept sliding into mailboxes. Some kind of fancy, descriptive word that ultimately meant he was clever.
It was a positive word. A compliment.
A genuine compliment. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Jeez, he needed to put down the glass for tonight.
"Anyway, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow." the farmer called, somehow already halfway to the door. "G'night Shane!"
"...Night." he replied quietly, watching the door swing shut. They thought he was funny.
And not in the bad way.
Was he funny? He must be for a stranger to think so.
Smiling to himself, Shane nearly let out a chuckle.
He was funny.
He was gross, and tired, and depressed, and full of problems.
But he was funny.
And that was certainly a start.
He'd put that on a resume.